Sit, Stay, Love

by Debbie Burns

  Not that Tess minded. She’d been a die-hard dog lover ever since she could remember. She wasn’t much for classic cars or confining back seats, but snuggling with Fannie, the senior-aged Saint Bernard who belonged to the High Grove Animal Shelter until she was adopted, was almost fun. Tess had yet to renew her driver’s license, so it was that or her old Schwinn ten speed.

  Today was Halloween, and the last half of Tess’s day was jam-packed. It was either miss seeing the High Grove Animal Shelter’s Halloween Pet-A-Palooza or catch a ride. She’d been hearing about the event nonstop for the past week and was excited to get to see it firsthand.

  Since shortly after returning home, Tess had been volunteering at the shelter’s only off-site location, an old mansion where thirty-eight dogs that had been part of an illegal fighting ring were being rehabilitated before they could be adopted out. Even though Tess was trying to get her own career off the ground, she dedicated a part of every day to working with the sweet-natured dogs that were starting to shine after being given a second chance at life.

  Earlier this morning, Fannie, who’d been found tied to a post in front of the shelter three months ago, had been brought to the private estate for what was being called phase two of the dogs’ resocialization. After several weeks of work, many of the rehab dogs were being rewarded with greater degrees of canine socialization. Those Fannie had been introduced to this morning had previously completed several successful visits with the shelter’s laid-back corgi, Orzo, who was also up for adoption.

  Due to Fannie’s massive size, she was considered a “next-level” dog. Like Orzo, nothing seemed to faze Fannie, and she got along great with other canines. But dogs that had been mistreated the way those at the estate had been were likely to be especially uneasy around dogs Fannie’s size, and the rehab team was in the process of rebuilding their trust in other canines.

  As suspected, Fannie had done great with the project dogs this morning. And nearly all of those that’d been introduced to her had done fabulous also.

  As they neared the shelter, Fannie leaned farther into Tess with every turn. Tess’s leg was going a touch numb under the weight of her, so she did her best to wiggle closer to the door. Doing so drew Fannie’s attention away from the strip of front windshield visible between the bucket seats to Tess. She gave Tess’s long, wavy brown hair a determined sniff and left behind a rather unpleasant string of drool.

  Tess lifted the lock of affected hair so the drool wouldn’t soak into her jacket. “Any napkins up there by chance, Kelsey?” Tess raised her voice over the load purr of the Mustang’s engine.

  In the Mustang’s front passenger seat was Kelsey, the shelter’s lead adoption coordinator. She was co-leading the rehab effort at the private estate, along with Tess’s longtime friend Kurt, who was driving. Kurt was an ex-military dog handler and the owner of the Mustang. He was the lead dog trainer at the estate. Tess thought it was just about perfect how Kurt and Kelsey had gotten together while working at the remote estate.

  At Tess’s request, Kelsey fished through Kurt’s glovebox. “Aha!” Craning to reach around the deep bucket seat, Kelsey passed a few napkins Tess’s way. “Oh, Tess, there’s more space on Fannie’s other side than on yours. Can you nudge her over?”

  Tess took the napkin and squeezed dry her damp lock of hair. Whenever she worked around dogs, Tess made it a habit of showering at night instead of in the morning. Tonight would prove to be no exception. “I tried, but she only leans harder. It’s a good thing I’m a sucker for a cuddly Saint Bernard.”

  That Fannie had been left the way she had, without so much as a note, was baffling to Tess. Her bad habits were minimal to none. She was potty-trained, dog-friendly, nondestructive, and gentle. And judging by the condition of her coat, her weight, and her trusting temperament, Fannie had been well cared for. If she wasn’t already a senior dog, she’d have been adopted several times over. Tess’s fingers were crossed that Fannie would go to a great home.

  As they neared the shelter, Kurt had to park nearly two blocks away. The street was lined with cars on both sides, and the parking lot had been roped off hours ago for the afternoon activities.

  The Halloween Pet-A-Palooza was the shelter’s big fall event. Previous adopters were encouraged to return with their pets for a variety of games and a pet costume contest that got more elaborate every year. Pet-A-Palooza was also an adoption event, and Tess had heard that the popular festival often resulted in one of the biggest adoption times of the year: the first typically being the week before Christmas; the other, the week after Parade Day, which was in the spring.

  Once they were parked, Tess clambered out of the back seat and out the passenger side door. If the classic Mustang wasn’t her friend’s pride and joy, Tess would have commented that cars had come a long way in terms of everyday conveniences, such as the ability to get in and out with ease.

  Fannie surprised them all with her agile hop over the folded-forward front seat. Free from the confines, Fannie gave a whole-body shake and wagged her bushy tail.

  “Oh, hang on,” Kelsey said. “Let’s get Fannie’s costume on here.” From a purse big enough to double as an overnight bag, Kelsey pulled out a Saint Bernard–sized whiskey barrel that attached to a thick leather collar.

  Fannie didn’t mind when Kelsey buckled it around her neck.

  “Simple but perfect, don’t you think?” Kelsey asked. “It was in our costume collection, so I grabbed it this morning. She’s our only Saint Bernard right now, so she had clear dibs.”

  “Good thinking.” Tess rubbed Fannie on the forehead. “I’d say she looks ready to help monks search for stranded travelers along the Great St. Bernard Pass.”

  Kurt chuckled. “Tess, the dog trivia you’ve amassed over the years never fails to amaze me.”

  Tess squinched her nose. “Just remember you want me at your table if the shelter ever hosts a dog-themed trivia night.”

  Tess could hear the beat of a peppy Halloween song as it pulsed through the beautiful but brisk fall afternoon.

  “I’m so glad you guys get to see how cool this is,” Kelsey said as they headed toward the shelter. “It’s my favorite event of the year. And it’s the only time of year I can walk a dog and win a cupcake at the same time.”

  Kurt shot her a skeptical look. “Are you telling me there’s a cakewalk for dogs?”

  “Yep. And don’t knock it till you see it. It’s the Pupcake Walk. Every year, I play with one of the dogs till I win. There are killer cupcakes for adults and specialty pupcakes for the dogs. And the fun doesn’t end there. There’s a dog-and-owner agility course that’s made its fair share of appearances on YouTube, plus several activities just for the dogs, like dog-bobbing for miniature wienies, a sandbox skeleton yard, and the ever-popular game-scented straw maze.”

  “By ‘game,’ do you mean like pheasant and duck?” Tess asked.

  Kelsey nodded. “It’s amazing what you can find at hunting goods stores. And you’ll see how crazy the dogs go in the maze. It’s not funny how much scent-marking those straw bales get before the day is over.”

  Tess laughed. “You guys really think of it all.”

  “It’s because we’ve got a good group, and we’ve been able to perfect it over the years.”

  “And you’re sure it’s okay that I take some of the shelter dogs through the activities?”

  “Oh, no question.” Kelsey pulled her in for a hug as they neared the shelter, reminding Tess just how much taller her new friend was. Tess had topped out just below a petite-framed five foot four. Kelsey, an earthy blond, was a good six inches taller. “Just because you’re helping at an off-site location doesn’t mean you aren’t a shelter volunteer.”

  “And in case she didn’t tell you, Kelsey’s been singing your praises around here,” Kurt added. “It’s the skilled help you’ve been giving us every day that is enabling us to train at the pace we�
�ve been keeping.”

  Tess let the compliment roll over her, remembering that the best thing to do with a compliment was to accept it graciously. Whether it was any one person’s fault or a random sampling of genetics, she’d reached adulthood feeling a touch inadequate in just about every way except for when it came to her work with dogs.

  Thanks to her transformative months in Europe, she’d found a peace and satisfaction with herself she hadn’t known she’d been missing. And she’d come home ready to make a success of the healthy-pet canine-consulting business she was hoping to get off the ground. And with it, she hoped to help give financial support to deserving organizations like the shelter.

  Tess switched the leash to her other hand as the shelter came into view behind the surrounding trees that were in full fall color. Fannie let out a woof and wagged her tail.

  The unassuming redbrick building was decorated with an array of pumpkins, life-size dog and cat scarecrows, straw bales, and spiderwebs. The front parking lot was already a buzz of activity even though the event didn’t officially start for another twenty minutes.

  In addition to the activity stations, there was a food booth that sold snacks for people and pets, a silent auction, and a booth where one of the shelter volunteers would be drawing caricature sketches.

  The shelter was small enough that it only employed a handful of people, and Tess knew each of them. The parking lot was filled with unfamiliar faces that Tess figured was a combination of volunteers, past adopters, and the public.

  Many of the leashed dogs in the parking lot were in costume. Tess spotted a black lab who’d had an impressively anatomically correct dog skeleton painted onto his coat, a wiener dog in a banana suit, a three-headed dog whose two papier-mâché heads matched its real one, and a Lhasa apso Ewok. Tess’s favorite was a mixed-breed white dog that had been painted so realistically with zebra stripes, she had to do a double take.

  With an uncharacteristic burst of energy, Fannie leaped forward, dragging Tess along behind her. It took rebalancing her weight the opposite direction of Fannie’s pull and locking her feet into the ground for Tess to keep Fannie from diving into the throngs.

  Kurt chuckled. “Want a hand? I wouldn’t be surprised if she outweighs you.”

  “No thanks. I’ve got this.” Tess pulled a treat from her jeans pocket and asked the excited dog to sit at attention. “I do, however, know which dog I’d like to start with.” Fannie gobbled up the treat, leaving a wet spot on Tess’s palm. “So, big girl, what do you say we get some of that energy out in the agility course first?”

  “I think that’s a smart idea,” Kelsey agreed. “It’s set up around back, along with the game-scented straw maze. That should tucker her out. You too, by the way. That agility course is also a cardio burst for people.”

  As if in understanding, Fannie tugged Tess onward. “Grab a dog, guys, and we’ll see who’s buying lunch later,” Tess called over her shoulder. “And no, I didn’t forget one of you is an ex-marine.”

  Then she let Fannie lead her away, but not before hearing a duet of chuckles and agreement following her.

  * * *

  The penetrating flash from the photographer’s camera made Mason wince. He didn’t need to count back days to the accident to know that the effects of the concussion were lingering.

  “A few more will do it.” The photographer, a middle-aged guy who’d recognized him in the crowd and asked for a few quick shots, was barely audible over the din from the crowd gathered at Ballpark Village for the city’s biggest Halloween party.

  The woman at Mason’s side, the one whose name he hadn’t paid any attention to, moved closer into him, implying a connection they didn’t share. This season, Mason’s strongest yet, had left it all but impossible for him to go anywhere without being asked to pose for a picture. He’d not minded at first, and he didn’t mind it now, but in the days since the accident, he was becoming more conscious of the image each snapshot portrayed.

  The woman had approached him after he’d left Thomas for a trip to the bathroom. She’d been coming on to him, holding nothing back, when the photographer spotted him. Mason’s left arm was bound in a sling, so she’d drawn in close at his right side. He closed his hand loosely atop her shoulder, keeping his body straight and not leaning in toward her, advice he’d been given by his publicist to help ward off the party-guy image a dozen or so wild nights this last year had created.

  She had her hand pressed flat against his stomach, her pinkie resting above the rim of the wool kilt that was currently itching the hell out of him. She was clad in a leopard-spotted faux-fur bikini, long tail, pointy ears, and all, and had the body to pull it off.

  Only Mason wasn’t interested, however clear her signals were.

  It was Halloween night, and he was out here working the crowd and signing autographs and locking his smile in place, for one reason only: to keep a promise to a buddy even though it conflicted with a stronger promise he’d made himself.

  The season was over and winter was coming. Mason was craving quiet the way he craved water after a strenuous workout. The insanity that the most successful season of his career had brought would taper down. It had been a marathon year, and he was ready for the finish line.

  The fame he’d acquired still felt oddly surreal, sort of like the Ford Explorer he’d been in had when it had careered across the highway and tumbled into an embankment. Maybe there were some things you were never ready for. Not the things that changed your life in ways you’d never seen coming, and not even the ones your father warned you about.

  The photographer snapped another few shots, then Mason stepped back, reclaiming an inadequate bubble of space around him. Leopard Girl’s smile faltered. “Oh, come on, I can’t let a man who looks this good in a kilt out of my arms without a fight. How about I buy you a drink and we find a spot in the corner to enjoy it?”

  Mason read what she was saying with her eyes as clearly as he heard what she was saying with her lips. A year ago, he’d have brought her back to his place and let her rock his world. Hell, who was he kidding? A month or two ago even.

  “I appreciate the offer. Maybe another time.”

  He thanked her again and let the finality seep into his tone. The din of the crowd was starting to hurt his head just like the bright lights were. He’d had enough tonight. The world—lights, sounds, commotion—was still stark, harsh when he overdid it.

  Twenty-six nights ago, he’d lain in the ER, disoriented from a concussion and trying to lie still for a CT scan of his left shoulder and collarbone. He’d sworn then and there he was done with the sporadic partying and racy nightlife that had landed him in the back seat of that Explorer.

  He scanned the crowds, searching for Thomas. When Mason had left for the bathroom, they’d been talking to a small group of die-hard Red Birds fans. Now, Mason found his buddy and teammate encircled by a small crowd of women who seemed more excited by Thomas’s supposedly-worn-by-Arnold-Schwarzenegger Conan the Barbarian costume than his career stats.

  Compared to Thomas’s dressed-up loincloth, the green-and-black tartan kilt and black silk vest Mason had been cajoled into wearing wasn’t so bad. Mason didn’t know where his buddy had gotten them, but Thomas had acquired his share of authentic garb. He even had an aboriginal headdress that took up a full shelf in one closet and a top hat supposedly worn by a member of Lincoln’s Cabinet.

  Mason came up behind Thomas, tapped his shoulder, and offered the very real excuse of a headache as his reason for taking off early. Thomas was disappointed but didn’t press.

  All it took was heading outside into the night and feeling the cool air wash over him for Mason’s release to be palpable. He loved the pulse of the city, loved living in his converted warehouse loft so close to the stadium, but lately, he’d felt an unmistakable stirring in his chest to head home.

  When he’d left the serene but stiflingly quiet,
rolling farmlands of Balltown, Iowa, for college, he’d never imagined experiencing a longing for the solitude he’d lost. Back then, he’d craved city living, replete with all the culture and chaos nearly as much as he’d wanted to be a pro ball player. He’d been fortunate to have gotten both wishes.

  Now, ten years later, he was struck with a wave of nostalgia for the Halloween night he was missing back home. A quieter, simpler Halloween full of people who thought they knew everything there was to know about you, and were largely right.

  A glance at the out-of-character Movado watch he’d forgotten to take off showed it was ten thirty. The only Halloween tradition he’d experienced until he was eighteen would be winding down. His extended family and a handful of friends always made for his parents’ farm on Halloween night, showing up an hour or so before dark. If the weather was good like it was here, there’d be a roaring bonfire outside and, at the side of the yard nearest the house, there’d be a few folding tables covered with his mom’s worn linens. They’d be loaded with all the Halloween regulars, like his aunt’s jack-o’-lantern stuffed peppers, his cousin’s zombie meat loaf, his mom’s pumpkin turkey chili, and his dad’s homemade hard cider from apples harvested on their farm.

  Dinner would be long finished, and the assortment of homemade pies would be picked over. His uncle Ron would be dozing in his reclining folding chair after having enjoyed one too many hard ciders. His mom and aunts would be wrapping up leftovers while the younger kids and grandkids played the inevitable game of chase after finishing the skeleton hunt his dad set up year after year in the woods beyond the east field.

  As Mason walked home, it occurred to him that nothing was keeping him here. He could head home for a few weeks. The season was over. He contemplated the logistics—the physical therapy appointments he’d have to move, the follow-up with his surgeon regarding the shattered collarbone that would hopefully be well-healed before spring training rolled around—as he headed away from the stadium and through empty streets toward his loft.