One Good Dog (15 page)

“No. Sorry. It’s cold out, he can wait in your car.”

Adam yanks the leash attached to the choke chain and hauls the dog out of the dining room and into the back hallway. Rafe is there with a plate of leftovers and a bowl of water. The dog makes noisy, fast work of the mess on the plate and laps water to the bottom of the bowl. Rafe watches with the same self-satisfaction on his face as when he takes a moment to observe the men enjoying his food. “He’s a hungry one.”

“You want him?”

Rafe makes a little piffle noise. “Can’t. No pets allowed where I live.”

“Lucky you.”

“’Sides, my wife’d kill me, I bring one of them home.”

Adam is nonplussed. Rafe has never mentioned a wife before. Then again, neither has he. It’s like their lives begin and end in this old Victorian building. Their conversations revolve
around sports or politics, the differences between them offering very little common ground; neither he nor Rafe ever speak of a personal life, or only in a glancing way. “Well, maybe she can change her mind.”

Rafe strokes his cheek with his fingertips, as if contemplating the idea. “No.”

Adam tightens his grip on the leash and yanks the dog away from the plate he is still licking.

Adam opens the back door of his Lexus. During the hour and a half the big mutt has spent lolling on his backseat while Adam has been doing his dog and pony show for a group of entrepreneurs who don’t look a day over twelve, he has managed to stink up the car with his farts and glaze both the door and the back windows with nose prints. His face splits into a grin as he lolls his tongue out at Adam’s arrival. His tail wags, slapping the white leather with a tympanic rhythm.

Adam hauls the dog out by the collar and marches to the door of the animal shelter. A strategic retreat is more honorable than a complete defeat. He’ll turn the dog over, try to get his money back, and forget the whole debacle.

Closed.

Fuck. It’s only four o’clock. What kind of weird hours does this place keep?

Briefly, Adam looks around for a place to tie the dog. Maybe he can just leave him and then put a message on the answering machine why he did; surely someone comes in on weekends to feed the inmates. As quickly as the suggestion occurs to him, Adam shrugs it off. He’d probably get sent up on cruelty charges for doing that. The last thing Adam
March needs is more trouble. He has a date with Judge Johnson next week, and he is harboring a self-indulgent hope that the judge will cut him some slack, maybe even give him a reprieve. “Well, stupid, I guess you’re with me.” He loads the dog back into his sullied Lexus and heads home.

Adam has only a vague notion how to take care of a dog. He’s never had one, never allowed one in his house. Although Ariel had clamored for a puppy time and again, a fat black Labrador retriever like the ones that all the other kids whose parents had houses on Martha’s Vineyard dragged along from home. “Why not? Why can’t we? Why can’t we?” Adam’s answer was an unequivocal no, with the blame tossed, from time to time, on Sterling’s shoulders. “It wouldn’t be fair to your mother; she has enough to do.” Which, even as a small child, Ariel saw right through. Adam got smarter. “It wouldn’t be fair to”—and he’d name the incumbent housekeeper—“she has enough to do.” Ariel had to be satisfied with her horses, which at least lived somewhere else.

So to find himself in his small one-bedroom apartment, in a building with no yard, face-to-face with one of the least attractive dogs ever made, Adam thinks he must be out of his mind.

The dog, a rusty brindle with white markings and that weird hacked-off ear, sits staring back at him. Every now and then his mouth opens and that banner of a tongue lolls out. He makes a gasping noise, slips the tongue over his nose, right, then left, and retracts it into his mouth, all the while keeping his eyes on Adam, as if he’s waiting for a speech, or a tap dance. Or a fight.

“Don’t get too comfortable; you’re going back tomorrow.” Adam wags a finger at the dog. Swallowing the last of the scotch in his glass, Adam heads into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He drops his clothes on the floor, refills the scotch glass with the bottle he keeps on his nightstand, and climbs into bed, exhaustion waving through him and making it impossible even to read to the end of the article in his
Business Week
magazine. He finishes off the scotch and turns out the light.

Instantly, he hears the scratch of claws against the wood. “Go to bed.”
Scritch. Scritch.
Like some Stephen King predator. “Knock it off.” The scratching becomes rhythmic, persistent. “Stop that.” His landlord won’t give him back his security deposit on that happy day he moves out of this dump if this mutt has damaged the woodwork. Adam leaps out of bed and wrenches open the door.

The dog is sitting, his tail swishing back and forth on the floor, his mouth gaping.
Aowr. Aowr.
It almost sounds like a syllable. He stands up, all happiness to see Adam back in the room.

Adam slams the door shut, gets back into bed, and pulls the spare pillow over his head.

For once, he’s slept late. Groggy from unaccustomed deep sleep, Adam comes out of his bedroom, and nearly steps in the pile of dog shit laid carefully in front of his door. The dog is sound asleep on the futon.

The screech and cackle of the two parrots inside Gina De-Marco’s store grows even more excited as Adam, attached to the dog, walks in. Gina is bent over an aquarium of tropical fish set on a low shelf. Her low-slung jeans gap at the tantalizing space just below the last bump on her spine. She stands up, her mouth crooked in a little surprised smile, which quickly fades. “What have we here?” She stands aside to assess the dog, then looks at Adam. “Would never have pegged you for the pit bull type.”

“I’m not.” The dog leans against the choke chain, trying to get close to the decorative cage with the parrots.

“Okay. So that’s not a pit bull on the end of a leash?”

“It’s a long story.” Adam snugs the animal back to his side.

“Where did you get him?”

“Shelter.”

Gina’s disdain suddenly disappears. It is replaced with a grudging approval. “Wow. Good for you. Rescue dogs are the best; it’s like they know they’ve been saved. I’ve got three greyhounds—”

“It’s temporary.” Adam isn’t interested in rehearsing the whole sorry tale. He just wants some dog food. “I’m not keeping him.”

“Fostering is good, too.”

Fostering. The word has no heroic connotations for Adam. “No. Not fostering.”

Gina ignores his assertion, as if he’s a little boy refusing to eat his peas. “What’s his name?”

“Doesn’t have one. Doesn’t need one. I’m taking him back to the shelter as soon as the doors open.”

“Why did you get him if you’re not keeping him? These are living creatures; you can’t decide that they don’t fit and then return them like a damned shirt.”

“Like I said, it’s a long story. I was trying to find a guy’s dog, and this isn’t it. He goes back.”

The dog is leaning against his collar again, his pale brown nose working hard.

“Give him a chance.”

Yanked back to Adam’s side, the dog sits.

Gina leans over the counter, exposing that crescent of skin above her jeans. She reaches into a jar and pulls out a dog biscuit. She cautiously approaches the dog, whose eyes are fixed on the biscuit in her hand. He lowers his head, swipes his tongue over his lips. “Here, fella.” Gina offers the biscuit and the dog shows good manners in taking it gently from her hand. She stands up and smiles. “He seems like a good boy. You should keep him.”

The idea is ludicrous, adding an ugly dog to his list of worries. Adam doesn’t even know what the pet policy is in his building, but he’s willing to guess it’s not in favor of dogs like this. “I can’t keep him.”

Gina reaches out and touches Adam’s arm, as if consoling him. “Sure you can.” He hears that subtle southern drawl. “He likes you.” He likes the feel of her hand on his arm, the persuasive touch of someone who thinks she can change his mind.

“Well, I don’t like him.”

“You will. He’s a beauty.”

Adam laughs. “Not really. And he drools. And smells.”

“That’s normal.” Gina runs the same hand that’s touched his arm over the dog’s head. The dog wriggles beneath her hand. She makes baby-talk noises at him, then looks up at Adam and sighs. “It can be very rewarding, bringing an animal back from a rough beginning to a satisfying life. I’ve done it with greyhounds, and several friends of mine have adopted pits.”

“Doesn’t matter. I told you: I’m not keeping him.”

“Then why did you bring him in here?”

“I have nothing to feed him.”

Now she looks at Adam with a tight-jawed disappointment. “Give him a chance. Haven’t you ever needed someone to give you a chance?”

Adam almost laughs at her sincerity, at the storybook ending she’s shilling. “I have always made my own chances.”

“And see where that’s gotten you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see you standing there, staring out your window all day. Too many hours for a guy with something better to do.”

Adam feels the flush build, the hum of annoyance vibrating through his skin, the urge to snap.

Gina turns away from Adam, leaving him alone in the shop while she goes into a back room. She comes out with a small bag of dry dog food, two cans of wet food, and a tennis ball. “This’ll take care of him for a couple of days. Just remember to give him fresh water, too.” She gingerly offers the mutt another biscuit. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

“You think he’s got so much potential, I’ll be happy to give him to you.”

“I would if I could, but I’ve got those three greyhounds. They take up a lot of space.”

“What do I owe you?” Adam fishes his wallet out of his back pocket.

“It’s a gift. For the dog. Throw the ball for him a few times. You both could use the exercise.”

“No, no gifts. I’ll pay.”

“Forget it.” Gina’s full mouth is drawn into a thin line. She folds her arms across her middle, her hands resolutely not taking any money from him.

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s done wrong, but he’s done something. All women have that ineffable power to transmit disappointment without words, and he’s getting a full dose from this woman he barely knows. She bags the food and hands it to him.

“Thank you.”

“I guess he’s better off dead than unloved.”

“Dead? He’ll get adopted.”

“Not very likely.”

“You just told me you have friends who adopt pit bulls. What makes it less likely for this one?”

“Where was he?”

“End cage.”

“Nuff said. That’s death row. They’ve given him his last chance with you.”

The dog, who has given up pulling on the leash and trying to sniff at every nose-level object in the pet shop, suddenly relaxes the tension on the leash and sits. He looks up at the two humans, his muzzle following the conversation like a line judge. Adam turns away from the counter and nearly trips over the dog. The touch of his knee against the dog’s ribs
is enough to get a yowl out of the animal. “Hey, that’s enough out of you.” Adam jerks the leash.

“Who, me or the dog?”

Adam doesn’t answer, yanks the dog to his side, and walks out. Really, the woman is too much.

As they wait for the light to change, Adam hears the dog growl, a low, throaty rumble that is aimed up the street. A middle-aged man in a track suit is walking a Labrador retriever. The dog’s growl elevates to something more like a roar and Adam is nearly taken off his feet as the dog lunges fiercely at the oncoming dog. The bag of dog food hits the pavement and the tennis ball rolls out. The dog is powerful enough that it takes both hands to keep him from reaching the yellow Lab.

“That dog is dangerous, mister. Put a fucking muzzle on it, will ya?” The Lab’s owner pulls his own dog to one side and hurries by, fuming about city ordinances. The pit bull is barking at the top of his lungs, as if the very existence of that Labrador is an insult to him. The Lab glances back at the raging dog and then looks longingly at the rolling tennis ball.

“Knock it off!” Adam pulls on the leash, but the dog is oblivious to the pressure. As soon as the guy and his dog disappear around a corner, the dog sits, licks its lips, and scratches at his half of an ear, then looks up at Adam as if expecting praise.

The dog has to go. Now.

I was embarrassed at having to do my business in the house, but then again, I have never been house-trained. I wouldn’t have even considered soiling the area—it was, after all, not a lot bigger than my cage back in the cellar—but he didn’t give me a clue as to what was appropriate behavior. His language was familiar. I understood the “Shut up” and “Knock it off” bit, but my own attempt at communication was ineffectual; he didn’t speak my language. So I crapped where he’d get the message. No furtive behind the furniture for me. Uh-uh. Right there where he’d step in it. I got the reaction I half-expected. Again, familiar words were tossed at me, but he didn’t touch me. He also, after a few minutes of diatribe, had the good grace to be embarrassed himself. “You needed to go out? I should have known. Not your fault.” Well, he didn’t exactly say that, but I understood by his seated posture, his head in his hands, that he had figured it out.