Death of a Dog Whisperer (9780758284570) (2 page)

When it came to the care of the canines she adored, Aunt Peg's standards were impossibly high. She had little patience for those who fell below them and suffered fools not at all. Unfortunately she had long since delegated my ex-husband to the latter category. A recommendation from him about someone she ought to meet sounded like just the sort of thing that would set Aunt Peg's teeth on edge.

“You want
me
to introduce
your
friend to Aunt Peg,” I said slowly.

“Right. I'm sure they'll get along great. And then Peg can introduce him to all her friends. An entrée to the dog community from Margaret Turnbull would really help Nick drum up new clients.”

A pulse began to pound in my forehead. That was
so
not something I could see happening.

“I'd do it myself,” said Bob. “But you know . . . Peg likes you better than she likes me.”

I stared at him across the table. I couldn't believe I even had to say this.

“Of course Aunt Peg likes me better. I'm a member of her family. As far as she's concerned, you're just the guy who ran off one day and left me on my own with a ten-month-old baby and a high interest mortgage.”

Bob winced. “You had a job.”

“A teacher's salary doesn't stretch very far. Especially not for a single parent.”

“Yeah, I know. But that all happened more than a decade ago. I was a lot younger and dumber then.”

“Well, Aunt Peg has a long memory.”

“Which is why
you
ought to be the one to introduce her to Nick.”

If nothing else, you had to give the guy points for perseverance. Still I shook my head.

“I've never even met Nick Walden,” I said. “The only thing I know about him is that you like him. Which frankly, when it comes to dogs and dog people, doesn't count for much. Not only that, but I doubt that Aunt Peg would be happy to meet someone who apparently thinks it's a good idea to make use of her and her connections.”

“That was my idea,” Bob corrected. “So don't hold it against Nick. Look, he likes dogs. And you and Peg like dogs. Symbiosis, you know what I mean? It's like fate is pushing you guys together.”

“More like you're the one who's pushing us together,” I grumbled.

It didn't matter what I said. Bob wasn't listening to me. Along with a host of other good reasons, this was why we weren't married anymore.

“As for you two not knowing each other,” Bob said brightly, “I can fix that.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

I looked at Bob. He smiled back.

“What did I tell you?” he said. “It's fate. Nick's here.”

Oh joy.

“I
hope I'm not interrupting anything,” Nick Walden said.

I had remained seated at the table in the kitchen when Bob went to answer the door. The way things had gone thus far, I was half-afraid that if I showed any enthusiasm for Bob's visitor, I might immediately find the two of us strapped into my car and on our way to Aunt Peg's house. So instead, Faith and I waited for him to come to us.

Now as he followed Bob into the room, I got my first look at the dog whisperer. Nick was slightly taller than Bob. He had a wiry build and dark, curly hair. There was a mischievous glint in his deep brown eyes and his smile lit up the room.

Well. If nothing else, he was pleasant to look at.

“Not at all,” I said. “I was just getting ready to leave.”

I glared at Bob behind Nick's back, then realized that the reason his back was facing me was because Nick had walked around my chair and squatted down to say hello to Faith.

“May I?” he asked before touching her.

“Sure.” It was hard not to like Nick's quiet, respectful, approach. “She's very friendly. Her name is Faith.”

The Poodle lifted her head and Nick cupped her muzzle in his palm. Slowly he rubbed his thumb back and forth along her cheek.

“Hello, Faith,” he said. “What a good girl you are.”

Faith thumped her tail up and down in response. Clearly Nick had merited her approval too.

“See?” Bob crowed. “What did I tell you? Dogs love Nick.”

“Faith likes everybody,” I said dryly.

“Of course she does.” Nick pulled out a chair and sat down. “She's a Poodle. It's a wonderful breed. I see a lot of Toys and Minis when I'm working, not too many Standards. She looks like a good one. Did you ever think about showing her?”

“Faith's a champion,” I told him. “And a champion producer.”

“I knew she looked like quality,” Nick said with a nod. “Where did you get her?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bob smile. It wasn't hard to figure out where this conversation was being directed.

“My aunt breeds Standard Poodles. Her name is Margaret Turnbull. Maybe you've heard of her?”

“I'm sorry, I haven't,” Nick replied. “But I don't really follow the show scene much. People who have that kind of commitment to their dogs usually understand the canine dynamic. They're not likely to have the kinds of problems I get called upon to solve.”

That was unexpected. Maybe Bob had been telling the truth and getting Nick together with Aunt Peg really
had
been his idea.

“Tell Melanie about some of your clients,” Bob prompted.

“I'd really rather not,” Nick said affably. “It wouldn't be fair. Just because someone's having a problem handling their dog doesn't mean that they're not entitled to privacy.”

I'd been prepared to find Nick Walden pushy and irritating. Instead he was turning out to be one surprise after another. Maybe I wasn't in as big a hurry to leave as I had thought.

“So listen,” said Nick, turning from me to Bob. “Here's why I came. You need a dog.”

My ex-husband's expression froze. In the space of an instant, our roles reversed. He went from thinking that he was the one managing the meeting to feeling just as I had a few minutes earlier: like he was being set up. The irony was delicious. I folded my arms over my chest and sat back to watch.

“No,” Bob said quickly. “I don't think so.”

“Really, you do. You'd be great with a dog.”

I had rather serious doubts on that score but I wasn't about to intervene. I was having too much fun watching my ex squirm.

“I already have a cat. And I did have a pony once . . .” Bob stopped and shook his head. “That didn't work out.”

“Dogs and cats do just fine together as long as you get them started the right way,” said Nick. “There's a puppy at the shelter that really needs a home. Ten weeks old, part Lab, maybe part Chow? He's cute, he's smart, a little golden ball of fluff. He'd be perfect for you.”

“In what way?” Bob's voice had a strangled quality. His eyes darted around the room. He looked like he was thinking about making a run for it.

If so, I thought snidely, it wouldn't be the first time.

Nick's response was interesting. He shifted slightly in his chair and angled his body away, treating Bob the way he would have treated an agitated dog—by giving him some extra space. Breathing room, so to speak.

“The truth is,” Nick admitted, “that you'd be perfect for him. The little guy needs a home. He's a great puppy and I'd love to see him end up in the right situation. So I'm talking to everyone I know to see if I can make that happen.”

“Funny thing about that,” I said. “Before you got here, Bob was just asking if he could borrow a dog from me.”

“Really?” Nick was interested. “Do you have extras?”

“Not extras, just multiples.”

“Eight,” said Bob, taking a shot in the dark.

“Six,” I corrected. “Blended family.”

“And everyone gets along?”

“They're Standard Poodles.” Enough said.

“Right,” Nick agreed. He shifted back to Bob. “So then you
do
want a dog.”

“Not a puppy,” Bob said firmly. “An adult dog that already knows stuff. I was looking for something temporary. A dog that could live here for a little while and then go home again.”

“That seems like an odd request,” Nick mused.

He was probably hoping for enlightenment. But if Bob wasn't going to bring up his ghost problem, I certainly wasn't about to either. My relatives may have their crazy moments, but they're family. I didn't see any reason to advertise the insanity to outsiders.

“Yeah, well, Melanie already talked me out of it.”

“That's what ex-wives are for,” I said.

“To remind us that we're usually wrong,” Bob translated for Nick in case he'd missed the point.

“I wouldn't know,” Nick replied. “I've never been married.”

“He's having too good a time being single,” Bob said to me. “Most of Nick's clients are rich, bored, Fairfield County matrons. If you know what I mean.”

Only an idiot wouldn't have grasped Bob's meaning. All that was missing from his arch delivery were a couple of broad winks and a lecherous thumbs-up. I had no desire to take the bait, however, and Nick was clearly disinterested in the topic as well.

Instead he stood up and held out his hand. “I guess I'd better be going then. Nice to meet you, Melanie. Bob, think about that puppy. I'd like to get him placed as soon as possible.”

This time, Bob and I both walked to the door. Faith came along too. Nick patted the Poodle's head and said good-bye to her too before he left.

“Nice guy,” I said as Nick drove away.

“I told you so. So will you introduce him to Aunt Peg?”

Half an hour earlier I'd have been shocked to hear my reply, but now I found myself nodding. “Sure. Aunt Peg will like him. Probably better than she likes you.” I thought for a few seconds, then added, “Probably even better than she likes me.”

Nick was Aunt Peg's very favorite kind of human, a true dog person—someone whose instinctive response was to treat canines as fellow sentient beings whose feelings and opinions were as worthy of consideration as his own. I was betting that Aunt Peg and Nick Walden would attract like a pair of magnets. They'd sync on sight and get along like crazy.

My own relationship with my aunt is a constantly shifting work in progress. Most days, it consists of equal parts adulation and exasperation, with a small dose of healthy terror thrown in. Unfortunately I often fail to live up to her lofty expectations.

There are few enough opportunities in my life to score brownie points with Aunt Peg. I wasn't about to pass this one up.

“Whatever works,” said Bob.

 

The drive home took less than ten minutes. Bob and I both live in North Stamford, a city in southwest Connecticut. Like its neighbors in Fairfield County, Stamford once served primarily as a bedroom community for New York. The city has grown exponentially in the last several decades, however, and now its thriving business district serves as a corporate destination all its own.

Stamford's residential areas are comprised of an assortment of varied neighborhoods ranging from small villages, to upscale country cottages, to the sheltered coastal enclave of Shippan Point. Sam's and my house is located north of the Merritt Parkway, an area that has so far been spared the rush of development that characterizes much of the southern portion of the town. It's a great place to raise a family.

Sam and I have been married for three years. The blending of our two households, both humane and canine, had necessitated a move to a more spacious residence. Long story short, that was how Bob had ended up in Davey's and my old house and why my family now occupied the lovely Colonial my ex-husband had purchased as an investment several years earlier.

The house was of classic New England design, painted cream with black shutters, and situated on a wooded two-acre lot. Its backyard, perimeter securely fenced, afforded us plenty of room to in which to entertain two growing boys and six large dogs. Best of all, for most of the year that big yard enabled us to channel much of the mayhem to outside the house. Speaking as the person most likely to be picking things up off the floor, I appreciated that enormously.

Connecticut is at its best in the spring. By mid-June, the sky is a clear, cerulean blue and the season's bright foliage is in full bloom. Days are warm, but not yet hot. The air is redolent with the aroma of new blossoms and freshly mowed grass. Faith and I made the drive between the two houses with the car windows open so we could enjoy the warm, fragrant, breeze. The Poodle was riding shotgun and when I made the turn onto our street, she stood up and began to wag her tail.

Sam was outside in the driveway with Kevin, our two-and-a-half–year-old son. Father and son—blond-haired, blue-eyed, mirror images of one another—were engaged in a rollicking game of peewee basketball. The soft rubber basket was affixed to a plastic stand that barely reached Sam's waist. The ball was small enough to fit snugly in a toddler's hand. Every score was a slam dunk. With the windows open, I could hear Kevin's shrieks of laughter before the Volvo had even coasted to a stop.

In the last six months, Kevin had morphed from a baby into his own small person. Walking now, and talking when it suited him, he was a bundle of boundless energy and contradiction. When something interesting caught his eye, the only gear he had was full speed ahead. Conversely when something annoyed him, he had no compunction about announcing his dissatisfaction to the world.

Our other son, Davey, was nowhere in sight. School had let out for the year only a few days earlier and having just finished sixth grade, Davey was still giddy with the prospect of nearly three months of freedom. In a few weeks he would start soccer camp, but other than that we'd kept his organized activities to a minimum so that he could spend time with Kevin and his new puppy, Augie. Which was why I was surprised not to see him outside playing along.

Then Faith gave a small woof. I turned to see what had caught her attention and realized that a maroon minivan was parked on the side of the house near the garage. I opened the car door and Faith scrambled past me. She hopped out and ran to check out the van.

“Peg's here,” said Sam.

He paused the game long enough to stride across the driveway and give me a quick hug. Kevin trotted along behind and got a hug too. Davey's old enough to object to our displays of affection but Kevin doesn't mind a bit.

“Aunt Peg!” he cried, just in case I'd missed the news the first time.

“So I see,” I said.

I took the ball from Sam and bounced it gently back to Kevin. The toddler's hands came up and flailed in the air. He almost caught the pass but at the last second the rubber ball slipped through his fingers. It ricocheted off his foot and rolled away. Kevin spun around and gave chase.

“Is something the matter?” I asked Sam, watching as Kevin caught up with the ball. He picked it up and carried it back to the basket. Dribbling is a skill he has yet to attempt.

“No, everything's fine. Why do you ask?”

“Because Aunt Peg always seems to show up when there's a problem.” I paused and considered. “Or maybe she brings the problems with her.”

Sometimes it's hard to tell about these things.

“Not this time,” said Sam. “She said she just dropped by to give Davey a handling lesson with Augie. You know, for the Rhinebeck show?”

That explained why my older son was missing.

“Did Davey
want
a handling lesson?” I asked.

Sam grinned. “Let's just say he's acquiescing gracefully. The two of them are in the backyard.”

I called Faith over and Sam picked up Kevin. The four of us headed around the side of the house to see how Davey and Aunt Peg were doing.

Augie was a relatively new addition to our pack of Poodles. Though sired by Sam's stud dog, Tar, Augie had been bred and initially owned by friends of ours who had gotten divorced over the winter. When their marriage broke apart, Augie became available.

It had been Sam's idea that Augie should be Davey's dog and I had concurred wholeheartedly. Despite having spent much of his childhood surrounded by Poodles, Davey had never had a dog of his very own. He was old enough now to handle the responsibility of caring for a pet—even one that required some rather intensive grooming in addition to the usual duties.