Underdog (8 page)
“Look it up,” said Crystal. “That's why I got you those encyclopedias.”
“But they're all the way up at the house and my homework's here!”
“Life's tough.” Crystal was grinning, but she held her ground.
“Hi, I'm Sarah.” The girl turned to me. “Do you know the capital of Ethiopia?”
“Khartoum?” I guessed and got a disgusted look.
“That's the Sudan.”
“The encyclopedias are in your room,” Crystal repeated.
Sarah slammed the door on the way out.
“My daughter,” she said unnecessarily.
“My son's outside.”
“How old?”
“Five.”
“Nice age. Can I get you anything else?” Crystal glanced meaningfully toward the sayings on the wall.
“Not today.” The temperature was a brisk forty-five. It would be months before I'd think of wearing tee-shirts again.
“I've got a special running on rawhide bones, just today. They're pure and unbleached. Puppies have a natural instinct to chew, you know, and the bones are great for their teeth. . . .”
By the time I got out the door I was juggling twenty pounds of kibble, two rawhide bones, a sampler box of treats, and a brochure about the boarding kennel she'd tucked in my hand, just in case. “You never know when you might want to get away,” she said.
Luckily it was just that phrase that got me moving. If I didn't get away from Crystal soon, I was going to have to trade her the Volvo to pay for the supplies.
For once Davey was more or less where I'd left him. I threw everything I'd bought in the back of the Volvo and went to see what he and Faith were looking at. Crystal's kennel didn't have runs. Instead there were two large pens, one opening out on either side of the building. The one on the left held a sable Collie with a gray muzzle who'd offered up a few halfhearted yips when we came in, then gone back to sleep in the sun. Davey and Faith were standing beside the pen on the right.
“Hey champ,” I said, coming up behind them. “What's up?”
Davey turned and grinned. “We found a Poodle, just like Faith. Look Mommy, they want to be friends.”
I stepped in closer and was able to see through the chain link behind him. The pen held only one occupant, a black Mini who was touching his nose with Faith's through the fence and wagging his tail like mad.
There was something about him. . . .
I looked again quickly, expecting my first impression to change. It didn't. I'd seen the dog in the pen before.
It was Jenny's Miniature Poodle, Ziggy.
Eight
That wasn't possible; Ziggy was dead. Jenny had told me so herself. But even knowing that, I had to admit that this Poodle looked exactly like him.
I blinked slowly and took a deep breath. I reminded myself of the difficulty I'd had in positively identifying Beau the summer before, even after I'd found him. I thought about how many times I'd moaned that all black Poodles looked alike.
And they did, up to a point.
But with Aunt Peg's persistent coaching, I'd finally begun to see the subtle differences in conformation, movement, and expression that distinguished one Poodle from the next. Living with Faith, my education had continued. She and Hope were litter sisters, and similar in many traits. But now, like Aunt Peg, I could tell them apart easily. My eye was becoming that much more discerning.
And damn it, this Poodle looked enough like Ziggy to be his twin.
“Mommy, what's the matter?”
“Nothing, honey.” I took Davey's hand and looped Faith's leash around my own fingers. “I was just looking at the Mini.”
“He wants to come out and play with us.”
“Of course he does. It's no fun being cooped up like that.”
I started to walk away, pulling Faith and Davey with me. I wanted to see what the Mini would do; maybe bark at us or run away. I was sure that almost any response would push aside the image of Ziggy that had lodged itself so firmly in my mind.
For a moment the little Poodle simply stood, pressed up against the fence and whining. Faith looked back and pulled against her collar. When I kept walking, she followed reluctantly. Then the Mini turned and ran to the other side of the pen. He bent down and picked up a toy and tossed it high in the air. A stuffed rat. It tumbled end over end and when it was in range he leapt up and snatched it on the fly.
I was back at his fence in a flash. “Ziggy?” I bent down and threaded my fingers though the wire. “Come here, boy.”
Of course he came. It was no fun to have nobody to play with. Hadn't I just told Davey that?
So I discounted the way he pricked his ears when I said his name and wagged his tail up over his back when I scratched the sides of his muzzle. Any Poodle would have responded to that.
But throwing the toy up and catching it, then racing it proudly around the pen? I'd seen Jenny's Mini do that every week before the start of class. That move was Ziggy, through and through.
“I thought we were going,” said Davey.
“We are, in just a minute. You and Faith stay out here and play with this Poodle some more. I just have to see the lady inside about something.”
“Okay.” My son grinned devilishly. “Did you forget to pay?”
We'd had stern words recently about a pack of bubble gum he'd pocketed in a drugstore. Once outside, he'd produced his booty proudly as if a new and wonderful trick had been accomplished.
Look Mom, and I didn't even have to spend any of your money.
Look Mom, and I didn't even have to spend any of your money.
“No, I didn't forget to pay.” Don't ever let anyone tell you motherhood isn't a full-time job. Just this instilling of values business is enough to keep me up nights. “This is about something else, okay?”
The wind chimes tinkled again and once again, Crystal called that she'd be right out. This time I was too impatient to wait. I walked through the doorway into the next room which turned out to be a small, well-stocked storage area. Several papers spread out over the top of a packing crate indicated where Sarah had been doing her homework. Crystal looked like she was in the process of taking inventory. She was shifting through several bags of kibble and making notations on a clipboard. She turned around, saw me, and smiled.
“Back already? Don't tell meâyou want the tee shirt, right?”
“No, I want to talk. Do you have a minute? It's important.”
“Sure.” She set the clipboard down. “Come on, let's go back out to the office.”
“It's about the Miniature Poodle in the pen outside. Whose dog is he?”
We lost eye contact so fast it was almost dizzying. Up until that minute, Crystal's gaze had been confident and direct. Now she looked away and busied herself with clearing space for us on the couch.
“Seat?” she offered.
I sat, only because it wasn't worth arguing over. Then I got right back to the point. “Whose Mini is that, Crystal?”
Her hands fluttered briefly in her lap. “He's a boarder dog.”
“Who owns him?”
“I don't understand why you want to know. What business could it possibly be of yours?”
The question was a valid one. In her place I probably would have asked the same thing. But Crystal's waffling had only served to solidify my suspicions. I was sure that Ziggy was outside and I wanted to know why.
Jenny had told me that her dog was dead. Now Jenny was dead. And I wasn't leaving until I got some answers.
“I'm asking because I've seen that Poodle before. His name is Ziggy and he belonged to Jenny Maguire.”
“So?”
I'd been prepared for her to deny it. The unexpected ease with which she confirmed his identity left me feeling almost deflated. “I thought he was dead. What's he doing here?”
“Boarding,” Crystal said shortly. “Just like I told you. Why on earth would you think he was dead?”
“Because that's what Jenny told me. That's what she told everybody.”
“I'm sure you must have been mistaken.”
“I'm not.” I was shaking my head hard. Maybe I was hoping that would shake some sense into my jumbled thoughts. “Let's back up for a minute. I probably should have started by explaining a few things. Jenny Maguire was my friend. I took a handling class from her and she came to my house for dinner just before she died. The reason I came here today was because she recommended your food to me.”
“Jenny did?”
“Yes. She said that Ziggy loved it and that my puppy probably would too. She was always giving me helpful hints like thatâbecause we both had Poodles, you know? She adored Ziggy, she never went anywhere without him. And the last time I saw her at class, she told me he'd been run over by a car.”
“I don't understand,” said Crystal.
“Neither do I. That's why I want to know what the dog's doing here.”
She thought about that for a long minute. “You were Jenny's friend?”
I nodded.
“What was her pet name for Ziggy?”
That was easy. I'd heard her call to him often enough in class. Angie would snicker, and Rick would roll his eyes. But Jenny didn't care.
“She called him Ziggy Zoo,” I said with a grin. “Not only that, but he answered to it.”
Crystal smiled too. “Some dogs have no pride. I once had a German Shepherd whose name was Duff. I hate to admit it but around the house he was known as Fluffy Duffy.”
Faith hadn't been around long enough to acquire any silly nicknames. I wondered if I should mention that I'd been known to call my son Daveykins? Apparently it wasn't necessary. The dog talk had done enough.
“There's not much I can tell you,” Crystal said. “Jenny dropped Ziggy off about three weeks ago. She asked if she could leave him for a while and she paid two weeks' board up front. I was happy to have him around. He's a great little dog.”
Stratford was a long way from Ridgefield. What reason could Jenny possibly have had for bringing Ziggy here? I tried to remember what she'd said about Crystal. There hadn't been anything to indicate whether or not they'd been friends.
“Were you and Jenny close?” I asked.
Crystal's eyes shifted. Even before she'd said a word, I knew her wariness had returned. “Close enough. She stopped by every month or so to pick up some food, but we didn't keep in touch much beyond that. I didn't find out that she'd died until after the funeral, and then only by accident.
“The first week Ziggy was here, Jenny called a couple of times to see how he was doing. When she stopped calling, I figured she was just busy. But even so, I knew she'd enjoy hearing a report so I called her. I got her sister instead.”
“Angie.”
“Right. She told me what had happened. Of course I felt terrible. For Ziggy's sake, too. He's happy here, but you can tell he's waiting for Jenny to come back for him.”
“So why hasn't Rick picked him up?”
To my surprise, Crystal looked defiant. “The way I figure it, Ziggy's my dog now. He's happy here. He's got a good home. Why mess with that?”
I stared at her. “But he belongs to Rick.”
“Legally, I guess he does. But Rick hated Ziggy. Jenny didn't exactly spell it out, but she hinted as much. Think about it. How many other reasons could there be for boarding out a dog when you've got a kennel of your own?”
Good point.
“Besides,” said Crystal, “I haven't heard word one from Rick. So either he doesn't want Ziggy back, or else he doesn't know he's here. Either way, that tells me the Mini's better off with me. I'm not giving him back. I figure I owe Jenny at least that much.”
Jenny had certainly inspired loyalty in the people who had known her; but in Crystal's case, I had to wonder if the woman wasn't carrying things too far. It turned out we weren't going to be discussing that, however. Crystal stood up and looked at the door pointedly. My time was up.
Outside, I gathered up Davey and Faith, said good-bye to Ziggy, got in the car, and headed home. I had thought Crystal would give me answers, but all she'd done was leave me with more questions.
Why had Jenny hidden Ziggy away and told everyone he was dead? Did Rick know where Ziggy was; and if so, why hadn't he come to get him? Why had Jenny paid for two weeks in advance? What was supposed to happen at the end of that time?
Between Davey's singing and my own tumultuous thoughts, by the time I got home my head was spinning. The more I found out, the less everything made sense. The only good news was that Davey had torn a hole in the bag of kibble and Faith was eating it out of his hand.
At least I seemed to have found a new dog food.
Â
I couldn't wait to call Aunt Peg and tell her about Ziggy but as soon as we walked in the house, Davey made sure I knew that death by starvation loomed imminently in his future. So I fed Faithâthree quarters old kibble, one quarter newâthen made a delicious and nutritious dinner for Davey and me. Hamburgers and french fries. When they're five, ketchup counts as a vegetable.
By the time I got Peg on the phone, she had one foot out the door. A champion male Poodle she'd sold two years earlier was supposed to be breeding his first bitch up near Hartford. The trouble was, the dog had taken one look at the bitch and turned his back; and the novice owner was too inexperienced to know how to encourage him along. Aunt Peg was rushing to the rescue. I wondered what she was going to do to get the stud dog interested in the job at hand, but decided I didn't dare ask.
“When will you be back?” was a much safer question.
“Late. And unless Waldo catches on pretty quickly, I may end up devoting the rest of the week to this. God save me from first-time owners.”
There was a comment just begging to be made there. Something about first-time owners who hadn't had a choice. As usual, Aunt Peg went on without me.
“But I'll see you this weekend, right?”
“This weekend?”
“Melanie, you haven't forgotten! The Queensboro show. I did your entries three weeks ago with mine.”
“Of course not,” I stammered. Faith's first dog show. Aunt Peg and I had discussed it a month ago, but since then I'd tried to put it out of my mind. Even though it was only for experience, I was still feeling a twinge of nerves.
The show was on Long Island, only an hour's drive away. But Faith would need to be clipped, bathed, and blown dry between now and then. I didn't have the expertise yet to trim her. Aunt Peg would do that for me at the show. Still, I was looking at five or six hours worth of work over the next two days.
“Right,” I said, none too pleased at the prospect. “I'll see you there.”
After I hung up with Peg, I tried calling Sam. I knew from experience that he made a pretty good sounding board. Not only that, but he's great at figuring out puzzles. His machine picked up.
I listened to the message and even composed one of my own, but in the end I hung up without saying a word. I'm a firm supporter of women's lib, but sometimes my conservative streak wins out. Besides, the last time I'd made the first move I'd found a blonde in a tight mini-dress cooking pesto in his kitchen.
I'd like to think our relationship has progressed since then, but we're still in the process of discovering what works and what doesn't. Since that's more my fault than his, I don't have much right to complain.
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