You Lucky Dog

by Julia London

  And still, surprisingly, tenure—the thing he’d worked so long and so hard toward—was the least of his problems this week. Max had discovered that he couldn’t board a nameless dog without vaccination records and at least a name. He didn’t have a pet sitter, either, and couldn’t find one on such short notice.

  He’d considered asking one of his students. But he’d looked at the bunch of budding neuroscientists, half of whom were too much in their own heads, and the other half he wouldn’t trust not to experiment on a chunky sad-sack dog, and had passed on that idea with a hard no.

  As a last resort, he decided to worry his father with this problem on the chance he might know of a buddy who could take Dog for the weekend.

  Max stopped by his dad’s house on his way home from work, Dog in tow.

  Tobias Sheffington II, otherwise known as Toby to his friends, lived with Jamie just around the corner from Max, in the same house where Max had grown up. The same house that had belonged to his grandparents. It was a comfortable ranch that had seen better days, sitting in a prime location. So prime that his father fielded a few requests to sell every year. When Max was a kid, the entire street had been made up of similar comfortable ranch homes that had seen better days, but most of them had been added to or reconfigured, or razed altogether so that houses that hardly fit on the lot could be built in their place. Next to those houses, the Sheffington family home looked like it had blown into town on a tornado with a girl and her little black dog.

  His father was in the garage at a workbench, the door raised. When Max and Jamie were kids, his father had dressed in a suit every morning and strode off to work carrying a heavy briefcase. But when Max’s mother had died six years ago from a sudden heart attack, his father had retired from his career as a financial adviser. Now he wore ball caps and chinos.

  Dad had a line of fishing poles propped against the wall and was bent over an open tackle box on his workbench.

  “Hey, Max.” He held up a yellow and green feather lure. “What do you think? Got it down at a little convenience store next to the river.”

  “Looks spectacular.”

  “Got some for the boys, too. We like to have a little contest when we fish. So, hey, when are you picking up Jamie tomorrow?” He put his lure down. “Me and the guys want to get an early start.”

  “Yeah . . .” Max shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got a small problem.” Actually, it was a pretty big problem. “I have—” He was distracted by Dog’s sudden barking at a plastic bag ghost dancing across the garage floor on a breeze.

  “Hazel!” his dad said sternly. “Stop that barking. It’s just a plastic bag.”

  “That’s the small problem,” Max said. “That’s not Hazel.”

  Dad laughed. “Funny. C’mere, Hazel,” he said.

  Dog, still concerned with the plastic bag, which had come to a halt next to the lawn mower, cowered behind Max. Max went down on his haunches to vigorously rub the dog’s back. Dog immediately melted onto the floor and presented his belly for attention. “Oh,” his dad said. “Well, look at that. I could have sworn that was Hazel. Hey, wait a minute, there—where’s Hazel?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question.” Max filled his dad in on the mix-up. He was just getting around to the part of needing someone to look after Dog when the door to the house suddenly opened and Jamie walked out. “Dog show,” he said. Then he glanced down. “Who?” he asked, pointing at Dog. He knew immediately that it wasn’t Hazel.

  Jamie was as tall as Max, maybe a half inch taller, two or three inches over six feet. Where Max had dark brown hair, Jamie’s was more of a golden brown. Their aunt had always said they both had their mother’s green eyes, but that was wishful thinking on her part—Max’s were really gray. Regrettably, his mother’s eyes were fading from Max’s memory. “This is a friend,” Max said to Jamie.

  Jamie looked at the dog, then at Max. “Come on,” he said, gesturing to the door.

  “Give me a minute to—”

  “Come on, come on, come on, come on,” Jamie insisted, flapping one hand.

  “Go,” his dad said. “I’ll be here with . . . what’d you say his name was?”

  “Dog,” Max said.

  “Dog show!” Jamie shouted, pointing at Dog.

  “Okay, okay,” Max said. He followed Jamie inside.

  They walked through the kitchen, through the family room where every wall held one of Jamie’s paintings, and past the view of a lush green backyard filled with birdhouses and fountains and wind sculptures—also created by Jamie—and down the hall to where Jamie’s room looked out over the backyard.

  Jamie wanted to show him his preparation for the trip to Chicago. He’d laid out three pairs of jeans, neatly folded. Next to that were two pairs of identical Adidas white sneakers, cleaned and polished. A stack of folded black T-shirts, and four pairs of boxers, all gray. At the foot of his bed, he had his favorite dog books—an encyclopedia of breeds, one on dog training, and one that peeked into a dog’s mind. Next to the books was an open sketchbook, and Max could see a pencil drawing of the dogs in the open field at the ACC.

  “This is great, Jamie,” Max said as he picked up the sketchbook.

  “Dog show,” Jamie reminded him.

  “That’s right,” Max said. “We’re leaving tomorrow.” Somehow, some way, they were getting on a plane tomorrow and flying to Chicago for the Midwestern Regional Dog Show Competition. Jamie had been looking forward to this for weeks. He asked about it every time Max stopped by. And his dad was obviously looking forward to his fishing trip with just as much anticipation.

  Max spent a little time with Jamie looking at his breed book, then went back out to the garage. Dog had crawled under his dad’s workbench and was stretched out on his side, snoozing.

  “So, Dad, do you know anyone who could keep this dog over the weekend?” Max asked, gesturing at the slumbering basset.

  “Not off the top of my head, but I’ll ask around,” his father said as he studied his lures. “Hey, Max, remember that red tail lure I had? Can’t find it. Could catch anything with that lure.” He launched into a rather long-winded tale of the time he’d caught a striped bass with that lure.

  Yeah, Max was definitely on his own.

  Eventually, he made an excuse about needing to feed the dog, and went home to think about who he could beg to take this dog for three days. And what to do if, by some miracle, Hazel came home while he was away.

  Max lived in another old family house. It had belonged to his aunt and uncle, but his uncle had left his aunt for a coworker several years ago, and his aunt had moved to San Antonio to be close to her daughter. No one in the family had wanted to lose that prime piece of real estate, and everyone wanted Max to be close to his father and Jamie. So Max had bought it from his aunt far below the going rate around here, because Max couldn’t afford the going rate on an assistant professor’s salary. It was a blessing. The house was perfect for him, and it was close to campus, too.

  In contrast to his father’s house, Max’s was more of a Spanish style, with some interesting curves and angles that he liked. The floor was Saltillo tile and wood, the ceilings lower than what was fashionable. Dog had certainly settled into the accommodations. He’d discovered Hazel’s favorite hangouts—the couch and Max’s bed. But the dog was still reluctant to eat and, in fact, hadn’t eaten anything today. Max couldn’t figure it out. He tried to coax him into the kitchen, but Dog seemed afraid to leave the couch, as if he’d miss an episode of Dog TV.

  The couch is where they ended up that late afternoon, Dog watching fellow canines on TV romp in a field of green, and Max scrolling through his contacts, trying to find anyone who would save him from this mess. He made a few calls to old friends of his, but no one was buying what he was selling. “Buddy, you know I’d help you out, but I’m headed to the Oklahoma State versus Texas game.” And, “I would
, you know I would, but my dog hates other dogs.”

  He even called Aunt Jean, his mother’s sister, who was as deathly allergic to pet dander as his mother had been. “Maxey, you know I’d do anything for you boys. Except this. I’d look like a blowfish for a week.”

  Max was down to his very last idea, and it was a bad idea. His bad idea was Alanna Friedman.

  The thing was, he didn’t know Alanna that well, really. Besides auditing his class, he’d only seen her at a couple of departmental functions. What he knew was her research, which had been cited in several addiction studies done by the U.S. government. She was cute, and they’d had a very fun evening. Probably because she’d leaned forward, sloshed beer out of her glass, and said, “Let’s try not to be such scientists. Let’s just have some fun for once.” And then she’d kissed him.

  It was the “scientist” remark that had struck a chord in Max. He knew what Alanna meant, and, frankly, he’d heard something similar from a couple of women he’d casually dated in the last few years—he didn’t emote properly because he was “such a scientist.”

  What could he say? He was down for having some fun. A lot of fun. Why not?

  But things got interesting the next morning, because the mood was sheepish, and Max had the distinct impression Alanna was sorry she’d let her hair down. And while he’d very much enjoyed the activity, he was hungover and not thinking clearly.

  “This was great,” she’d said as she turned her back to him and put on her bra. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea if we . . . you know. I mean, we’re in the same department.”

  “Umm . . .” Max had to pause to have an internal debate of what to say, because as usual, his ability to think fast on his feet where a woman was concerned was severely compromised. He didn’t know if he should agree immediately, or if that would make him look like a dick who was trying to get rid of her. There it was, the big shameful secret about Dr. Sheffington, brain scientist: he didn’t entirely understand women. He was no ladies’ man. He was the sort of guy who meant what he said and assumed everyone around him would likewise say what they meant. In his experience, men did, for the most part, if they spoke up at all. Women did sometimes, but sometimes they did not, and somehow, he was supposed to know the difference.

  “I mean, I’m up for tenure this year, and I’ve got a lot of work to do,” she added as she pulled her shirt over her head. “I shouldn’t get distracted from that.”

  Did she just say she was up for tenure? Max stared at her, trying to make sense of that. She had noticed him staring and said, “What? You didn’t know?”

  “Ah . . . no.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “So am I.”

  Alanna gasped. “You?” she said, her voice suddenly quite high.

  “Me,” he said. “I thought I was the only one in the running this year.”

  “Me, too!”

  They’d both been at a loss for words.

  But Alanna snapped out of it first. “Well?” she said, her hands finding her hips.

  “Well?” he echoed.

  “I mean . . . we obviously can never do this again,” she said, gesturing between the two of them. “We’re in competition.”

  “Right,” Max said. That much, he definitely understood.

  “So?”

  “So . . . ?”

  She sighed with exasperation. “I don’t think you get it.”

  “No, I get it. We can never do this again. We’re . . . we’re scientists.” The moment the words came out of his mouth, he pummeled himself mentally. What a dumb thing to say. It was amazing to him that a man who had studied psychiatry and neuroscience and could communicate complex concepts could be so bad at communicating.

  “Yes, we are,” she said, swiping up her purse. “Like . . . you really didn’t know?”

  “I really didn’t know, Alanna.” He didn’t add that he’d thought for several weeks now that at long last, it was his year. That he’d been working so hard for tenure, and he’d done all the necessary work to get it, only to find out that someone whose research into addiction was cutting-edge and didn’t involve dogs was in the running, too.

  “Well . . . okay,” she said. “Just as long as we’re clear.”

  He wasn’t clear about anything. “We’re clear. Can I drive—”

  “I’ll call a Lyft.” She looked like the car couldn’t arrive quickly enough.

  Needless to say, Max had been terribly flummoxed on a number of levels for a couple of days now, and asking her to dog-sit was just about the dumbest thing he could consider. But he also knew that she was single and lived close by (they’d had a brief discussion about where to go when they left the bar that night) and liked dogs (she’d said it when she’d seen Dog in the corner). Maybe, he thought, he could use this as a way to say he was sorry for . . . well, he wasn’t sure what for, but he’d say it all the same. Maybe they could establish a friendship.

  A friendship. Oh, man, he was more desperate than he’d thought.

  He stared at her number that she’d typed into his phone at the bar and tried to guess just how desperate he was. But then he thought about Jamie’s stack of clothes waiting to go into a suitcase, and his dog books all lined up, ready to be consulted, and he suddenly didn’t care if he was being a dick or not. He was out of options. His thumb hovered over the little phone icon.

  But he hesitated. And then Dog’s stomach growled.

  Max put his phone down, her contact information still on his screen. “Come on, buddy, let’s eat something,” he said.

  Dog responded by laying his head down between his paws.

  Max sighed. He got up and went into the kitchen. He poured some kibble into a bowl, then opened the fridge, pulled out some leftover mac and cheese he and Jamie had made one night, and heaped a big helping of it on the dog food.

  He called the dog, but he would not come off that couch. Max absently scratched his head, wondering how he would get the dog into the kitchen to eat, when he was startled by someone knocking on his door. Not knocking, exactly, but slapping it. Like someone was slapping the palm of their hand against the door. It was a strange way to knock.

  Dog lifted his head. His ears perked in that direction. But then he turned back to Dog TV.

  The person slapped his door again.

  No one knocked like that unless maybe they were drunk or high, and . . . Brant! That bastard, it had to be him. That dumbass had come out of his fog and had come to get this dog and give Hazel back. Max walked into the living room, set the bowl of food down on the floor near the couch, and strode to the door, all dialed up to give Brant a good what for.

  Three

  Max jerked the door open and prepared to launch . . . but it wasn’t Brant standing on the other side with Hazel. It was a woman. And she didn’t have a dog.

  The woman was quite attractive, which knocked him off-balance for a beat too long, because attractive women did not frequently appear at his door. As in never. He had to think a minute—his brain needed to posit some theories to him about why this woman might be standing at his door. Unfortunately, Max couldn’t think very well because he was completely distracted by the black hair that hung in a silky sheet down her chest and back. And unusually blue eyes, big and thickly lashed, beneath a perfect line of dark bangs. Her face was a lovely oval shape, and her dark brows were arched very expressively—she was as surprised as he was. But the thing that really stood out to him, that really tied his thoughts up in a knot, was what she was wearing.

  What was she wearing? He’d never seen anything like it. Was it a dress? Pants? The garment had oversized shoulders and sleeves too long for her arms. Her pant legs were so wide that they looked like some futuristic antebellum gown. He couldn’t see her hands and, in fact, she had to push a sleeve back to reach into her tote bag.

  “What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen high fashion before?”<
br />
  “What?” If that was high fashion, he had some questions.

  She yanked her hand free of her bag. She was clutching a piece of paper.

  Was it a costume, maybe? Maybe one of those singing telegrams? Once, Dr. Fridlington, a professor in his department, had received a singing telegram. But that costume had been a poop emoji. Turned out, the telegram was from his wife, and the singing telegram was to inform him that she was divorcing him. This was clearly not that. But what was it?

  She looked up from the paper. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Tobias Sheffington?”

  No one called him by his first name but his late grandfather. And his grandfather had never called him Tobias in such an accusatory tone. Max’s distraction suddenly turned in a completely different direction, one in which his amygdala started firing limbic neurons filled with consternation. Was she about to accuse him of something?

  “Tobias Sheffington?” she repeated, a little louder, as if he hadn’t heard her.

  “No. I mean, yes, that is my name. But I go by Max. Max Sheffington.”

  Her eyes flicked the length of him. “Your name is Tobias and you go by Max? Okay,” she said, as if she thought he was trying to pull a fast one on her.

  He was not. Tobias was so damn stuffy that he went by Max. “It’s my middle name. Okay?” he repeated uncertainly. Was she a former student? Surely he wouldn’t forget that he’d taught a woman who looked like her. Not to mention he’d never done anything to a former student to warrant any sort of accusation . . . that he knew of. Oh God—he’d never done anything that he thought might warrant an accusation. Had he done something offensive and hadn’t known it? Wait—could this have something to do with Alanna? She’d seemed so annoyed the morning she left. But surely this was not that. Surely he wasn’t so obtuse that he misread a woman’s intent to sue him. So why was this woman at his door staring at him like that? “Excuse me—I’m not sure what’s going on here, but is there something I can do for you?”