One Good Dog (20 page)

Gina is standing framed in the doorway as they cross the street, and for an instant Adam thinks that she’s been waiting for him. She turns away; whoever she’s been watching for hasn’t come. Of course she’s not waiting for him.

The parrots squawk a reasonable imitation of a greeting as Adam and the dog enter the shop. Gina is standing with a fishnet in one hand. Despite the cold outside, the shop is warm and she is wearing a short sleeved, button-front white blouse that fits her shape and leaves a lovely triangle at the base of her throat. Her hair is down, softly grazing her shoulders. She doesn’t look like a shopgirl; she looks like she may have a date after work. There is a drop of water clinging to her wrist.

When she sees that it is Adam and the dog standing in the middle of her small shop, she hangs the dripping fishnet on a hook and folds her arms across her middle. She doesn’t smile, but her expressive brows arc into question marks. “Thought that shelter was open again.”

Adam leans over and runs his hand down the length of the dog’s body. The dog’s tail swings gently side to side, but his eyes are on Gina. “I’m going to keep him.” He waits, his own eyes on Gina’s face, his lips parted in expectation of her reaction. He waits to see if the hostility with which she usually looks at him will, even for an instant, abate.

“What made you change your mind?” Suspicious, not approving.

Adam shrugs, a gesture nearly lost in the bulk of his jacket. “I don’t know. Things.” He is disappointed, feels like a kid with an underappreciated crayon drawing. “Got used to him.”

Very slowly, reluctantly, a smile comes to Gina’s lips. “If you want my opinion, I think you’re doing the right thing.”

The disappointment lifts; he has no idea why he wants Gina to be nice to him, but he just does, and even this mild approval feels nice. “I was hoping you’d say that. I still think I’m a little crazy.” The dog sits, drops his jaw into a cavernous yawn.

“Have you called Dr. Gil? To let him know?”

“No. Why should I?”

“He’s going to want to know. Given your”—she hesitates—“peculiar circumstances, you may want to make sure he understands that you’re committed to keeping him.”

“All right.”

Gina reaches for a dog biscuit. “What are you going to call him?” She holds out the biscuit; the dog takes it out of her fingers like a gentleman.

“For the moment, the default name seems to be Boy.”

“No. No good. Every male dog on the planet gets called Boy at least half the time. You want something that will distinguish him from the pack.”

“Like being a pit bull isn’t enough?”

“No. You’re giving him a chance at a new life, a new identity.”

“Witness protection program for dogs?”

“Something like that. It’s not going to be easy, I hope that you’re planning on working hard with him.”

Adam has not planned any such thing, fairly satisfied with things as they are. Except for the aggression on the street. “I need to get him so he doesn’t pull my arms off every time we meet another dog.”

“He’s been taught that. He can be taught something else.”

“I sure hope so.”

“I’ve got a few business cards from dog whisperers. Let me see if I can find them.” Gina disappears behind the counter.

“When did trainers become whisperers? This guy is pretty tough; I may need to shout at him.”

Gina stands up. “That’s something you can’t do. Really. He’s got to be convinced that gentle is better.”

Adam recalls the dog’s quick bolt under the kitchen table
every time he raises his voice on the phone, or at the opposing team’s interceptions on Sunday afternoon. “Yeah, he’s evidently the strong, sensitive type.”

“Don’t kid. He probably is. These dogs are made, not born, that way.”

“I’m not so sure about that, but time will tell.” Adam takes the business cards from Gina, flips through the little collection. He knows that he can’t afford a dog trainer, but he plays along. “Which one would you recommend?”

“They’re all good. But you should start with K-Nine Etiquette. He’s very good with problem animals.” She sets her olive eyes on Adam. For the first time, there is something besides disdain in them. “I really think that there’s hope for him.”

Adam can discern a willingness to be nice, or maybe just a willingness to see that he isn’t all bad. That maybe there is hope for him.

“Maybe you should call him Chance. You’re giving him one. And I think he’s maybe giving you a chance, too.” Gina blushes a little, a slow pinking of the little exposed triangle at the base of her throat

“Chance of what?”

Gina turns away, picks up the fishnet, and goes back to moving fish. Whatever she is thinking, she’s not saying, and Adam wonders if maybe she’s embarrassed herself with her presumption.

“Chance. Yeah. Maybe. You like that one? Hey, Chance.”

The dog, who has been poking his nose into the fish-food display, cocks his head at Adam and his satchel mouth breaks open in a doggy smile.

“I think he likes it.”

Gina hangs up the little net again and comes close enough
to Adam that he can smell the light floral scent of her shampoo. She bends over the dog. “Looks like we have a winner.” She strokes the dog on his bulky head and then touches Adam’s forearm. “You’re doing a good thing.”

Now it is his turn to blush. He likes that touch, so simple, so human. It exposes a loneliness that is the central theme of his life.

The fur between my shoulder blades rose even before I could thoroughly identify the scent. In a completely instinctive response, I growled. Low and warning. Not my usual style. It wasn’t another dog trespassing into the restricted territory defined by the length of my leash; it was them. The boys. The ones who had kept me and my parents in that cellar, dragging us out only to compete, or breed, or train. I could feel the pulse of hostility stir my heart. Was this deliberate, this crossing of paths? Was this when my sojourn living in daylight would end?

Lately, my man had been talking to me, repeating words over and over until I twigged to their meaning. It was quite fun, and the reward of a Milk-Bone was enough to keep me engaged in the process for whole minutes at a time. None of it bore any resemblance to the training of the boys, which required sticks and chains. We did run a bit now that the streets were finally bare of snow. Nothing terribly challenging, a little quarter-mile jog through the park, around the little
lake. He huffed and puffed at the end of it, while I had barely begun to pant. Either my stamina was as good as ever or his was poop.

Once in a while I came out from under the table to sit with him while he played with his toys. He’d even become somewhat generous with his own food, a bite of meat here, a lick of the plate there. Just enough to keep me off balance in my estimation of him.

He spoke one of those words to me now.
Chance.
Then
Quiet.
Two words that had been repeated enough I knew that the first identified me to him, or maybe the second one. They were often linked together:
Chancequiet.
I could feel a little tremor in the leash, telegraphing itself down to me. A firmer vibration of concern, of quickening steps.

I didn’t want to stop long enough to get reacquainted, so I started to pull on the leash. He didn’t pull me back, tighten that collar around my neck with a jerk like he did when I spoke to others on the street. Looked like my man didn’t want to stop, either. We both knew that no good could come of it. The scent of the boys, the sound of their feet on the pavement made me nervous. I didn’t want to fight their battles anymore.

Then he stopped in his tracks. The boys were in front of us now, their voices and their postures speaking challenge.

Was this guy going to fight me, when he’d done such a poor job of conditioning me? Or hand me over to these boys and let them put me back in the cellar? I’d be hardly better than a bait dog, which made me think of all the bait dogs I’d trained with—okay, savaged. These boys wouldn’t be pleased with me when they found out it would only be self-defense in the pit
for me, not physical superiority. They’d tape my jaws shut and let the others have me for lunch.

I realized then that I had fallen into the trap of household pets. I was comfortable, and these old caretakers represented a return to a very uncomfortable life. I pressed myself against his legs, imploring—I’m not proud of it—imploring him to keep the leash in his hand. Don’t give me back. Maybe I don’t want to be a pet, but I sure didn’t want to go back to that cellar. I still planned on making a strike for independence, but not till it suited me. Not yet. Not to my old life, but to the life of a free dog.

“Hey, man. Where you get that dog?” Two young men come out of a doorway. They are dressed in loose clothing, dwarfed by their massive black sweatshirts, which bear a famous footwear logo. Their hats, also black, are cocked at a jaunty angle, hoods pulled up over those against the chill air. On their feet are dazzlingly white athletic shoes. One boy is wearing sunglasses that give him an Adam Ant look. The other has a chain draped from his belt to his back pocket. It clinks a little as he saunters in Adam’s direction, the volume of his pants forcing him to swagger to keep them from falling down.

“Breeder.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“Look like my dog. My dog was stolen. You know anything about that?”

“No.” Adam wonders what the fuck he’s doing in this end of town. He’s been walking the dog for an hour, mindful of the training book’s admonition to keep dogs exercised. He’s actually been enjoying the enforced activity, and with his thoughts
keeping time to their walking pace, he’s ended up six blocks past the demilitarized zone of the center. He’s forgotten to turn around. Adam believes that he is not a prejudiced man, but this is beyond his comfort zone. A white man walking a pit bull sticks out in this neighborhood.

“You maybe lookin’ for something?” This is spoken sotto voce by the young man not wearing the blocky sunglasses. His face, framed in the giant hood, is tilted. His eyes are almost friendly. “For some action?”

“No. Just taking my dog for a walk.”

“Could maybe get you into somethin’ if you want.”

“I don’t want anything.” Adam is flanked. The dog is standing with his head lowered, his yellow-brown eyes raised, his hackles raised. His tail stands straight out like the magnetic needle on a compass; his feet are planted on the soiled sidewalk. He makes an intermittent vocalization that might be a growl, or a protest. A chuffing sound of anxiety.

“Hey, fella, how you doin’?” The kid with the sunglasses reaches down toward the dog, fingers snapping. The dog growls, shrinks behind Adam’s legs.

“He look like a fighter to me. You sure you doan want a little action?”

“He’s a pet.”

“Doan look like no pet. Got that scar there.”

“He’s a pet.” Adam squeezes out from between the tall youths. They step closer to the dog.

The dog lowers his head, his eyes on their faces; the soft skin around his muzzle quivers and then curls, exposing his teeth. Both boys back up.

Terrified suddenly that his dog will actually bite, Adam turns on his heel, yanks the dog around to follow.

“Sure look like my dog. Dawg.” The boys laugh and enter the convenience store.

“Who were you defending back there?” Adam has covered six blocks in six minutes. A Starbucks is on this block, one with outdoor seating even in the winter. They’ll stop there, catch their breath, and calm down with a splurge. Double mocha latte in the largest investment-quality size available. “Me or you? Did you know those kids?”

The dog shakes himself and settles down on the sidewalk. Inscrutable.

It is conceivable that they were telling the truth. Gina has said this dog looks like he’d been fought, but then why did he act nervous in front of them if he knew them? The reason suddenly seems obvious. “Did they hurt you?” Adam kneels down on one knee, draws the dog’s face to his own. “Did they make you fight?” The sound of laughter as two people walk out of Starbucks brings Adam back to his feet, embarrassed to be seen talking to a dog. Inside, he buys a biscotti, which he will share with Chance.

As they sit there, Adam’s pulse slowly returning to normal, the sweet latte improving his mood, a woman passes by on the street. She looks at Chance. The look on her face is one of nerves, as if the dog might leap out at her. Fear blunts her middle-aged face, fear of a breed’s reputation, and her path swings wide of where they sit.

Adam recognizes an expression he has seen before, one that once gave him a secret satisfaction. There is a twinge of the pain in his ribs; he takes in a sharp breath. Was he really so bad, so intimidating? Had he mistaken fear for respect? He had often
boasted that he didn’t need his people to like him, only to do what he required. When he required it. There wasn’t one employee, not peer, but underling, who called him anything but Mr. March. There wasn’t one worker who shared baby pictures with him even if he walked by as the new dad was showing them to coworkers. There wasn’t one person whose job was owed to Adam’s proficiency at his own job who sent him a Christmas card.