THE WITCH AND THE TEA PARTY (A Rachael Penzra Mystery) (3 page)

“Did you say you were interested in a cat, too?” the attendant asked, leading us to a back area. “We have quite a choice at the moment.”

“I suppose we might as well look at them,” David said, looking back as the black dog whined gently when he left her. I could tell that she was well on her way to ruling the roost. “Maybe I should wait for another day to get one.”

“It might be a good idea to have all
the animals you plan on adjusting to the new surroundings at the same time, so none of them is jealous of a newcomer.” Our salesman (his smirk barely hidden) assured us. I had a feeling that the story was being invented as he went along. No doubt the man was used to having people change their minds about getting more pets. It made sense on both sides.

There were kittens. Sigh. Not that I was interested. Only a monster would bring a helpless kitten home to a household that Aunt Myrtle’s cat
Alexander tyrannized. They were awfully cute, though, and of course we ended up with two litter mates. A good idea, our now visibly cocky guide told us. Company for each other when no one was home. The kittens were a soft gray and a calico, thought to be male and female and would have to be brought to a vet to be fixed soon.

I swear I didn’t mean to look at any more animals as we treaded our way to the office. I think it was the jerkiness of the little dog’s gait that caught my eye. I looked. Bad move.
The animal was small, a grayish brindle, and it was missing a front leg. It hobbled happily up to the front of the cage, apparently thinking we were coming just to see it. It wiggled so hard it fell over sideways.

“Oh!” I gulped.

The attendant choked on his discussion with David about the care and feeding of his new pets and launched quickly into a sales pitch to me. “Poor little gal,” he shook his head dolefully. “Not much of a life so far. She was part of a puppy mill and her leg got hurt and so badly infected that by the time she was brought here it was too late to save it. If we hadn’t had a special fund for just such an emergency, we would have put her down right away. The fund was left by a woman who had a three-legged dog. When she found out that animals desperately needing expensive and extensive care are usually disposed of immediately by poor shelters like ours, she decided to use some of her fortune to save a few.”

I’d stooped and was petting the little dog by that time.
She was, it turned out, only about six months old and probably a cross-bred of small terrier and shih tsu. Or not. She was a designer dog, a fancy name for mongrel. Bred for cuteness, usually cross breeds, they are quite popular nowadays. And she was cute. A little odd-looking, but cute.

And so we left the shelter with three dogs and two kittens.

It was embarrassing.

David was absolutely thrilled with his acquisitions. The big dog had trotted along on a leash quite happily. The mottled one had to be picked up and carried out, but didn’t seem to be aggressive, more like she expected life to do what it wanted with her.
I wondered what she would turn out to be like, and what would happen if she didn’t manage to adjust. I was pretty sure that if she didn’t, David would keep her anyway and work around her problems.

The puppy went into a cardboard carrying case, as did the kittens.
The two older dogs sat quietly in the backseat. We had used my SUV rather than David’s truck, fortunately as it turned out. We were rather quiet as we rode along. His silence felt comfortable, someone making happy plans and seeing delightful vistas ahead. Mine was a bit more stressful. Among other potential problems, I was going to be stuck with admitting to my own reckless impulsiveness, something I often lectured my aunt about. I needed a good story and I needed one fast.

I dropped David off at his place,
wishing him the best of luck and telling him to call me and let me know how things were working out. I’d have liked to stay, but I thought it best to get the puppy home without causing her any extra stress.

Of course paying the cost of getting the little creature out of jail wasn’t the only expense. I stopped off at the store long enough to run in and grab some puppy food, a few toys, a cute little bed, a collar and leash, along with a few treats. I usually waited until I hit a wholesale outlet to buy treats for George. Even the biggest treat barely constitutes two bites for him. He inhales them.

I rushed back out. The puppy was delighted to see me, but didn’t seem to have suffered from my absence. I hoped that meant she was going to have an easy-going temperament. I was rather spoiled by George, and wasn’t terribly worried about his adjustment to a new dog. It was Alexander I apprehensive about. Could a cat actually kill a dog? She wasn’t very big, and not even close to his weight. Fortunately, the monster cat generally didn’t like to exert himself and would probably be satisfied with giving out a hiss or two. That should be enough to discourage the puppy’s advancements, and only a fool wouldn’t learn quickly that Alexander wasn’t to be messed with.

Water witching is something many people can do. It is a form of divining and can be used to find not only water, but lost objects and various ores. Traditionally it is done with a forked stick, usually ash or willow. There are two schools of thought about whether or not to use fresh, living wood or a seasoned piece. The newly cut is best for the beginner. The “Y” shape is then held by the shorter legs, with the longer piece sticking out ahead as a guide. Hold the stick firmly, but not overly tightly, with the long end pointing upward slightly. Walk slowly forward. When the wand finds water, it will bend down to reach it. Your grip moves with it. Try this over a known water source until you are sure of its power. It’s an amazing sensation and often startling to unbelievers. Witching can be fine-tuned through practice to a degree by anybody, but some people seem to have a natural affinity. Good handlers can tell the depth needed to reach the water source, as well as how strong it is. An easier tool in modern times is made by taking a metal coat hanger and cutting the long bottom in half. Then snip off shorter ‘legs’ from the upper hook part. You should have two two-sided pieces. Straighten the sides so you have an ‘L’ shape. Hold the short ends firmly, but not tightly, in your hands. Point the long ends straight in front of you. They’ll cross over each other when they find water. Practice will teach you which grip is best for you and how to refine your skills.

Chapter Two

Nobody gave me a hard time about burdening myself with a puppy. Both Aunt Myrtle and Patsy were thrilled with her. George was beside himself with delight, sniffing and lifting the poor little thing’s hindquarters off the floor while doing so. She promptly fell over, not completely an expert at standing on three legs. It didn’t seem to bother her.

“Oh oh,” said Patsy, pointing to the spreading puddle on the kitchen floor. “We’ll have to get her trained.”

“Poor little thing,” Aunt Myrtle sighed. “She probably never had a chance to even get outside to go potty. Those puppy mills are terrible. They just lock the dogs up in cages all their lives. No wonder she doesn’t understand what to do.”

We all took her outside to give her a chance to sniff around and hopefully get the idea that dogs peed outside the house. She sniffed happily, but mostly she followed George around, bumping into his hind leg in her excitement. Her clumsiness was endearing. She was so obviously happy.

My heart swelled and I felt tearful. How wonderful that she’d caught my eye like that in the shelter. Surely it was meant to be. We had a wonderful new addition to our family. A little work and she’d soon be trained.

Ha
ha ha! Joke’s on me as usual. Why do I always get things wrong? Trained? Patsy and I spent many hours on the internet reading different approaches to potty training a puppy. I bought a scented stone and urine spray to place around the yard to encourage her. Sometimes she did her chores outside, but rarely near the tempting spots. Sometimes she peed and pooped inside. We tried pads, we tried newspapers. Finally we resorted to locking her in the bathroom, using a gate, and covering the floor with pads, when we weren’t with her. The only bright note was her tendency to wander in circles, seemingly aimlessly, before she did anything. A quick grab and a rush outside prevented yet another accident. Bit by bit we found that she was good for approximately four hours between chores. Our lives centered around her bowel and urinary tract actions.

Her saving grace was her dance of joy whenever she peed or pooped. She would stand on her hind legs and hop up and down, obviously delighted with her achievement.

It was almost worth all the trouble when she met Alexander. He managed to look shocked, offended, fierce, and unbelieving at the same time when the puppy discovered him in the kitchen and tried to make friends. He hissed fiercely. She wiggled with delight. He slapped her a good one and although she cried out in surprise, she didn’t seem to understand that the cat was the source of the pain. He puffed himself up, sat on his haunches, hissed loudly and slapped her yet again. This time she sat down and studied him, cocking her head to first one side and then the other. He finally decided she’d learned her lesson and lowered his front feet so he could groom his fluffed hair.

Ah, we all thought. She’s learned what a grump he is. She’ll leave him alone after that lesson.

Wrong.

The whole scenario took place so many times, every time they met, that Alexander was the first to give in, confining his appearances to when she was sleeping or food was an issue. He would retreat to a higher position if necessary and she never seemed to realize how to reach him, even when it was possible.
Fortunately, she turned out to be as much of a food addict as the rest of us, and mealtimes caused minimal overtures of friendship before her attention returned to the main object—human food.

Naming her turned out to be simple. Patsy insisted that she looked exactly like her favorite stuffed dog from her childhood. I thought her memo
ry was probably a little skewed since I couldn’t imagine any company turning out a toy that looked like that, but it hardly mattered. Reality is simply what we see it as. And the stuffed dog had been named Binky. It kind of fitted her, a cute childish name for a cute childish dog.

It wasn’t until I brought her into the vet several weeks later that the first inkling of the truth came out. Binky happily let them poke her and prod her, wagging her tail delightedly when she was given a rectal temperature check. It was when the vet waved her hand gently back and forth to check the puppy’s eyesight that things started going wrong.
Once Binky’s attention was focused on the hand, the vet would start moving it from side to side. Sometimes Binky would follow the movement, sometimes she seemed to lose interest.

“Is something wrong with her eyes?” I asked nervously.

“I don’t think so.” She sounded tentative. “Let me check a few more things.”

She squeezed toes and lifted legs one at a time. The puppy endured it all quite happily. I couldn’t see what the point was. “Nothing’s wrong, is it?” I finally ventured again.

“I think we’ll run a few blood tests,” I was told. My heart sank. “Does she have any coordination problems?”

“She does run into walls sometimes, but I think that’s only because she’s excited and hasn’t really mastered having only three legs.”

She put Binky on the floor. Binky stood for a minute and then noticed me. She trotted over to me, delighted to see I was still around. The vet called her name. The little dog looked around, cocking her head in interest. Finally she turned enough to see the vet, and trotted over to visit her.

“Is it her ears?” I asked. “Maybe she doesn’t hear things right.”

“Um, we’ll check, but I don’t think that’s a problem.”

The assistant drew blood for testing. Binky yipped once, but quickly recovered her usual good temper. By this time, I was a wreck. “What do you think is wrong?” I begged for an answer.

“Well, I might be way off base with this, and many people don’t believe dogs can suffer from retardation and merely have training problems, but I think it’s possible that Binky might just be a little slow mentally.”

“What does
that mean?”

“Just that she might never learn some things like potty training. She’s apt to be inconsistent. I wouldn’t
ever
let her run loose. She doesn’t seem to have any major functional problems, but she might be a difficult dog to keep. And I might be
way
off base. Considering her background, it might just take time. You can go the route of a professional handler, but I’d be sure to get one who works only on a reward system, never using any punishment. If Binky still has problems, you’ll have to decide how much you’re willing to put up with. She certainly doesn’t have any anti-social tendencies, and no sign of fear. Like George, she’s extremely good-natured.”

That was a lot to take in. “She does tend to fall down the stairs,” I admitted. “We carry her down, but I thought that was probably because of the missing leg and because she doesn’t always think before…”

“She’s still a puppy,” she told me gently. “We’ll just have to wait and see how things turn out. I would suggest, though, that you think long and hard about whether or not you want to keep her if she’s going to be a problem.”

“Forget it,” I sighed. “We’ll manage one way or another. I’ll try the professional and see if it’s something we’re doing wrong. I didn’t even know dogs could be…slow.”