Underdog (3 page)
“You got it.”
The room was nearly empty by now. I got up and Aunt Peg and I headed for the door. “He didn't look happy, did he?” she mused.
I'd noticed the same thing, but I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction. One thing about Aunt Pegâhand her the ball and she'd surely run with it.
“Clearly you need a man of your own,” I said pointedly.
“I might take yours. You don't seem to be getting much use out of him.”
She led the way out the door and there was nothing I could do but follow. This business about always getting the last word was just like handling. It was a gift. It had to be.
Three
Five days a week from nine until three, I work as a special education teacher in Stamford's public school system. I still think of myself that way because back when I got out of graduate school, that's what we were called. Since then, in an ongoing effort to make everything as needlessly complicated as possible, my title has been modernized. I am now known as a Learning Disabilities Resource Room Teacher.
Same job, same pay; bigger sign on the door.
I'm lucky in that most days I really like my work, especially when I'm with the kids. I could do without some of the administrators and most of the politics, but I've been at Hunting Ridge Elementary long enough so that I don't have to deal with either too much if I don't want to.
Davey started kindergarten in September. After five years of juggling daycare, pre-school, car pools, and baby sitters, not to mention sick days, snow days, and holidays, we are finally both on the same schedule. What a relief. Not only that, but if he sits on his lunch somewhere along the way, I can usually slip him part of mine in the cafeteria. My stomach may growl a bit, but my thighs appreciate the sacrifice.
On Friday, Davey and I went straight to the supermarket after school. I envy women who make dinners ahead and freeze them. At my house, I'm lucky to have the ingredients for a meal on hand, much less the finished product. Impromptu guests get nachos and salsa if they're lucky; Pop-Tarts if they're not. Aunt Peg has been known to solve this problem by bringing her own pastries. Either she has to find a low-fat bakery, or I'm going to have to develop some self-control.
Jenny arrived promptly at six. I was back in the kitchen, but my early warning system spoke up loud and clear. First Faith began to bark, then Davey ran to the front hall, jumping up and down and yelling, “She's here! She's here!” From the way these two were carrying on, you'd think we never had company.
With that much notice, I had time to get the door open before she could even ring the bell. Jenny stood on the top step with her hands full.
“The wine's a gift,” she said, handing me a bottle of cabernet sauvignon on her way in. “The book's a loan. It belongs to Rick and he'd kill me if I gave it away. But there are a lot of good tips in here, and I think you might enjoy reading it.”
The book was called
An Owner's Guide to Successful Dog Showing.
I tucked it under my arm. “Thanks. I'll give it back to you next week.”
An Owner's Guide to Successful Dog Showing.
I tucked it under my arm. “Thanks. I'll give it back to you next week.”
“No hurry.”
“Hi,” said Davey, thrusting himself forward. There's nothing he hates more than to be left out of a conversation. “I'm Davey. I'm five.”
Jenny grinned down at him. “Five? Really? You must be big for your age.”
“I am.” Davey's small chest swelled with pride. “This is my Poodle. Her name is Faith.”
Even without the introduction, the puppy would have been hard to miss. As soon as I'd opened the door, Faith had launched herself at our guest. Luckily Jenny was used to dealing with exuberant puppies and the initial onslaught had barely fazed her. Now that her hands were free she had one scratching behind Faith's ears and the other rubbing under her chin.
“Faith is a Standard Poodle,” Davey informed her. “That means she's going to be big.”
As if she wasn't already.
“Did you know that Poodles come in three sizes?”
“I'm sure she does, Davey,” I broke in. Once my son started showing off how much he knew, he could go on for quite a while. “Let's give Jenny a chance to get in the door before you monopolize her. You can talk to her some more later.”
“Okay. Can I have a snack?”
“No. Dinner's in half an hour.”
“But I'm hungry now.”
“Good, then you'll still be hungry in half an hour. Why don't you take Faith to the back door and see if she wants to go out?”
The two of them headed off down the hall and Jenny's gaze followed their departure. “They're so cute at that age.”
“Puppies or kids?”
“Both.” Her tone held the wistful sound of someone who's never lived with a five-year-old twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. “I can't wait.”
Jenny couldn't have been more than a year or two younger than me. I wondered what she was waiting for. “How does Rick feel?”
“Ambivalent. He thinks we ought to be better established, have a larger base of clients. But the problem with handling is that except for a few regulars that you work with all the time, it's not a steady thing. Dogs come and go. We have a champion Cocker now that's been doing a lot of winning, but he's retiring at the end of the year. After that, who knows? There's an English Setter coming along that might take his place, but we won't know that until we try. Sometimes I think that if you want something badly enough, you just have to jump in and do it.”
As she talked, we'd been walking back to the kitchen. I could see Davey through the window over the sink. He was running around the backyard with a jacket on over his pajamas. Faith was chasing him. I set the wine down on the counter, found a corkscrew, and poured us each a glass.
“Davey's father thought we were too young too. And actually, we probably were. But I got pregnant and neither one of us liked the idea of abortion, so there we were.”
“Was he angry?”
“More resigned, I think. He spent the nine months I was pregnant in denial. Like if he didn't think about it, or talk about it, it wouldn't really happen.” I sampled my wine, decided it tasted good and followed the first sip with another.
Jenny's gaze strayed out the window. “How long did it take him to get used to being a father?”
“I don't think he ever did. As far as he was concerned, Davey was just this unexpected interloper who kept waking us up all night long. He moved out when Davey was ten months old.”
That was the polite version. In reality, he'd skipped in the middle of the day, taking the car and the stereo system with him. He'd left behind a three-line note in which he'd spoken about his unmet needs. I'd read it twiceâincredulous the first time, furious the secondâthen burned it.
“It must be hard being a single parent.”
A comment like that called for more wine. I topped off both our glasses. “Harder on Davey than me, unfortunately. I'm coping. He's just beginning to figure out that most of the other kids have two parents and he only has one.”
The screen door banged as it swung open against the wall of the house. Davey and Faith came barreling inside. He looked at the two of us standing there. “Isn't dinner ready
yet?
”
yet?
”
“Soon.” I reached out and tousled my son's hair. Grimacing, he squirmed out from beneath my hand. “Everything's about done. I just have to finish the salad. Why don't you set the table?”
“Can't we eat in the kitchen?”
“Davey, we have company.”
“I'm not company,” Jenny said with a grin. “I'm a friend.”
So we ate in the kitchen. When I pulled the small butcher block table away from the wall, there was just enough room for the three of us to sit around it. Jenny poured on the dressing and tossed the salad, while I got the bread and lasagna out of the oven and onto plates.
Faith, who knew a good opportunity when she saw one, managed to wedge herself underneath the table, ready for handouts. With Davey in attendance, she didn't have long to wait.
“I saw that,” I said as Davey took a piece of tomato-covered noodle from his plate and slipped it beneath the table.
“But Faith's hungry. And she likes lasagna.”
“She likes anything she thinks she's not supposed to have. And she wouldn't be so hungry if she'd eat her own food.”
“She doesn't like her food. It tastes gross.”
“How would you know?”
“I ate some.” Davey stuck out his tongue and grimaced. Nothing like having the weight of empirical evidence to support the hypothesis.
On the other side of the table, Jenny looked as though she was enjoying herself. “What do you feed?” she asked.
I named the brand of high-quality kibble that Aunt Peg had recommended. “I mix that with some cottage cheese and a little bit of canned food. Aunt Peg says her Poodles love the stuff. But Faith is fussy. She barely picks at her food.”
“Does she get a lot of table scraps?”
“Not
that
many.” I shot my son a glare.
that
many.” I shot my son a glare.
“Let's see. Come here, girl.” Jenny enticed the puppy out from under the table and ran an experienced pair of hands down her sides. “She is thin. You don't want a puppy to be fat, but she should be carrying more weight than this.”
“Aunt Peg's told me the same thing. She says that conditioning's one of the most important aspects of getting a dog ready for the show ring.”
“She's right. Especially in a breed like Poodles. Once they're a year old and you shave off that hindquarter there's no hiding a thing. If a dog has no muscle or is underweight, it's just about the first thing the judge sees. Lots of Poodles are finicky about what they eat, and that makes it tough. I had a terrible time keeping Ziggy in weight when I was showing him.”
I was glad to see she could mention the Mini's name without becoming visibly upset. Maybe our company was cheering her up. Or maybe it was the numbing effect of the wine.
“What did you feed him?”
“In the beginning I tried just about everything which is terrible for a dog. They thrive on routine. But then I met Crystal Mars. Do you know who she is?”
I shook my head.
“She owns a small boarding kennel in Stratford. It's about half an hour from here. She's an interesting woman, a big believer in holistic care and homeopathic medicine. Everything at her place is pure and natural. You know the type?”
I did.
“Apparently she'd been doing the same thing I was, switching from one brand to another, looking for the perfect dog food. Running the boarding kennel she had plenty of dogs who were upset about being away from home, and that meant plenty of bad eaters. After a while she simply started making her own food, mixing everything together in big bowls and baking the kibble in the oven.”
“What's in it?”
“It's a rice and chicken base, with lots of garlic and corn meal, and God knows what all. The dogs love it. Ziggy, too. It's expensive, but it's worth it.”
“You mean she sells it?”
Jenny nodded. “I was just up there last week and business is booming. Lots of her customers were pleased with the way their dogs came home and asked what she was feeding. Pretty soon she was selling as much kibble as she could make. She calls it Crystal's All Natural Dog Munchies. You might want to give it a try.”
The name was a little overly cute, but then again so were lots of things people did to dogs, like putting Dachshunds in raincoats and tying bows on Poodle's ears. If Faith would eat it, I could manage to deal with the label.
“Thanks,” I said. “I'll look into it.”
“When's dessert?” asked Davey.
His plate was suspiciously clean. I wondered how many mouthfuls of lasagna Faith had enjoyed while my attention had been elsewhere. At least that might put a little weight on her.
“Dessert's when everybody's finished,” I informed him. “Grown-ups like to eat more slowly. Why don't you go and play for a little while and I'll call you when we're ready?”
“Okay.” He hopped off his chair and left the room. Faith went with him. She's only been around a month, but clearly the puppy knows which side her bread is buttered on. Davey turned on the TV in the living room and found
Roseanne
in syndication. He liked to root for D.J. and was trying to develop a big belly laugh like Roseanne's. There are worse goals.
Roseanne
in syndication. He liked to root for D.J. and was trying to develop a big belly laugh like Roseanne's. There are worse goals.
“I hope you didn't send him away on my account,” said Jenny. In contrast to Davey's plate, hers was still nearly full. She pushed the lasagna around with her fork, but didn't pick any up. “I think he's great.”
“He is great. But like every five-year-old, he has no patience. He knows full well there's cake for dessert, and we'll be lucky to get a moment's peace from now until he gets his.”
“I can sympathize.” Jenny laughed. “I have a sweet tooth, too.”
I looked, but the lasagna on her plate still didn't seem to be going anywhere. Maybe that was her way of telling me she was finished. “Right,” I said. “On to the cake.”
I'm not a good enough cook to get offended when people don't eat something I've made. But the chocolate mousse cake I had for dessert came from the St. Moritz bakery in Greenwich, which means it was probably about the best in the world. But when I'd piled the dinner dishes in the sink, brewed some coffee, given Davey his dessert in the living room, then served our cake, Jenny started pushing that around her plate, too.
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