Dog Helps Those (Golden Retriever Mysteries) (3 page)

It was a losing battle, though, and soon I was up and walking him. It was shaping up to be another gorgeous spring day, and Rochester enjoyed snooping among all the new flowers, even trying to eat a yellow and white jonquil before I pulled him away.

The townhouses were all faced with fieldstone and had steeply-pitched roofs, with the occasional decoration reminiscent of Russian country dachas—gingerbread edging and modified onion-domes over the entranceways. The trees in the area reflected the relative newness of the development—they were pretty uniform, with maples and oaks alternating in the small front yards. The homeowner’s association handled the landscaping, so everyone’s grass was well-kept and only the occasional azalea or lilac marred the uniformity.

As we passed a bench overlooking a small lake in the center of River Bend, Rochester hopped up onto it and posed, as if he remembered the table in Rick’s back yard. “You liked that agility stuff?” I asked.

He nodded his big golden head and woofed.

“All right, we’ll go along with Rick today.”

Rochester jumped down and took off in search of a good smell, and I laughed. “I guess I’m just as puppy whipped as Rick is.”

Rick picked us up for the ride to the agility class, and we drove out Scammell’s Mill Road in his truck, the dogs in the back. The sky was a robin’s egg blue dotted with a few puffy white clouds like sheep in a field. Within a couple of miles the suburbs gave way to farmland, acres of peas, beans, corn, and asparagus in neat rows. A couple of dozen cows grazed in one field surrounded by split-rail fencing, and in another a guy rode a red tractor.

“I didn’t realize the town limits of Stewart’s Crossing extended this far inland,” I said to Rick.

“Yeah, it’s hell to patrol all the way out here. We only go about a mile past Rita’s farm, though. Fortunately there isn’t much crime—not like down in the suburbs.”

A bell rang in my head. I remembered that the woman I met the night before had mentioned owning a farm downriver from Leighville. “Hold on. Is this trainer Rita Gaines?”

He turned to me. “You know her?”

“I met her last night. She’s on the Board of Trustees for the college.”

“Good luck with that. She’s got a sharp tongue, that woman.”

“Yeah, I heard her use it.” I told him what she’d said about Felae’s painting.

“He crucified a dog? That’s nasty.”

“He didn’t actually crucify it. Just painted it that way. He was making a statement about animal cruelty.”

Rick slowed down as we approached a sign that read “Good Dog Farm,” and he turned in a long driveway. Ahead of us was an 18
^th
-century stone farmhouse, the kind I’d daydreamed about living in when I was a kid and didn’t know about low ceilings and antiquated plumbing. Next to the house was a big red barn, and beyond that a field full of the same doggy gym equipment I’d seen in Rick’s back yard, but on a larger scale.

Rick pulled his truck in beside a row of BMWs, Jaguars, and other pricey cars. “This agility stuff attracts a wealthy crowd,” I said, as we got out.

“Rita manages an investment fund. A lot of these people are her clients.”

I wasn’t comfortable being around a lot of folks whose cars cost more than my house, but if a blue-collar cop like Rick could fit in, so could I. We put the dogs on leashes and they tugged us toward the ring, where it looked like a Ralph Lauren ad was being filmed—women in pastel pedal-pushers and men in plaid shirts romped with a mix of big and small dogs, from black and tan German shepherds to tiny brown Chihuahuas.

In contrast to the fancy cars and the elegant clothing Rita’s customers wore, the yard smelled like a farm, a mix of manure, mulch and fresh growing things. As we got close to the ring, Rita approached, wearing skinny jeans and a light-blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her short, steel-gray hair seemed more appropriate with that outfit than with the fancy clothes from the night before.

Rick introduced us and said that Rochester was a novice at agility training. “But he learns fast.”

“You work at Eastern, don’t you?” she asked. “I saw you last night at that awful art exhibit.”

Her accent was as strong and grating as it had been the night before.

I nodded, unwilling to engage her in a debate about art or morality. “You can take your dog into the training ring,” she said, pointing to a circular area next to the main ring. “I’ve got to put King Otto through his paces.” She whistled, and a long-haired dachshund came running toward her on tiny little legs, his reddish hair flowing behind him.

I couldn’t help noticing that the way she pursed her lips together matched the look on the dachshund’s face.

“She names all her dogs after German kings and queens,” Rick whispered, as we followed her and the little dog over to the big ring. “Let’s watch how she does it.”

A half-dozen spectators stood at the split-rail fence around the ring. Rick introduced me to Matthew Durkheim, an older man with a shaved head, wearing a form-fitting white T-shirt with the Louis Vuitton logo and a pair of dark slacks. I noticed a tattoo of a rising sun on his right bicep, and it took me a minute to recognize it as the Eastern College logo. Calum, his black and white border collie, sat up at attention as Rochester sniffed him.

Then he turned to the other side and introduced me to Carissa Rodriguez, a Latin beauty, with a finely boned face and black hair, no older than thirty. She wore several gold necklaces, including one with a tear-drop diamond pendant that had to be at least a few carats; a woman’s Rolex watch encrusted with diamonds; and a gold and diamond tennis bracelet. In her arms she held a sleek Chihuahua wearing a braided leather collar.

Rascal and Rochester nosed around the grass and then plopped down at our feet, and we all watched the show. Rita looked like a madwoman as she raced around the track with King Otto, snapping her fingers and waving her hands as the dachshund darted up and down and through the various obstacles. “At Rita’s level it’s about getting through the fastest, without making any mistakes,” Rick said.

King Otto was graceful, though he caught his back foot as he jumped over the limbo pole, leaving it wobbling. “See, that’s a fault,” Rick said. “You lose points for that.”

“I still think the whole thing is silly,” I said.

“Don’t let Rita hear you say that,” Matthew said. “She’s obsessive about her dogs.”

“She is obsessive about everything,” Carissa said, in a gentle Spanish accent.

“That’s why she’s such a good fund manager,” Matthew said. “Wouldn’t trust my investments to anyone else.”

“Nor me,” Carissa said.

When Rita finished her run, Rick said, “Come on, let’s see how Rochester does in public.”

He led us over to the training ring, and pointed out the order of the stations. Rita had a lot more equipment than Rick did, including a big yellow hoop for the dog to leap through and several different limbo poles at different heights. The course was laid out with a couple of sharp turns and reverses as well.

“I’ll take Rascal through once so Rochester can watch,” Rick said.

Rick didn’t look quite as crazy as Rita did, but I had to stifle a laugh a couple of times at how silly he looked, chasing around the course. Rascal seemed to love it, and Rochester was once again straining at his lead to follow him.

Rick was only slightly out of breath when he returned, though his hair was mussed and his cheeks were a bit flushed. “I get almost as good a workout as Rascal does,” he said. “This’ll be good for you, too.” He poked me in the stomach.

I didn’t deign to answer. “Come on, Rochester, let’s show these rubes how it’s done.”

We walked out in the ring and I unhooked Rochester’s leash. As soon as I did he took off for the first obstacle, a low-hung limbo pole.

“He’s got to start from a sitting position,” Rick said.

“Rochester! No!” I called. “Come back here!” He stopped and looked back at me. I pointed to the ground next to me and he ambled back. “Sit.” I pointed down.

He stood there.

I pushed on his behind, and said, “Sit” again. This time he agreed.

Rick said, “I’ll time you. Ready, set, go.”

As soon as he said that, I ran toward the first pole, waving Rochester to accompany me. It took him a couple of seconds to follow, and I worried that he was going to stay there and make me look like a fool. But once he took off, we were running together and I was mimicking the hand motions I’d seen Rick make. I focused on trying to remember the right order of the obstacles, and on moving Rochester through his paces.

He zigzagged around the steps at first, finally climbing them when I patted the top level, and knocked over the second limbo pole. He still didn’t get the idea of the weave poles, and when he went over one tall pile of fake rocks he landed in a big puddle of mud and splashed my jeans.

By the time the course was over I was panting for breath, and so was Rochester.

Rita stood next to Rick, arms folded across her chest, shaking her head. “That was terrible. Your dog is totally out of control.”

“It’s his first time,” I said.

“It’s not about that. I’ll bet he doesn’t obey a single one of your commands.”

I was insulted. “He’s a very smart dog.”

She turned to Rochester. “Down,” she said, pointing to the ground. He just looked at me.

“Down, boy,” I said, mimicking her.

Instead of obeying, he jumped up and put his muddy paws on my thighs.

“See what I mean?” Rita barked. “You’ll never be a success at agility unless you learn to control your dog.”

She turned away, like we were wasting her time, and Rochester nuzzled against the back of her leg. Immediately she whirled on him and said, “NO!” in such a commanding voice that it startled the poor dog into plopping onto his butt, looking up.

I was torn, wanting to tell Rita Gaines off, but at the same time recognizing she was right—Rochester did exactly what he wanted and I let him.

“Come on, I want to watch some of the other dogs,” Rick said, turning back toward the main ring. “There’s a lot of strategy involved in handling.”

“Something I seem to be lacking in.”

“Rita says it’s all about the relationship between you and the dog. You have to show Rochester that you’re the pack leader. I’ll bet you feed him dinner before you eat yourself, don’t you?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“And as soon as you walk in the door, you’re all over him, right?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“See, what you’re telling Rochester is that he’s in charge. Rita says that in a pack of dogs, the alpha eats first. So I make Rascal wait for his dinner until I’m done eating.”

“That’s mean. Doesn’t he just sit and stare at you?”

“So? He does that even when I’m not eating.”

We walked up to the split-rail fence again. Matthew and his border collie Calum were standing at the gate, waiting for a heavyset man with an unlit cigar in his mouth to finish his run with his German Shepherd.

Matthew said, “Don’t mind what Rita said about your dog. She has no filter. You should have seen my dog Calum when we first started training here.”

I nodded. “I noticed your Eastern tattoo. I went there too.”

“I was on the crew team. Senior year we decided to get tattooed together. Stupid idea, but it’s kept us close. We meet up at every reunion.”

The German shepherd finished his run, and Matthew and Calum stepped into the ring. I was impressed with the rapport between them; all Matthew had to do was click his tongue and point, and the collie knew exactly what to do. Calum, like Rascal, didn’t sit on the platform long enough, and Rita had some sharp words for him. Then Carissa took Tia Juana, her Chihuahua, out for a perfect run.

When they finished, Carissa walked over to where we were standing with Matthew, and Rita followed. Rita got down to the dog’s level, scratching her behind her ears and purring. “Good breeding shows, doesn’t it, my pretty?”

“Tia Juana was bred right here,” Carissa said. “Her dam and sire are both champions.”

“How nice,” I said. Rochester was a rescue dog, twice over. Caroline had brought him home from a shelter without knowledge of his parentage, and then he had come to live with me.

Carissa picked up Tia Juana and said, “We must go, Rita. Thank you so much. And I will talk to you this week about those mutual funds you suggested.”

As she turned to go, a beat-up Japanese sedan pulled up in the driveway and a shaggy-haired young man got out. It took me a minute to recognize him as Felae, my former student, whose artwork Rita hadn’t appreciated the night before.

“You are terrible woman!” he shouted, striding toward Rita. “You want to remove my scholarship? How dare you?”

Rita’s mouth opened but she didn’t say anything.

Rascal and Rochester both began barking, followed by at least a half-dozen other dogs from around the yard. I tugged on Rochester’s leash and said, “Hush, dog.” Then I looked up. “What’s the matter, Felae?”

He turned from facing Rita to me. “Do I know you?”

It was hard talking over all the barking and yapping. I waited until Rick had Rascal quiet, and Carissa had petted Tia Juana into submission.