One Good Dog (16 page)

He leashed me and we banged down the three flights of stairs to the outside. The sidewalk was clear, but the grassy
divide between sidewalk and street was filled with snow. I hiked my leg up to mark my new territory against a dug-out fireplug but got dragged along before I could finish the job. This guy had no leash manners at all.

Then—oh boy, what fun—we went into that place where the scents of treats and rubber toys was almost narcotic. The female actually touched me with kind fingers. Something I’d never known before, and something I had a sudden and uncharacteristic craving for. The mommy noises from her mouth were enough to make me long for puppyhood. Ah, if only the lug on the other end of my leash had had the brains to leave me here.

And then, would you believe it? One of those Labs from the night of the storm came sauntering down the street, all up in my face, bragging on being somebody’s spoiled pet. I guess I showed him. The cur squealed with fear aggression, and I’d have made mincemeat out of him if he’d had the
cojones
to pull away from his man. The guy at the other end of my leash was surprised, but he had a pretty firm grip. Lucky for that Lab.

He yanked on my leash and off we went back to his crib. If I had hoped for a reprise of my first adopted home, with a nice escapable fenced-in yard, this sure wasn’t it. Before he could get his entry door unlocked, I squatted. If I wasn’t going to be able to enjoy the leisure of a backyard bowel movement, I was going to have to get busy before he dragged me back into the building. I have my standards.

There is a certain comfort in recognizing human male behavior, and this guy’s language was completely familiar. He spoke as my boys had spoken. Muttered, yes, not shouted. And no violence, true. I wasn’t confined to a cage, but he kept his distance, as if I was. I just knew that my fighting career was
going to be revived. Why else bail me out of the shelter? He was tough—nothing namby-pamby about him—and I just knew that he was looking for someone as tough as he was. Right from the get-go, I knew I liked his looks. Hey, I knew that I was out of condition, but I was certain we’d rectify that soon enough. I was even looking forward to the road work and the weights. We’d be a pair. Yes we would.

Inside, he dumped some kibble into a plastic bowl. Good start. I wolfed it, looked for more. He paid no attention, just sat talking to himself with that little toy they all rub on their ears. Suddenly, he stood up and swore. I ducked. I’m not proud of my cringe reflex; I don’t speak of it often, but it’s there. I ducked and scurried out of reach. The little table afforded me a place to call my own. Chair legs, table legs, like a veritable “cave” of protection. I could look out and see the man’s legs pacing back and forth, but he couldn’t reach me.

“What’s your problem?” He growled like an alpha dog.

Aowr.
I acknowledged his position in this pack of two. He had the hands to open cans; I had to be subservient.

“You lucky bastard. You’ve got a reprieve. Goddamned shelter doesn’t do intakes on the weekend. Goddamn it. They need a better business plan.”

I laughed. I had no idea what all those words meant, but I do know when things are looking up.
Aowr.
Hunh-hunh.

“Maybe there’s another one I can take you to.” He scratched at his chin, then said, “Maybe there’s a pit bull rescue. Yeah, that’s it.” He entertained himself for a long time, but at the end, he slammed his toy down. “Fuck it.”

More words, but I knew that they were just sounds. I bent to lick my nethers. I was full, and, for the moment, safe.

Today is his kid day. His court-approved, Sterling-approved visitation. He’s given up trying to get Ariel here; instead, he will meet her at Sylvan Fields, where he will be forced to wait outside in the car until she drags herself down to join him. He’ll take her to lunch at a restaurant he can no longer afford, while she texts her friends, no doubt complaining about her wasted afternoon. Then a negotiated trip to the mall, where she will test his patience by going from store to store, leaving him to cool his jets on a bench like some abandoned luggage, then home to Sylvan Fields, where Sterling will berate him for giving in to Ariel’s questionable taste in clothing—this after he’s bought her something he cannot afford to buy. Any hope of a consulting job, or employment in his field, has so far proven futile

Adam remembers to take the dog downstairs before leaving. The midmorning air is crystal cold, and he’s come down with his bare feet tucked into his beat-up L.L. Bean slippers, and his parka is unzipped. “Hurry up.”

The dog is happy to comply. Adam bends over with a plastic bag in his hand. He doesn’t know if any neighbors are checking out his dog-owner manners, but he doesn’t want to take the chance that someone will complain to the super that he has this dog. Even if it is only until the shelter reopens on Monday. No other shelter will take him. In bailing the dog out, Adam has signed a contract agreeing to return him to the same shelter. No bending of rules.

The dog nudges Adam with his nose, letting him know it’s time to go in. If he had balls, they’d be frozen off.

“No more crapping in the house.”

Aowr.

“Okay.”

Adam dumps kibble in the bowl, fills a pot with cold water, and points at the futon. “You stay off.”

The dog’s mouth breaks open and the tongue lolls out in a gentleman’s agreement.

“Yeah, right. Not till my back is turned.” Adam locks the door behind him. He has no idea how long a dog can go without getting into trouble, but he figures he can hold on for the six hours or so that Ariel will tolerate Adam’s company. Six at the most. He’s just been out, he’s been fed and watered, and Adam has thoughtfully left the television on so that the dog thinks he’s got company. He shrugs back the fact that he has no idea if this dog has the self-control to behave. Then he consoles himself, thinking that, so far, he’s crapped on the floor only once. Hasn’t chewed anything, and hasn’t barked at noises. If he’s been hard to handle on the street, lunging at every passing dog, at least he’s been good in the apartment.

Ariel saunters out of the house barely dressed. Her skinny rider’s legs are encased in tights, which end midway down her shin, a skimpy floral skirt is wrapped around her waist, and her coat is wide open. In a nod to the season, she wears short Uggs on her feet, like Gina wears. Ariel’s two thumbs are busy communicating with luckier friends. She gets into his car without a word, ignoring his “hi, honey.” As Adam moves down the long shrub-lined driveway, Ariel finishes her texting and looks at him. “This car stinks!”

“You noticed?” He aims at droll, but it comes out weak.

“Whew. Smells like wet dog.”

“Interesting that you should mention that. It is wet dog.”

Suddenly, Ariel takes notice. Her eyes widen. “You have a dog?” Emphasis on
the you.
As if he had suddenly taken up bungee jumping.

“Temporarily.”

“Can I see him?”

Adam recognizes a dilemma when it faces him. If he introduces Ariel to the dog, then gets rid of him, she’s going to be as mad at him as ever. If he doesn’t show her the dog, she’ll be as mad at him as ever. The old “rock and hard place” situation where Adam feels so at home. “I’ve got him only for a day. No sense getting to know him.”

Ariel shoves her hands into the sleeves of her coat, her slump eloquent of his failings. “Fine.”

“I’ve booked us lunch at Trois Chevaliers.” He knows this is Ariel’s favorite high-end restaurant. He lets her have a little champagne when he takes her there. His pocketbook cries
McDonald’s, but his pride and his credit card call for Trois Chevaliers.

“Fine.”

“School going okay?”

“Fine.”

“Any concerts or plays this year?”

“Not yet.”

“How’s your old pal Kiki?”

Her eye roll is not charming. “We’re at different schools.”

“Gran and Granny doing well?

“Guess so.”

“Your mom okay?”

“Why do you keep asking me these questions? They’re always the same and the answers are always the same. Ask Mom yourself.”

Adam swallows back his reply: Unless Sterling wants something, she never answers his calls. Anything of a substantial nature between him and his ex-wife is carried out through intermediaries. Ariel, for good or ill, has become his only connection to his past life. His message board. Poor kid. No wonder she hates these forced dates.

Since he first noticed the shadow of her aunt’s gestures in her gestures, Adam has seen more and more of Veronica in Ariel. It’s as if the foreshortened memories of his sister overlay the reality of his sullen daughter. Ariel’s preferred tone of voice echoes the distant memory of Veronica’s angry words.
“I’m outta here, old man.”
Not screamed, but enunciated clearly and with a layer of contempt that was nearly physical. Long-dormant thoughts of Veronica leap all too often to mind since his breakdown. He’s being haunted by
the specter of his sister in the expression on his daughter’s face.

He tries again. “How’s the horse?”

Ariel doesn’t take the opportunity to wax on about her horse’s abilities, cute moments, and funny habits as she used to with him. “Fine.” She plugs an ear bud in and keeps her gaze on the scenery.

This is more painful to Adam than he thinks he can take. It’s been going on so long that he wonders if Ariel will ever mellow toward him. What he’s done, by having this meltdown, has forever corrupted him in her eyes. And Sterling is keeping it that way.

Ariel treats him like Veronica treated their father—with disdain. Which the old man deserved. She was right to flee the man who would give up his only son to DSS rather than be a single parent. Who left his five-and-a-half-year-old in the hands of strangers. Adam hasn’t committed any sin as egregious as that, and yet he might as well have. Ariel treats him like a man in disgrace, barely concealing her contempt. Is it really a contempt more profound than the usual contempt of an adolescent for her parents, or is he becoming paranoid? It’s not as if he’d chosen to leave the family home. He’s been asked to leave it by a wife who would not stand by her man.

Veronica may have run away, but his father gave up on Veronica. Adam will not give up trying to stay in Ariel’s life. He studies his daughter as they sit at a red light. “Why are you so mad at me?”

Ariel doesn’t answer; her iPod blocks out the sound of his voice. He is nothing to her.

Adam is startled awake. The dog is facing the door, standing close to where Adam has fallen asleep on the futon. There it is again, a soft knock. Wiping the sleep grizzle from his mouth, Adam drags himself off the futon. The dog barks, one sharp, meaningful yap. “Shut up.”

The dog returns to his table cave, his job done.

It has been another week. The shelter is still closed, a watermain break having shut it down indefinitely. The animals have been dispersed to shelters across the state, stretching limited resources, and, no, Dr. Gil says, he can’t take the dog to one of them. He’d pushed the rules by letting Adam have the dog in the first place. Adam has to return him to Animal Advocates.

Like a bad houseguest, the dog seems to have extended his stay indefinitely.

“I found this on my book rack and thought you might want it.” Gina DeMarco stands outside of Adam’s door. Her polar bear parka frames her oval face, the white of the faux
fur contrasting with the olive tone of her skin. She’s a little breathless, and her cheeks are pinked with the cold.

“Come in. Come in.” Adam is embarrassed to be found like some old man in the middle of the day. He’s in his undershirt and jeans, his sockless feet in old slippers. He fingers the remote control to shut off Judge Judy. No one has ever come to see him here. His erstwhile adversary in the animal rights wars is the first person to cross his threshold since his landlord handed him the keys. A latent civility awakens in him. “I was just going to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?” He hopes that his breath isn’t offensive. Rafe served garlic mashed potatoes at lunch.

“I can’t. I’ve left the store. I just wanted to give this to you.” She hands him a thin book:
Your Pit Bull, What to Expect and What to Do.

“You know that—”

“I know you’re not keeping him, but you’ve got him till that shelter gets back in operation, so you might as well have it.” She doesn’t sound like a person bearing gifts. “No one who comes into my store is ever looking for a book like that. It was stuck in an order for books on tropical fish. Distributor said to keep it, that it was a mistake. You’re welcome to it.”

To be polite, Adam opens the thin book, which is filled with color photographs of dogs that sort of look like his dog. Like
this
dog. Except that these are posed and have equal ears. Chapters offer history, breed standards, and training—housebreaking, commands like
sit, stay, heel.
Adam glances down at the dog, who is happily taking Gina’s petting; he’s rolled over to expose his belly to her fingertips.