Animal Behavior (3 page)

Mrs. Sutton managed to get Marie Antoinette back into the
guest room and, minutes after the fur-tornado’s impressive entrance, the crew
had determined that neither their bodies nor their equipment had suffered
serious damage—with the exception of the microphone boom cover, which had been
reduced to tiny faux-fur tufts.

Josh found a new boom cover in the bottom of his equipment
case and kept testing his hearing by humming and snapping his fingers near each
ear.

Charlene moved quietly around the room, repositioning
displaced furniture and righting overturned bric-a-brac, then helped Mrs.
Sutton compose herself before glancing at Alex. He had not moved from his
position on the couch. He calmly turned to where Paul was doing a quick review
of the video. Paul looked up from the monitor and gave a thumbs up. “Got it.”
The corners of Alex’s lips twitched upward.

When Mrs. Sutton was back into position, Alex leaned in and
patted her hand. She frowned, shook her head and stared at her hands twisting
in her lap. “Alex, I am just so embarrassed!”

Alex curled his index finger and used it to raise Mrs.
Sutton’s chin. He held it there until her eyes met his. “Don’t be silly. That’s
why we’re here. If all dogs were perfect, I’d be out of a job.”

Alex gave her a wink and the woman instantly relaxed. “Now,
let’s give it another try. Shall we?”

Alex stood and walked toward the guestroom door. He placed
his hand on the knob and the yapping started up again. Paul picked up his
camera, turned three-hundred-sixty-degrees to check for obstacles and framed up
the lower half of the door. Josh repositioned his headphones and dialed down
the soundboard volume, Charlene huddled in the far corner of the living room,
and Mrs. Sutton leaned forward from the couch. Alex twisted the knob with his
left hand and jerked open the door.

The furry blur burst from the doorway, airborne. Alex’s
right hand shot out and caught hold of the pink tulle. The Papillon twisted in
midair, squirming wildly and yapping. Alex walked to the couch, holding the
little dog at arm’s length, then sat down and placed the struggling furball on
his thigh. Mrs. Sutton’s hands fidgeted in her lap as she watched the Papillon
bark her steady stream of canine profanity.

Alex placed his hand on the dog’s back and slowly slid it up
between the butterfly-wing ears. He stared into the shiny black eyes and Marie
Antoinette quieted. Her tiny head cocked slightly under Alex’s broad hand and
her fringed ears twitched. He stroked the dog from ears to tail until she lay
down in his lap and dropped her head to her paws.

Paul zoomed in. Charlene bit her lip. Mrs. Sutton’s hands stilled.
Alex slid one finger under the little bow that covered the hook-and-loop
closure at the back of the dog’s pink satin dress and unfastened it with one
smooth motion. The dog was limp as he pulled the costume from her thin legs.

“Mrs. Sutton,” he began, “how long have you been dressing up
Marie Antoinette?”

“Well, always—since she was a little puppy. She just loves
it.”

“Does she?”

“Well yes. Every time I bring out her little basket of
pretties, she just gets so excited. And if I leave the basket where she can get
at it, she pulls out all of her things and—” Mrs. Sutton stopped suddenly. She
looked at the pink dress wadded up on the couch cushion then at the little dog
sleeping peacefully on Alex’s lap.

“Oh, Dr. McKenzie! Do you think? Could it be that Marie
Antoinette
doesn’t like
her little outfits?”

Alex stroked the silky fur. The dog had begun to snore
softly. “Sometimes, Mrs. Sutton, especially with smaller, more sensitive dogs,
the fabric of…little outfits…irritates them. Makes them feel constrained.”

Mrs. Sutton pursed her lips. “But Dr. Mac…Alex, we’ve always
dressed up! I just want her to feel pretty—to know how much I love her.”

Alex reached out and patted Mrs. Sutton’s hand. “Perhaps,
Mrs. Sutton, there are other ways you can show your obvious love for Marie
Antoinette. What about a simple bow right here?” Alex stroked the fur between
the dog’s ears. “Maybe some daily grooming and a walk around the block so she
can show off her beautiful coat.”

Mrs. Sutton narrowed her eyes.

“Let’s give it a try right now,” Alex suggested.

He picked up the doggie dress, unceremoniously ripped the
pink satin ribbon from the closure on the back and gathered up a little tuft of
fur between Marie Antoinette’s ears. The dog lay motionless while Alex crafted
the satin ends into a perfect bow then stood and cradled the dog in his left
arm like a fluffy football. He turned to Mrs. Sutton. “Do you have a leash for
her, Mrs. Sutton?”

Mrs. Sutton left the room and came back with a thin pink
leather leash studded with rhinestones. Alex took it from her and clipped it to
Marie Antoinette’s matching collar and placed the dog on the floor and crooked
his arm for Mrs. Sutton. The three walked out the door and the crew followed
them into the bright southern California sunlight.

Paul filmed twenty minutes worth of Marie Antoinette
prancing around the block, her ears perked up and her feather boa of a tail
wagging. Back in Mrs. Sutton’s living room, they prepared to film the wrap up.
Marie Antoinette glanced up at the fuzzy mic cover, twitched her ears and and
dropped her head back on Alex’s leg.

Alex looked into the camera. “For many of us, our pets are
like our children. We feed them and care for them. We love them. But most of
the time, dogs are happiest when they’re just being dogs.”

Alex scratched a spot at the base of Marie Antoinette’s ear.
As if cued, the little dog stood on her hind legs, placed her front paws on his
chest and licked the side of his face. Alex smiled into the camera, “This is
Alex McKenzie. Until next time, be your dog’s friend. Be your dog’s alpha.”

Alex held his gaze in the camera for a beat and nodded. Paul
and Josh lowered their equipment and began packing up. Charlene moved furniture
and knick knacks back into place and thanked their hostess.

Mrs. Sutton shouldered her way around Charlene to where Alex
stood by the front door and wrapped her pudgy fingers around the star’s wrist. “Alex,
thank you so much! It’s like a miracle!”

Gently extricating himself from the woman’s grip, Alex
forced a smile and nodded. “Not at all, Mrs. Sutton, I think you’ll both be
much happier now.”

Alex and Charlene were half way up the walk when they heard
to squeak of the screen door. “Alex! Oh Alex! Please wait!”

Charlene glanced over at the vet and his annoyance was
obvious. He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, forced his face back
into a smile and turned toward the house again.

Mrs. Sutton huffed up the walk, waving something in her
hand. “I can’t believe I almost forgot! I would have just kicked myself. I
found it on the computer. My daughter Susan—she lives in Denver—she was out
visiting and when I told her you were coming, she showed me how to look you up
on the internet.”

Still wearing his insincere smile, Alex raised both brows as
if to say, “Well?”

“We were so excited when we found this! I didn’t know you
were an author too!”

Mrs. Sutton held out a hardcover book with a tattered dust
jacket. Alex’s face fell. She thrust the book and a pen into his hands. “If you
could just make it out to Mayola. M-A-Y-O-L-A.”

Alex flipped open the cover, scribbled on the title page,
and passed the book and pen back to Mrs. Sutton. Charlene intercepted the
handoff. The cover read
Anticipating Canine Behavior in a Clinic Setting—How
To Avoid Bites During a Routine Exam
, by Alex McKenzie, DVM.

Turning the book over, Charlene looked at the author’s photo
on the back cover. The black-and-white photograph showed a rail-thin man
standing in a veterinarian’s examination room. His narrow shoulders were rolled
forward. His hair was straggly and thinning and he wore thick eyeglasses.
Charlene glanced back and forth from the photo to Alex’s clouding face. The
photograph could have been of Alex’s brother—his slightly older, thinner,
much-less-handsome brother.

Alex ran his fingers though his thick, wavy hair. “It’s been
a pleasure, Mrs. Sutton,” he said, and turned and strode to his car. Charlene
handed the book back to the grinning woman and hurried to the curb. Alex was
already behind the wheel, revving the engine, when she reached the convertible.
I guess I’ll open the door myself this time,
she thought.

Charlene barely had time to fasten her seatbelt before Alex
pulled away, tires squealing. She glanced over at him, moving just her eyes.
Alex’s hands were strangling the steering wheel. The muscles in his jaw flexed
as he clenched his teeth.

“I don’t remember that book in your bio,” Charlene finally
said.

Alex swallowed and his Adam’s apple slid down and up his
razor-stubbled throat. “Small printing,” he said, “It’s mainly for veterinary
students.”

He wound his way through the residential neighborhoods on
the way to the freeway and Charlene stole another glance. “That picture of you
on the back cover—you look really different.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Yeah, but you look—older. I mean, it’s just that…”

“That was before,” Alex interrupted.

Charlene’s brow wrinkled. “Before? Before what?”

Alex slowly turned his head and stared at her. There was a
long silence and Charlene glanced uneasily out the windshield. The sports car
maintained a perfectly straight trajectory. She saw a stop sign and the corner.
The traffic from the cross street was heavy and fast. When she looked to her
left, Alex was still glaring at her. Her head swiveled back and forth between
the stop sign and the staring television star.

Charlene instinctively placed her palm on the dashboard to
brace herself for the inevitable car crash. Instead, the car glided to a smooth
stop. Alex had never taken his eyes from her.

“Just
before
,” he said—emphasizing each syllable and
pausing between the two words.

He gunned the car across the intersection and eased onto the
freeway. Charlene let out a shaky breath and sank back in her seat. She folded
her trembling hands on her lap and stared at them in silence the rest of the
way back to the studio.

Four Days Later

By the time they’d crossed the Minnesota border, the Jeep
had taken on the funky air of dog breath and fast food wrappers. Gwen cracked
the window and let the fresh fall air swirl into the car, hoping it would help
her stay awake on the last leg of the trip.

She’d made good time, but half a week of eight-hour driving
days had taken its toll. They’d stayed in crappy motels and she hadn’t gotten
more than a couple hours of sleep at a time. The steady diet of drive-through
junk and salty diner fare had left her bloated. Her back was sore, her nerves
were raw and she was looking forward to a quiet night in a clean bed.

The road blurred as she passed through mile after mile of
farmland, little towns and cookie-cutter suburban settlements. She was grateful
for the clusters of oak and maple trees showing off the reds, yellows and
oranges of autumn. Soon after she turned north, the highway shrank down to two
lanes and tall pines loomed up on both sides. Familiar signs and landmarks
tickled Gwen’s memory, turning her foul mood into excitement.

She’d traveled this route a hundred times as a kid, spending
weeks at a time at Grandpa’s cabin. They’d fished in the nearby lakes, hiked in
the forest and spent rainy days inside playing cribbage while he smoked his
pipe. In the evenings they’d sit out back around the fire ring and watch the
bats swoop overhead. They’d have “dinner on sticks”, as Grandpa called it—fire-blackened
hotdogs for the main course and toasted marshmallows for dessert. The
recollections flooded Gwen’s mind in full sensory glory. She could imagine the
crackle and pop of the burning logs and smell her grandfather’s cherry tobacco.

She felt the tears gather. She should have visited him more
often when she lived in Minnesota and written him after she’d moved. But after
her father—Grandpa’s only child—had died, it was just too painful—maybe for
both of them.

It seemed like a lifetime ago since she’d visited the cabin.
The last time she’d been there was the summer before her junior year in high
school, but she remembered every bend in the road. A grouping of glacial
boulders marked the entrance to her new home. She glanced at the weathered sign
at the foot of the driveway, “Chaney Acres”. Her grandfather had painted the
letters himself many summers ago and with all the trust in the world he had
held the post steady while a scrawny twelve-year-old Gwen shakily pounded it
into place with a sledge hammer.

John Chaney had been a kind man who’d always loved her
unconditionally. As she guided the Jeep through the pines, she felt that he was
still watching over her.

* * * * *

Before Gwen had hauled the last box from the Jeep, Jezebel
was snoring softly on the braided rug in front of the fireplace. Stepping over
the snoozing dog, Gwen opened the flue and touched a match to the kindling that
sat ready in the hearth. She stood back and watched the fire catch. As the
flames licked up the neat stack of quartered logs, she realized that her
grandfather must have set them there last spring.

He was always planning ahead, always preparing. Gwen wished
she’d inherited some of his pragmatism. She was lost in the memory of John
Chaney teaching her how to build a one-match fire when the wall phone rang and she
nearly jumped out of her skin. Once she’d composed herself, she couldn’t help
but laugh. No doubt John Chaney had prepaid all the utilities for the next twenty
years.

She had to remind herself that this is her house now. Still,
it felt strange answering her grandfather’s phone. What if it were some old
friend who somehow hadn’t heard that he’d had died? She ran through a few more
what-ifs before answering.

“Hello,” she said tentatively.

“I hope I have reached Miss Chaney?”

The male voice coming from the receiver was deep and
foreign. His words sounded as if they were formed somewhere behind the uvula
and spat out with gusto.

“Yes, this is Gwen Chaney.”

“Miss Chaney, I apologize if I’m disturbing you. This is
Sergei Markov. I was a friend of your late grandfather. I am very sorry for
your loss.”

So it was “Sergei the Giant”, as her grandfather loving
called him. Sergei Markov had come to the U.S. twenty years ago from Russia via
professional basketball. He’d played for three years—long enough to fulfill his
contract and collect millions of dollars. He’d used some of the money to buy a
small farm just east of the Chaney property.

“Hello, Mr. Markov. My grandfather spoke of you often.”

“And you, Miss Chaney.”

“Please call me Gwen.”

“And I am Sergei.”

There was a long silence and Gwen wasn’t sure if he was
waiting for her to take a turn talking or if she was supposed to repeat “Sergei”,
so he’d know she’d gotten it. Finally she did both.

“Well, Sergei, thank you very much for calling.”

“Are you indisposed, Gwen?”

“Indisposed? No, not at all.”

“I wish to bring you a welcoming gift, but I did not just
drop by so as not to frighten you.”

She bit back a laugh. Maybe his height wasn’t just one of
her grandfather’s exaggerations. Maybe he really was Sergei the Giant, stomping
around scaring small children and causing un-chaperoned women to swoon with
fright.
Poor guy!

“That’s very considerate of you, Sergei, but we’re neighbors
now. You’re welcome to stop by anytime. I look forward to meeting you—” She
intended the rest of that sentence to be “sometime”, but he forgot his manners
and interrupted.

“I shall be at your home in thirty seconds.”

Gwen thought his ETA was a translation error, until—half a
minute after hanging up—she heard a knock at the door. Jezebel growled,
lumbered to her feet and trotted, with hackles up, to her mistress’s side. “Easy,
Jez.”

Pulling back the curtain Gwen saw an enormous man—well, the
flannel-clad chest of an enormous man to be accurate—filling the pane. She
caught a flash of polished metal as he slid his cell phone into his pocket.
Gwen thought he must have been standing at the bottom of the driveway when he’d
called, waiting for her to give him the green light.

When she opened the door, Sergei was down on one knee
unlacing one of his work boots. Its mate was sitting on the porch behind him.
The word “boat” came to mind. Not a little canoe, not even a yacht. This thing
was a full-blown cruise ship, complete with an all-you-can-eat buffet, a casino
and a couple of movie theaters. Clearly custom made.

Still grumbling, Jezebel tentatively poked her snout out the
door. Sergei glanced up and scratched her behind the ear. The two regarded each
other for a moment then the dog slowly walked back to her rug and flopped down.
He finished removing his second boot and placed it neatly by the first, and
stood slowly and brushed off the knees of his jeans. He had a wild mass of
loose black curls, large, dark, deep-set eyes and the shadow of a beard. His
shoulders were impossibly broad and he had to be just north of seven feet tall.

He nodded deeply, almost a bow, and picked up a picnic
basket that rested near his enormous stockinged feet. A glazed pottery plaque
on the lid read,
Luna Farms.
“Hello, Gwen,” he said gently, as if
working hard not to frighten her.

“You must be the plumber,” Gwen deadpanned.

His heavy eyebrows pulled close together and he cocked his
head to one side. “No, I am Sergei Markov. I am your neighbor. We just spoke on
the phone not one minute ago.”

Gwen winked at him, and after a beat his face was thoroughly
consumed with one of the most brilliant smiles she’d ever seen. He threw back
his shaggy head laughed loudly. Looking back down at her, he shook his head and
wagged a finger. “Your grandfather, he told me you were one with the humor.”

“It’s good to meet you, Sergei,” Gwen said, extending her
hand, “Please come in.”

Sergei shifted the picnic basket from right to left to
return the handshake. Her fingers completely disappeared in his. Gwen stepped
back from the door to let him in. He had to duck to clear the doorframe.

“You didn’t have to take off your boots,” she told him.

“Cow shit,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Of course,” was the best Gwen could come up with.

Sergei set the picnic basket on the kitchen table and
glanced at the living room area. He nodded toward the little marquetry game
table by the fireplace.

“That is where you grandfather and I played chess on many nights—played
chess and drank wine.”

Moved by the depth of sadness in his voice, Gwen reached up
to touch his arm just above the elbow. “Your friendship meant a lot to my
grandfather. You brought him a great deal of comfort.”

Sergei breathed deeply and blinked as if trying to will away
John’s ghost. Then he turned back toward the kitchen and gestured to the
basket. “I have brought you a gift for welcoming you to your home.”

As curious as Gwen was about her gift, she felt connected to
Sergei by a shared love for her grandfather and didn’t want to break the spell
quite yet. “Wine first?” she asked.

“Wine first,” he answered with a nod.

They stood together in front of the floor-to-ceiling wine
rack that took up half of one of the bookcases flanking the fireplace. “Anything
strike your fancy?” she asked.

Sergei pulled a bottle out from its perch, read the label,
then slid it back. He repeated the process a dozen times before he found what
he was looking for. “Here is the one.”

“Shiraz,” Gwen said with a nod.

“It will be perfect with your gifts.” Sergei grabbed the
wine opener from the mantle. “Shall I?”

Gwen nodded. Sergei pulled the cork intact, snagged two
wineglasses and followed his hostess back to the kitchen. “To John Chaney,” he
said solemnly, raising the glass.

“To John Chaney,” she repeated

They didn’t let the wine breathe and neither of them
bothered with the proper swirl and sniff of wine sampling. Each took a healthy
slug.

“And now, your gifts,” Sergei said, motioning for Gwen to
sit down.

She took a seat at the kitchen table as he flipped open one
half of the hinged basket lid. A blanket of delicious aromas dropped over Gwen.
Her mouth began to water and she realized that she was ravenous. She glanced
over at Jezebel who raised her head, sniffed the air and dropped her snout back
to her paws with a soft groan.

Sergei pulled a small, sky-blue plate from the basket. A
wedge of creamy white cheese sat at its center, covered with plastic wrap. He
pulled back the film, broke off a chunk and passed it to his hostess. He tore
off another piece and pitched it across the room. The golden retriever caught
it before it hit the floor.

“From my cows,” he said, eating a chunk himself and washing
it down with more wine.

Gwen popped the cheese into her mouth and was pleasantly
surprised by its complexity. It was firm but not dry, creamy with a bit of a
bite. “Mm,” she mumbled and snatched another chunk.

Sergei smiled and pulled out a square dish, covered with
aluminum foil and enclosed in a cozy fashioned from a red-and-white gingham
towel. “Shepherd’s pie,” he said, unwrapping the dish. “But it’s not really pie
at all—no crust. The potatoes and carrots, the onion and herbs, all are from my
garden and the cow, is from my cow.”

“Plates, man! For the love of all that is good and holy,
plates!”

Sergei smiled and grabbed two dishes from the open shelves
lining the wall. Gwen slid out the long drawer built into the kitchen table and
pulled out forks, a serving spoon and cloth napkins. They dealt out their place
settings, and Sergei spooned generous helpings onto each plate. Gwen forked
greedy mouthfuls, thinking it was heaven sent.

Sergei peered over the edge of the basket. “There is more,”
he said, “But first…”

“More wine!” Gwen said, surprised that she was already
feeling a bit buzzed.

“Yes, more wine.”

Sergei brought another bottle to the table and poured. He
settled into the chair across from her while Gwen added more shepherd’s pie to
her plate. Her hunger had quieted some, and she ate her second helping if not
like a lady, exactly, then at least like a human.

Sergei was obviously pleased that she was enjoying the food.
He sipped his wine and began to talk. Gwen didn’t know if he was talking
to
her or just taking advantage of a willing ear and a tongue loosened by wine.
She learned that he had been raised by his father in a small agricultural
community in Russia. His father did not own the land they farmed, and when he
died out threshing the fields one autumn afternoon, Sergei was instantly
orphaned and homeless. “That was two weeks before my fifteenth birthday, but I
was so big already that no one guessed how young I really was. If they had
known, I would have been sent to a state-run orphanage.”

He shuddered and took another gulp from his glass before
continuing his story. He told Gwen that he’d worked for room and board and
enough spending money for beer. By the time he was eighteen, Sergei had just
passed seven feet tall and was spending nearly every night at the pub. Just
when he was beginning to worry that his drinking might lead him down the same
path as his father, a couple on holiday from America had walked into the pub
and spotted him. The man’s father owned a professional basketball team. Three
days later, a trainer had showed up in Sergei’s little village.

“Years of hard labor had made me strong and agile. The
trainer put a basketball in my hands and showed me what to do. It came so easy
to me,” Sergei said. To Gwen his voice seemed almost regretful.

Sergei pulled the final dish from the picnic basket, a
blueberry buckle, made—of course—with berries from his farm. It was
scrumptious. Gwen licked her fork clean as she listened to the rags-to-riches
tale.

Six months after that night in the pub, Sergei Markov was a
professional basketball player with every imaginable trapping of wealth. There
were moments he had enjoyed, he said, especially in the beginning. He was never
hungry and his bed was always soft and warm. The women were everywhere and
available to him with no more than a glance and a nod.