Give the Dog a Bone (6 page)

“Oh, Jeez,” she muttered under her breath.

Maggie began to wail, having realized that the extra attention from Joanne Palmer was not getting her any nearer to her beloved owner. Joanne got out of the car and brushed past me without a word.

I trotted after her. Over the dog’s cries, I said, “I don’t want us to be adversaries. I’m hoping we can work together.”

She scoffed. “I have some samples inside my office. I’ll give you those, and if Ken finds that she needs more, he can bring her back to get her regular prescription refilled.”

“
Re
filled?”

“Yes. Maggie’s already on a regular dose of Clomicalm.” Dr. Palmer added under her breath, “Though she obviously hasn’t had any recently.”

“That’s odd. Ken didn’t mention anything about that to me.”

“Probably because he could tell you’re irrationally predisposed not to use it.”

“That’s not true. I haven’t said
anything
against the use of Clomicalm, which
combined
with behavior modification, is effective.” I fisted my hands and crossed my arms. My professional reputation was on the line here; a Boulder veterinarian bad-mouthing me could put me out of business faster than anything else. “Frankly,
you
seem ‘irrationally predisposed’ to dismiss me and what I do for a living.”

She frowned and searched through a large medicine cabinet, grabbing a small two-pack sample.

I went on, “The only difference between us in our feelings toward Clomicalm is that, as with my own medications, I try to use drugs only when absolutely necessary. I try hard to give behavior modification every reasonable chance to work before resorting to meds.”

“Of
course
you do, since you can’t prescribe them.”

“Even if I could, I’d feel the same way. We don’t need to drug out dogs simply because they’re pack animals and we’re not.”

“And yet you came running to me for pills for Maggie,” she said in a haughty voice.

“Yes! Like all medications, Clomicalm has its uses. And its limitations. T-Rex is currently suffering from ACP’s limitations right now.”

She glared at me. “I don’t think you and I will ever be able to work together.”

I clenched my jaw to prevent myself from spewing venomous remarks that would only make matters worse. And after all, however vehemently I disagreed with her having told dog owners not to hire me sight unseen, I’d come to her for help after hours, and she was obliging me.

She pivoted and strode toward the door. “Where
is
Ken, anyway?”

“At the police station.”

She froze, then met my eyes. In the softer tones that she’d so far reserved for Maggie alone, she asked, “Does this have something to do with his ex-wife?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because he thinks he killed her. It wouldn’t surprise me if he did. And frankly, having met the woman and heard a few horror stories, I’m not even sure his actions weren’t justified.”

Chapter 6

I said nothing, and Dr. Palmer held the door open for me. “Here,” she said, as I started to walk past her. She thrust a two-pill sample packet into my hand. She then shut and, with more noise and vehemence than necessary I thought, locked her door behind me.

“Thank you so much,” I grumbled—but with a smile. I returned to my car. Maggie was howling at the top of her lungs.

I got a soft dog treat out of a bag in my glove box, then crowded into the back seat with the suffering dog. I squished both pills into the treat and fed this to Maggie. In her current hyperagitated state, this single dosage was unlikely to have a major effect. At this point, however, every little bit helped.

What to do now? I was already almost an hour late for my dinner date at Russell’s house. The very least that I owed him was a face-to-face apology. A face-to-face-to-furry-howling-face would have to do.

Knowing that the sound of my voice would soothe her some, I thought out loud while heading back down Dr. Palmer’s driveway. “Maggie, I sure wish you could tell me what is going on with your owner. Do those bones in your yard really belong to his ex-wife? Did he kill her?” I paused and considered that thought. “That seems so hard to believe. But then, I only met the man this morning. He does seem to be . . . living in his own world, in some ways. Maybe he has a violent temper. Maybe he killed her, but sincerely believes she died from her injuries in a hit-and-run accident. He claimed she’d died a few months ago, and yet your neighbor thought she died a year-and-a-half ago. Could she really have been in a coma for a full year? You’d think something like that would make the newspapers.”

Continuing my patter of monologue, which was augmented by the occasional doggie whine emanating from the back seat, I headed toward Russell’s. The sun had finally set behind the mountains; this was late June, nearly the longest day of the year. At the moment, that seemed literally true. We drove through downtown Boulder, then southwest into Russell’s cul-de-sac, which was nestled into the foothills in the Devil’s Thumb area. He lived in a two-story condominium that was unexceptional on the outside but quite nice inside.

This close to the foothills of the Rockies, the town-homes on Russ’s side of the cul-de-sac were in a depression and lower than the half-dozen spaces for guest parking. The medication did seem to be calming Maggie down, so maybe this was as good a time as any for me to leave her alone for a few minutes.

“Please, don’t have gone all out for dinner, Russell,” I murmured as I parked and shut off my engine. If he’d gotten carried away with putting a major meal together, I would only feel even worse about bowing out.

The dog immediately tried to scramble to her feet as I got out of the car. “Maggie, I’ll be right back. Be a good doggie and get some sleep.”

She started barking, and I left the window open a crack, calculating that I could run down the steps to Russell’s, apologize, say good-bye to him, then return to the car before she could go too crazy.

With the sound of Maggie’s frantic, but somewhat muffled barks trailing after me, I raced down the long flight of flagstone steps, reached Russell’s door, and rang the bell. The sounds of classical music and some wonderful dinner scents—bearing no resemblance to fast-food takeout—greeted me as he swung open the door. The place bore the unmistakable ambience of muted and flickering candles. He gave me a big smile and said, “Hi, come on in.”

Wallowing in my own guilt, I stayed put on the welcome mat. Russell looked especially handsome. He was wearing the indigo shirt that I’d once told him was my favorite. I, on the other hand, had not had the opportunity to change out of my dog-hair-laden khakis and T-shirt.

“Russell, I am so sorry. I’m not only unconscionably late, but I can’t stay. I’ve had to . . . bring my work home with me tonight.” I gestured in the direction of the sound of Maggie’s cries. “I’ve got a howling dog in the car.”

“Why? What happened?”

“It’s Ken Culberson’s golden. He’s the large, bald man you met at my office. He was taken to the police station for questioning. His dog’s been burying human bones in his yard.”

Russell’s eyes widened. “He has a human skeleton in his yard?”

“No, not . . . the whole skeleton. Just . . . a hand and a few random . . . Anyway, Russ, I’m really sorry, but—”

“Couldn’t you put the dog on my patio while we eat?”

“Much as I’d like to, that’s never going to work. You remember what she was like at my office. She’s large for a female golden, and she’s ten times more anxious now than she was then. She’s totally inconsolable.”

Russell stepped out beside me, pulling his door shut. “Let’s give this a try anyway. What’s the worst that can happen?” He started up the walkway toward my car.

“I don’t know, but I’ve got a feeling we might find out shortly.”

Despite my better judgment, we got Maggie out of the car. Although she insisted on leading the way, Maggie could be handled on leash fairly easily because she was desperately hoping to find Ken at the end of whatever path she might be set upon. I took her around the string of condos to the back, while Russell met us at his gate and let the dog into the small fenced-in patio.

“So far, so good,” Russell said, though he was already pale and keeping his distance from Maggie.

“Now comes the hard part, though. I’ve got to get her leash off and slip in your back door without her.”

“You can’t just leave the leash dangling?”

“It could get caught on something out here and she could injure herself.”

The medication had definitely helped; I managed to get her to lie down for a few seconds, which was long enough for me to get in the condo alone. Naturally, however, she went berserk the moment the door was shut. She barked at us and put her front paws against the sliding glass door. From this angle, she looked almost bearlike.

Watching her, Russell shrank back a little. “Can’t you give her some medicine to calm her?”

“Already did. This
is
her calm state.”

“Do you think it would be better if I shut the drapes?”

I shook my head. “Odds are that would make her worse.”

He forced a wan smile, pulled a chair out from the dining table for me, and said, “Let’s eat, then.”

Maggie’s barks were too annoying even for me to handle. “This just isn’t going to work, Russell,” I said again with a sigh. “Come to think of it, I’d better call my mom and make sure it’s all right for me to bring Maggie home.”

“Want me to put your dinner in a doggie bag? Pun intended.” Russell wiggled his eyebrows at me playfully, reminding me how much and why I truly liked him.

“I guess,” I muttered. “I feel so bad, Russ. You went through all this effort, and here I am, late, and now everything’s in shambles.”

“It’s not your fault.” He shifted his vision to Maggie. “There’s nobody nearby who could watch the dog for an hour or two?”

“No, but . . . maybe Ken’s home by now. In which case, I might be able to salvage things yet.”

I called the police station and asked if Ken Culberson could come to the phone. The receptionist or dispatcher—whoever answered the phone—gave me the runaround, making it difficult to tell even if Ken was still there. I called his place and got no answer.

Giving Russell a sad shake of my head to let him know my efforts had failed, I called my mom. After a roommate fiasco a couple of months ago, I had temporarily moved into my mother’s house, along with my two dogs—a German shepherd and a cocker spaniel. She’d since acquired a collie, so this would be a fourth dog added to our canine menagerie. Mom didn’t sound too thrilled, until I mentioned that it was a golden, which cheered her; she’s always loved that breed.

To my surprise, Russell had dished up while I was on the phone as if it were a foregone conclusion that I was staying for dinner, after all. He served rack of lamb, julienne green beans, yams. The moment I sat down, the phone rang. Russell fielded his first noise-complaint call from a neighbor.

This was so unfair to him, I could barely keep up any semblance of pleasant company. We both gulped down his wonderful meal as if participating in a pie-eating contest. When the phone rang for the fourth time, I rose, said, “Everything was delicious, and I hate to eat and run, but I don’t have much choice. I’ve got to get the dog out of here.”

Russell got to his feet as well, ignoring the ringing phone as best he could. “Thanks . . . for coming.”

I gave him a quick kiss. “Have a good trip to Palo Alto. I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Okay.”

Using the knee-first method honed from years of dog training, I squeezed out the back door and prevented Maggie from entering. As we left the patio, Russell called out, “Good-bye, Allida.”

Feeling the weight of both his disappointment and my own, I climbed the steps with Maggie to the parking area. I glanced down and saw Russell still standing at the bottom step, watching. I called back, “Don’t give up on the two of us.”

“I never will.” He turned and went back into his home.

Mom lives in Berthoud, a bedroom and farming community northeast of Boulder, roughly halfway between Boulder and Fort Collins, the next sizable city. Over the past few years, Berthoud had become popular with yuppies. Housing prices had therefore skyrocketed, downtown shops were becoming more upscale, and the “quaint” descriptor had become hackneyed. At this hour, I could normally make the drive in forty-five minutes, but Maggie was still not on her best behavior. Then again, since I’d yet to discover what her “best” behavior might be, maybe this was it.

I tuned the radio to a music station and found that she would sing along, as long as I did, too. We had quite the time of it, singing Paul Simon’s “Graceland” together, all of her words being “woooo,” which made fine accompanying lyrics.

I’d sung my throat raw by the time we arrived. Because Maggie was on edge and would be catching my dogs unaware, I left my car in the driveway and brought Maggie to the front door instead of parking in the garage as usual. Maggie was so engrossed by the scents of the various dog tracks up my walkway that she even let me lead.

My mom must have heard us coming, for she swung the door open. Her long hair was in its usual braid. Though she’s four inches taller than I am, we’re frequently told how similar we look, so I like to think of her as being exceptionally attractive. After such a trying day, she was a sight for sore eyes. I said, “Hi, Mom,” wanting to hug her.

“What a beautiful dog,” she replied, greeting Maggie with the kind of enthusiasm that, every now and then, gives me a pang of jealousy. Rarely do her eyes light up that way at the sight of me, but then there’s something to be said for the comfort of familiarity, even if that comes in tandem with some boredom. “Has she eaten dinner yet?”

“I don’t know, come to think of it. Certainly wouldn’t hurt to feed her something.”

My dogs rushed over to greet the dog and then me. If they were any less well-trained and accustomed to my bringing various animals home, my having her enter on-leash would have been asking for trouble, especially in the off-leash dogs’ territory. Sage, Mom’s collie, as the newest and least-trained of our canine menagerie, gave Maggie a couple of bear-in-mind-that-you’re-on-my-turf barks.

The dogs proved a good distraction for Maggie, and the medication was probably a bigger help than I could measure. A couple of hours after our arrival, we got the dogs settled in and went to bed ourselves. Maggie seemed content to wedge herself between Sage, Mom’s collie, and Pavlov, my German shepherd, on their respective makeshift beds in a corner of the kitchen.

The phone rang, awakening me from a deep sleep. In a daze I reached blindly for the phone beside my bed, my stomach already tightening. Calls at this hour were never good news. I muttered a hello.

“Allie? It’s Ken. Ken Culberson. Do you still have Maggie with you?”

“Yes. She’s . . . fine. She’s sleeping. Are you okay?”

“Fine. Yes. Glad to be home. Can you bring me Maggie, right away?”

“Now?” I glanced at the illuminated face of my alarm clock. It was two-twenty in the morning. “You want me to drive into Boulder
now
?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I was sleeping, Ken, and I don’t want to have to drive to Boulder now. Not unless this absolutely can’t wait until morning. Can you wait for Maggie till then? Till day-break, at least? Please?”

“I s’pose I can wait. I’m just . . .”

“Maggie’s fine. She gets along with my dogs just great. Did everything go all right at the police station? Do they know whose bones those are yet?”

“They think they’re from a grave of some person I never heard of, but I’m still thinkin’ they’re Mary’s. Funny thing is . . . Never mind. You’re trying to sleep. Anyways, how soon can you get Maggie back here?”

“First thing in the morning. Eight A.M.”

“Okay. I’m just . . . surprised this is all right with Mary. I mean, Maggie.”

“It is,” I implored. I did
so
want to get back to sleep.

“Can I talk to her?”

I hesitated, knowing better than to upset all of the dogs, but this was a small price to pay so as to avoid leaving the house at this hour. “Uh, yes. Just a moment.” I opened my door. Maggie was waiting right on the other side. She rushed in and leapt onto my bed—something I don’t even allow my own little cocker spaniel to do. Feeling like an idiot, I held out the phone to the dog. “Go ahead, Ken,” I called.

“Maggie?” I could hear Ken shout. “That’s my girl. You be good for Allie, and I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

The dog, in the meantime, was totally confused at hearing her master’s voice on the phone. She barked a little and did a full three-sixty on my bed as she tried to find Ken.

“Allie? Give Maggie a hug for me. I’ll leave the door unlocked for you in case I oversleep. All right?”

“Fine. Good night.” I hung up. I looked at Maggie, who had already settled onto my bed. I was so tired that I had a fleeting thought of just letting her get away with it, but then scolded myself. Consistency is the key to eliciting desirable behavior in mice, men, and dogs, after all.