Witness Rejection

by David R Lewis

  Amid the offers of housecleaning, babysitting, hay for sale, and dozer work was a card that read, “Carter Kennels Cattledogs.” The address on the card meant less than nothing to him. He asked the lady at the counter.

  “I don’t know if Ed and Sharon got any pups ready to go right now,” she said, “but if you go out here to the road and turn left, you’ll find ‘em ‘bout two miles down on your right. White house up on the hill. There’s a sign down by the mailbox. I speck Ed’s out on the road. He’s a trucker. Sharon’ll be there though.”

  The directions were perfect. Crockett motored up a shallow slope on a gravel drive to a small white house about seventy-five yards back from the road. Behind it he could see a portion of a neat kennel system with concrete runs and chain link fencing. He stopped the truck and got out amid barking from the kennel. As he shut the door a smallish woman, pulling work gloves off her hands and stuffing them in the pocket of a canvas farm coat, came walking around the end of the house and headed his way. She was wearing rubber boots, a ball cap, wheat jeans, and a smile. About thirty-five, she was well worn and pretty. She spoke as soon as she was within easy hearing range.

  “Hi there. I’m Sharon Carter. You lookin’ for a dog?”

  “My name’s Crockett. I think I am.”

  “Sorry,” she went on. “Haven’t got a thing ready to go right now. Got a litter of Heelers about five days old and an Aussie Shepard bitch that’ll whelp in about another week, but that’s it. What you lookin’ for?”

  “I don’t know,” Crockett said. “Just a dog of some kind or other.”

  “We’ve only got two kinds here. Purebred Australian Cattle Dogs and Australian Shepards. You familiar with the breeds?”

  “Ah, the cattle dogs are those blue ones?”

  She smiled. “That’s them. Also call ‘em Blue Heelers and Queensland Blues. The breed comes out of Australia. There’s a red version, too. The other bunch we got are Australian Shepards. They come out of the southwest United States. A transplanted Australian guy started the breed back in the twenties or thirties I think it was. Both of ‘em are good stock dogs and easy keepers. We leave our pups with their mammas for eight weeks. Be quite a while before we’ll have anything for ya.”

  Crockett’s disappointment must have shown. “Well, thanks,” he said. “I’ll drop back by in a few weeks.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Sharon said. “You gotta have a purebred dog?”

  “No. Just a dog.”

  “You live in town someplace?”

  “No. I’ve got a quarter section out on Poston Road.”

  “I might have just what you need. You lookin’ for a bitch or a dog?”

  “A female, I guess. They stay a little closer to home, don’t they?”

  “Usually. I got an accident that might be just right for you.”

  “An accident?”

  Sharon grinned and began walking toward the kennel area. Crockett fell into step beside her. “See that wooly lookin’ black dog over there in the first kennel with the white star on his chest?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s Black Jesus. We call him Hey-soos so folks won’t get offended. He’s an Australian Shepard. He was supposed to be bred with Dolly.” She stopped by the third pen down.

  A white dog with medium length hair, dark grey spots the size of saucers, and a nearly white eye with a black distorted pupil grinned at them from behind the wire.

  “This is Dolly,” Sharon said. “She’s due to whelp soon.”

  “What’s the matter with her eye?” Crockett asked.

  “Nothing. That’s pretty common with the Shepards. Dolly got bred, all right, but not by Hey-soos. Somehow Max got to her.” She proceeded on down the row and stopped by a handsome dog with short hair in a blue-gray color, a black mask and ears, and a tail sprinkled with white. He stood squarely on all four legs. He had a deep chest, a straight back, and a rump that reminded Crockett of a quarter horse. He didn’t grin, he didn’t bark, he watched.

  “This is Max,” Sharon went on.

  Crockett looked at the dog. The dog looked at Crockett, and Crockett could almost feel his stare.

  “He’s beautiful,” Crocket said.

  “He’ll do. So we thought we had a littler of Australian Shepards. Only five in the bunch. We bobbed their tails, which is the breed standard, and got ready to register the pups. By the time they were ready to wean, it was pretty obvious we had a bunch of mongrels, and that Max had been a very determined boy. We didn’t need ‘em, we didn’t want ‘em, so we gave ‘em away. About three weeks ago some people brought one back. They’re having to move to the city and these breeds are not apartment dogs. It’s a female comin’ six months old. She’s had all her shots, been spayed and such, ready to go. Interested?”

  “She’s a crossbred between the two?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ve heard that crossbreds are sometimes hardier than purebred dogs.”

  “Might be true. These two breeds are tough just the way they are. Wanna see her?”

  “Sure.”

  “I got her on the back porch. C’mon around.”

  Crockett followed Sharon to the rear of the house. She opened the back door and a leggy dog about knee high at the shoulders bounded out into the yard. She was a mottled gray color with silver dollar sized dark blue spots, a strange right eye, and her rear end seemed lower than her front end. When she saw Crockett she stopped, peered at him for a beat, then positioned herself about a foot in front of the woman and stared at him. Sharon smiled.

  “Pretty good pup,” she said.

  “She protecting you?”

  “She thinks she should. She doesn’t know you and I’m the one that feeds her. Lot of loyalty in both the breeds. She’s ugly as a mud fence right now, but that’s her age. She’s already startin’ to grow out of it. Her rear end’ll catch up with her front end in a couple of months. Her coat will smooth out some and she’ll add weight. She might get up to fifty pounds, but I doubt it. Forty-five maybe. She’ll never be as slick as her daddy, but her hair shouldn’t get as long as her momma either.”

  Crockett squatted down. “What’s her name?”

  “Don’t know. I just call her little girl. She’ll get used to whatever you call her.”

  Crockett snapped his fingers. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he said.

  The pup sat down and looked at him.

  He patted his leg. “C’mon, pup. C’mere, pup.”

  The dog didn’t move.

  Sharon laughed. “She’s pretty sharp. If I just needed a dog around the place, I’d keep her, but I got no shortage of dogs. She’s quick, she’s housebroke, she’s already had some obedience training, and if you can get her to understand what you want, most times she’ll bust her little butt to get it done. I mean a dog’s a dog, and that’s all they’ll ever be, but this little lady’s got a step or two on a lot of ‘em. The folks that had her had kids and cats. Said she got along fine.”

  Crockett took his cars keys out of his jacket pocket and tossed them to the ground halfway between him and the dog. The pup stood up and looked at the keys, then sat back down.

  “Damn,” he said, and got to his feet.

  Sharon crossed to where Crockett stood, sidled up beside him, and put her arm around his waist. “Lay your arm over my shoulders,” she said.

  Crockett couldn’t help himself. “This is so sudden,” he said, and complied.

  Sharon laughed. “Now before you get all mushy,” she said, “just remember how much you remind me of my dear old daddy. Call the dog.”

  He did. The pup trotted over, sat at his feet, and looked up at him. “I’ll be dammed,” he said, and released Sharon.

  She reached into the pocket of her coat and produced a ratty tennis ball, minus its cover. “Try that,” she said, and handed it to Crockett.

  The pup spun in a tight circle and crouched. He threw the ball. The dog was on it like a terrier on a rat, brought it back, dropped it at his feet, spun in a
nother circle and crouched.

  “Good,” Sharon said. “She’s about got you trained already. Couple of weeks and you’ll make a pretty good owner.” She picked up his keys and tossed them to him. “Whatcha think?”

  Crockett threw the ball and the dog took off. “I’ll take her, but not today.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wasn’t really planning on a dog. I got no dog food, no treats, no toys. I guess I could get some food at the store back in town.”

  “You don’t want anything they got,” Sharon said. “Around here we feed Science Diet or Beneful. That’s what she’s used to. That’s what she ought to have. You want to give her treats, chicken jerky is real good. She’ll need rawhide bones, too. They make good toys and she’ll need something to chew on. She’s already broke to ‘em. Otherwise your shoes’ll be fair game. They smell like you and she’ll be naturally attracted to them if she doesn’t have anything else.”

  “How much should I feed her,” Crockett asked after he threw the ball again.

  “Give her a couple a cups of dry food in the morning, a treat or two later in the day. Watch her weight and judge from there. You feed good dry food, you won’t need the canned stuff. Make sure she gets vitamins. You got any other animals?”

  “A cat.”

  “Make sure she can’t get at the cat food, and watch her around the litter until you’re sure she won’t try to pick up a snack there.”

  “Oh, God.”

  Sharon grinned. “Whatever else she is, she’s a dog.”

  Crockett picked up the tennis ball from where the pup had dropped it by his feet and examined it. “This ball’s seen better days,” he said. “The cover is all torn off.”

  “That’s her fault. Give that dog a new tennis ball and the first thing she does is lay down, grab it between her feet, and rip the fuzzy stuff off. She doesn’t eat it. Spits it right out. But she can’t stand it on the ball. Only one I’ve ever seen do that.”

  “Rugged individual, huh?”

  “I’d keep her if I could.”

  “How much?” Crockett asked.

  “You want her today?”

  “Well, yeah, but…”

  “Seventy-five bucks and I’ll throw in twenty pounds of food, a package of chicken jerky, a couple of tennis balls, and a couple of big rawhide bones. She’s got a collar and I’ll sweeten the deal with a piece of rope. Don’t have an extra leash.”

  Twenty minutes later Crockett, the pup, copies of her vet records, and the supplies were in the cab of his truck, and Sharon addressed him through the driver’s side window.

  “You’ll need to get to a vet and get her some good flea and tick repellant and some heartworm medication. Bring her back by in a few months. I’d like to see how she’s doing.”

  “Glad to. Thanks for everything.”

  “Any more questions?”

  Crockett smiled. “Just one. Do I really remind you of your dear old daddy?”

  Sharon chuckled. “You get drunk at the Legion Hall on Saturday nights and chase married women?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Must be the ponytail then,” Sharon said, and turned away toward the house.

  When Crockett got home with the pup, he left her in the truck and carried the dog stuff into the kitchen. Nudge ambled over and began an inspection of the new articles. Crockett hefted him to a countertop and scratched the cat’s ears for a moment.

  “Look, old man,” he said. “We now have a dog. She’s just a pup and I expect you to be nice to her.”

  Nudge, aware that he was being lectured about something, began to lash his tail.

  “I don’t need attitude from you, you old fart. I need understanding. And that pup is gonna need a little compassion. Be patient with her, okay?”

  Nudge owled his ears.

  “Shit,” Crockett said. He rummaged in the fridge and produced the cat a chunk of tuna. While Nudge daintily consumed his treat, Crockett brought in the groceries. Then, he got out the dog.

  The pup skittered around the outside of the motorhome, nose to the ground, for a moment, then returned to Crockett for a pat. She repeated the performance three or four times, stopping twice to pee, then went into the screen room and sat by the door to the bus. Evidently it was time to go inside. Crockett opened the door and followed her into the living area. Nudge was waiting on the couch.

  When the pup saw the cat, she froze. Nudge, now inflated to about the size of a cougar, his ears back and his eyes reduced to slits, hissed like a teakettle gone mad. The pup sat down. Nudge increased his hiss to a keening moan. The dog broke eye contact and looked away.

  “Nudge…” Crockett said. The cat was at least ten pounds heavier than the dog. The pup would have no chance if push came to shove.

  Nudge’s yowl dropped to a constant throaty gurgle and, in controlled slow motion, he eased down off the couch and began to slowly circle the intruder. The pup ignored him completely. After about two laps, the cat shut up and leaned forward to sniff his adversary’s nose. With the speed of a snake, the pup’s tongue shot out and licked him squarely in the face. Nudge hissed and threw an overhand right that would have decked Mike Tyson. The dog, with amazing head speed, slipped the punch, dropped to her elbows with her butt in the air, and assaulted the cat with one piercing bark. Nudge fled to the bedroom.

  Staying out of it, Crockett put away the groceries and dog stuff, turned on the television, dropped in a DVD of one of his favorite movies, January Man, and took to his recliner. The pup sniffed around the living room for a while, then lay down by his chair and went to sleep. At a little after two that afternoon a knock on the door woke both of them up, the pup raging at what she assumed were barbarians at the gate. It was the Dish satellite guy. Crockett had forgotten about the appointment.

  He and the pup hung around outside while the guy did the job, the pup venturing into the woods a few moments at a time, then returning to Crockett for praise and a pat or two. After the technician explained everything to Crockett and left, he and the dog went for a walk as he stapled up more no trespassing signs. They returned to the bus around five o’clock and went inside. No sign of Nudge. Crockett gave the pup a treat and went into the bedroom. The cat was lying dead center on the bed. He looked at Crockett and hissed. Crockett left. No point in trying to reason with Nudge when he was being righteously indignant.

  When bedtime came, Nudge allowed Crockett access to the bed, but made it very clear that the dog was not welcome. The pup retired to the living area. When Crockett got up the next morning, he found the two of them sleeping in a tangle together on the couch. The pup roused herself and went to stand by the door. Crockett let her out and measured two cups of the dry dog food into a bowl. Then he clicked on his television to test out his new satellite system. As he scanned channels he paused for a moment to watch the actor, Paul “Crocodile Dundee” Hogan, threaten a bad guy with an immense Bowie knife. Grinning, he went on to a weather forecast, and watched it as he greeted Nudge with another treat of tuna. While he was making coffee, he heard the pup bark. He opened the door and she bounded inside to sit in front of him, her stub of a tail vibrating madly.

  “Good morning, Dundee,” Crockett said. “How ‘bout some breakfast?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

  After Dundee had her breakfast, Crockett decided to scramble some eggs and realized that he needed cheese, onions, red peppers, dill, and a bunch or other stuff he didn’t have. Much to her delight, he loaded the pup in the truck and took off to explore his new surroundings. He headed south to the nearest farm road, then east until he encountered Highway 169 and turned south toward Smithville. The pup sat in the passenger seat and tried to see everything at once, her abbreviated tail a blur. Crockett kept up a running one sided conversation with the dog, asking her questions, making comments, and occasionally receiving a whine or a bark in return.

  On the north edge of town he drove by a Dollar General Store, passed through the m
iddle of a graveyard, and discovered a grocery called the Big V Country Mart. More interested in exploring than supplies at the time, he ignored the grocery and continued on. On a low hill to his left he noticed Lowman’s Café, noted a Pizza Hut across the road from Saint Luke’s Northland Hospital, a Quick Trip, a couple of tractor dealerships, a McDonald’s he’d be sure to avoid, and, across the street from Mickey D’s, an animal hospital. He braked rather violently and turned into the animal hospital parking lot, the pup scrabbling on the seat for balance, finally righting herself as the truck stopped.

  “Sorry, Dundee. You okay?” Crockett asked, rubbing her neck just behind her ears. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As he left the truck, the pup tried to come with him. A firm “stay” changed her mind and she watched him walk inside. When Crockett returned to the truck in just a few minutes, he found the dog sitting behind the wheel.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Wag.

  “You got a driver’s license?”

  Wag and wiggle.

  “Get in the other seat, dummy.”

  She did. Crockett smiled as he got in and roughed her up a little. The pup tried to get in his lap, initiating a brief wrestling match that left Crocket with a fair amount of dog spit on his face, balanced by a significant amount of dog hair on his suede jacket. He pawed at it.

  “You are more trouble than you’re worth,” he said.

  Unrepentant and grinning, the pup barked at him and returned her attention to outside the truck. Crockett turned back north on 169 and retraced his route to Lowman’s Café. An awkward sloped parking lot in front of the restaurant led to a much nicer space behind the low building. Crockett parked and went inside. The dog remained in the passenger seat and watched him go.

  The eatery was roomy, bright, and plain. Maybe a dozen customers were at tables throughout the spacious area. Crockett was the center of attention as he chose a table and sat, but the curiosity was brief and friendly. His butt had barely hit the seat before a waitress arrived with coffee, a cup, and a menu.