Gun Shy (15 page)

Dolly’s megaphoned voice faded into the background as I made my way back to the table, laughing and wavingto my friends, Cisco bouncing along beside me. Maude was already tearing off tickets and taking money, so I quickly ducked down to secure Cisco’s leash so that I could help her.

A not-quite-familiar voice said over my head, “It’s not exactly the Kentucky Derby, but if you’re taking bets I’ll put two dollars on the yellow dog’s nose.”

I straightened up slowly. “Well, as I live and breathe. If it isn’t Mr. Miles Young. Slumming?”

He smiled at me. “Just trying to get to know my neighbors.”

He was wearing khaki trousers, a navy blazer and an Atlanta Braves baseball cap. He might have passed for an ordinary tourist, if you didn’t look too closely. He would never be mistaken for a local.

“I’d like to thank you, Mr. Young, for the five thirty wake-up call your heavy-equipment trucks have been kind enough to give me every day this week. Not to mention the lovely sound of bulldozers scraping off the top of the mountain.”

He said, “I thought country people got up early in the morning.”

“I own a dog kennel, Mr. Young. When one dog wakes up, everyone wakes up. I like to postpone that until at least sunrise whenever I can.”

He looked thoughtful. “Well. I guess I’ll just have to build a new road to access my property, then, so I won’t have to disturb you and your dogs with all those loud trucks and bulldozers and such.”

I stared at him, thinking for a moment he might be serious.But then I saw the quirk of his lips and I said briskly, “Do you have a dog, Mr. Young?”

“No.”

“Then you probably don’t want to buy a ticket to run this agility course. So if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“I had a Chihuahua once,” he said, following me over to the ticket table. “At least my ex-wife did. It was a nasty little thing. Bit everything that moved.”

Maude handed me a fistful of tickets, barely glancing at Miles Young. “We have instructions from the top to clear the field five minutes before the next demo and we’ve synchronized watches at”—she glanced at the big sports watch on her wrist—“nine forty-three mark fourteen. So you’d best get started.”

Miles Young said, “Good morning, ma’am, I’m Miles Young.”

“How do you do,” replied Maude. “Would you like to buy a ticket? Each ticket is worth one run through or two minutes on the field.”

I shouted, “Number one!”

The first three ticket holders were students of mine, which made matters easy because I did not have to guide their dogs across the dog walk or teach them how to persuade a dog to jump over a bar when he would really rather go around it. The disadvantage of that was that I had no reason to go on the field, and every time I turned around Miles Young was at my shoulder.

“Do you want something?” I demanded.

“Just the pleasure of watching a professional at work.”

“You’re in my way.”

He took an elaborate step back. He had an annoyingly pleasant face—regular features, easy eyes, smarmy smile. It probably served him well to lure his victims into his confidence in high-stakes business deals, but I was not that easily impressed. He said, “Reese Pickens told me you were one to keep an eye on.”

“You want to be careful about listening to anything Reese Pickens says.” I shouted, “Next!”

A little girl with a basset hound came up and presented her ticket. I was more than happy to leave my post at the entry gate and patiently guide the lumbering flopeared dog over one jump and up and over a low ramp. When I returned, Miles Young was still there.

“What do you want from me?” I demanded.

His eyes crinkled with that Bahamas tan as he smiled at me. “What makes you think I want anything? Maybe I just think you’re cute.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “Are you drunk?”

“Actually, I don’t drink. My father was an alcoholic,” he added, as though I cared. “He was always landing in jail and then calling my uncle, who was the mayor, to come bail him out. Not a particularly nice way to grow up, but I did learn a couple of valuable things from him. The first is: Don’t drink. The second is: It pays to have friends in powerful places.”

That smarmy smiled never wavered; those crinkly eyes never faded. I felt every muscle in my body stiffen and I replied coldly, “Is that supposed to be some kind of threat? Because I don’t particularly consider you powerful, and I will
never
be your friend.”

An eyebrow arched slightly beneath the brim of his baseball cap. “Actually, you’re the person in powerful places I was talking about.”

My confusion displayed itself in a scowl, and he explained, “Your name comes up a lot. Seems like you’re related to, or friends with, just about everyone around here. People listen to what you have to say. It makes me think you would be a good person to have on my side. And,” he added, “I do happen to think you’re cute.”

“You,” I told him with great deliberation, “are delusional.”

“Is this man bothering you, Raine?”

“Speaking of people in powerful places,” Miles Young said, and turned with a grin. “How are you, Sonny?”

I was glad to see that, though she used a metal walking stick and had combed her bangs forward to hide the bruise on her forehead, Sonny displayed no other ill effects from her fall. Of course, I also knew that her long sleeves, colorful knit poncho and ankle-length suede skirt hid a multitude of bruises. “Hello, Miles,” she returned pleasantly. “Enjoying a day in the country, are you?”

He nodded appreciatively. “I think I’m really going to like it here.”

“Well, don’t get too comfortable. Your plan still hasn’t passed the water commission.”

“No,” he agreed, still smiling, “but it’s passed everything else.”

“Are you in line?” she inquired, tipping her head toward me.

“Afraid not.”

“Good, because Mystery wants to run the agility course.” She handed me a ticket. “See you in court, Miles.”

“Have a good day, Sonny.” He turned to me and added, “You too, Miss Stockton.”

“You were awfully nice to that creep,” I muttered as he left.

Sonny chuckled. “Oh, he’s not so bad. I’ve known a lot worse, believe me.” She handed me Mystery’s leash. “Now let’s give Mystery her money’s worth. The dancing dog is going on pretty soon and I don’t want to miss it.”

I have to admit, I was skeptical about the dancing dog. It sounded too much like a circus act to me, which is not to take anything away from the skill that’s required to train a dog for the circus or any other entertainment venue. It’s just that the whole thing seemed a little cutesy-pie, and put me in mind of poodles in tutus hopping around on their hind legs.

After all, dogs are creatures of great nobility and dignity. They plunge into turbulent seas to rescue fishermen; they cross the frozen tundra with life-saving serum; they dig through the rubble of collapsed buildings and snowy avalanches to find helpless victims. It was the domesticated dog who, by assisting early man in the hunt, by protecting his villages and guarding his flocks, made it possible for humans to have enough leisure time to build the Golden Gate Bridge and paint the Sistine Chapel. It could be said that we owe civilization as we know it entirely to the domestic dog.

I am therefore fundamentally against anything that demeans or diminishes the dignity of the dog in any way.

And that, I’m sorry to say, was what I had always imagined canine musical freestyle did.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Thanks to Dolly’s megaphoned promotion, practically everyone at the fair had gathered around the roped-off town square to watch the performance. Had Maude and I not already secured our front-row seats underneath the blue canopy by virtue of our jobs, we would have been standing out in the sun with everyone else, fighting for a spot near the ropes. Sonny sat beside us, holding Mystery in her lap.

Dolly blared from the megaphone, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, Sandra Lanier and the incredible Ringo!”

Out onto the field strode a young woman in tight black satin pants and a long, floaty gold-and-white top. Her blond hair was caught back from her face in a wreath of gold and white flowers, then tumbled over her shoulders. Beside her trotted a dog that might have been a collie-golden retriever mix. The gold and white of his coat was an almost exact match for the gold and white of her top. His head was turned attentively up to his mistress, his eyes never leaving hers, his pawfalls in perfect synchronization with her steps. Maude and I exchanged a look, partly in secret comment on the outfit, partly in genuine admiration for the obedience skills of the dog.

From the sound system came a harp chord, and the woman made a sweeping curtsy to her dog. On the second harp chord the dog returned a gorgeous, perfectly cued bow to her. A chorus of
Ah
s went up from the audience. The recorded orchestra broke into a spritely rendition of Vivaldi’s “Spring” and the two of them took off, moving as a single poetic unit in a ballet of perfectly synchronized turns, spins, leaps and twirls. She floated across the grass, her filmy gold-and-white top fluttering and billowing in a reflection of her dog’s flowing coat. They moved first in counterpoint, then in unison. When she turned, he turned with her; when she spun, he spun opposite, forming a beautiful figure eight that met in the middle. He seemed to know, without a visible cue, when she was going to kick into a jeté, and he would dash between her legs while she was practically in midair, or leap over her backward-extended leg, circle her body and pick up on her heel side with his paws striking the ground in precise harmony with the beat of the music. It was incredible. At first I actually had to press my hand against my lips to stifle gasps and cheers like the ones that were coming from every tourist in the crowd, but before the performance was over I was clapping and cheering and crying out with delight just like everyone else. Cisco, puzzled by my behavior but clearly intrigued, put his front paws on the ring gating and barked out his own cheers to the canine half of the dance team.

“Oh, my God, oh, my
God
,” I exclaimed as Sandra Lanier was taking her second bow. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life, have you?”

Maude nodded crisply. “Well-done,” she said. This, for her, was the equivalent of a standing ovation. “Quite.”

Sonny was wiping moisture from her cheeks, and she wasn’t the only one. “Beautiful,” she said, laughing even as she dabbed tears. “Whoever would have thought dogs could do something like that? It makes you wonder what else is possible, doesn’t it?”

I think that summed up my own feelings exactly.

I pushed myself forward as Sandra Lanier and Ringo left the ring. “Hi,” I said, holding out my hand. “You were incredible, unbelievable. Thank you so much. Thank you so much for doing this.”

She laughed as she shook my hand, and I realized I must sound like a gushing twelve-year-old at a rock concert. “Thanks,” she said. “We really love it.”

“I’m Raine Stockton.”

“Sandy Lanier,” she said.

“I own a dog-training business just outside of town,” I went on. “This is Cisco. He does search and rescue.” I hoped I didn’t sound as though I was trying too hard to give myself some legitimacy.

“How do you do, Cisco?”

I liked the fact that she greeted my dog, and that she added, “Do you mind if Ringo says hello?”

“I think Cisco would be honored.”

The two dogs did their sniffing ritual, and she said, “I saw you earlier in the agility demo. I’ll bet Cisco would be great in freestyle.”

“He probably would be, but he has a handicap—me. Are you a professional dancer?”

She laughed. “Good heavens, no. I’m a physical therapist. I learned to dance for Ringo.”

“Gorgeous dog,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, and turned a gaze on him that was so full of adoration that I knew immediately how they had achieved such harmony on the dance floor. “He is. I got him from the shelter when he was three months old. I could tell from the first he was going to be special.”

Cisco, with his usual happy-go-lucky manners, gave a grinning, invitational bark and play-bowed to Ringo. Sandy laughed. “See, he already has a move!” She looked at me, eyes twinkling. “Would you like me to show you some more?”

I was sucked in. The mere thought of being able to do something as beautiful as I had just seen was an irresistible temptation. Before I knew it the crowd had moved back to form a small circle and we were at the center of it. Armed with a training clicker and a plastic baggie filled with chopped hot dogs—already I liked her style, and so did Cisco—Sandy Lanier proceeded to teach my handsome working dog how to dance. In a matter of moments she had him spinning at my side, weaving through my legs, and—his apparent favorite— twirling on his hind legs.

“Great,” I commented wryly as Cisco launched himself to his back legs and spun around yet again, eagerly anticipating his hot dog reward. “I’ve been trying to teach him to turn off a light switch all week, but he refuses to stand on his hind legs. What have you got that I don’t?”

She laughed. “Some dogs just dance to a different drummer.”

In the distance, the bluegrass band struck up “Turkey in the Straw,” and Sandy bowed to me, her eyes filled with mirth. “Shall we dance?”

Before I knew it, Cisco and I were performing a hilarious square dance duet with Sandy and Ringo, weaving, crossing, allemanding and spinning. Most of the time I was laughing so hard I didn’t care where my feet were, and the rest of the time I was either bumping into Sandy or tripping over Cisco, but my dog was having the time of his life. The crowd was clapping in rhythm and hooting their encouragement, and a photographer snapped our picture for the paper. When the music stopped, we really hammed it up, bowing and posing and blowing kisses. Then I caught a glimpse of Buck, standing at the edge of the crowd watching us, and the look in his eyes was so sad, so unguarded and lost, that the laughter died in my throat.