by Tracy Weber
A confident female voice called out over the loudspeaker. “Dog walkers, welcome to Paws Around Green Lake, DogMa’s first annual furry 5K fun walk. Pick up your leashes and gather your treat pouches. Let the walk begin!”
I glanced at my watch. Ten o’clock. I should have opened my booth an hour ago.
The crowd’s human-canine duos trickled toward the trail and started jogging, walking, sniffing, and marking their way around the lake. If the women I’d witnessed were still planning to protest, they’d likely do it during the post-walk celebration. I had plenty of time to find Michael and help him plan for the threat.
I hoped.
Two
I looked for Michael at the registration desk, but he’d already left, likely searching for me. A smiling, braces-wearing teenager handed me a printout of the day’s schedule, confirmed that the roped-off area had been set aside for the class I’d teach later, and pointed me toward Serenity Yoga’s booth.
Now that the walk was underway, the field was gloriously empty; the path to my lonely, tented table completely clear. I hesitated, tugged by conflicting priorities. A savvy business person would have set up her booth hours ago. On the other hand, I was already late, and I was eager to see my friend Dale. What difference would another five minutes make?
I turned and headed in the opposite direction, toward the goat petting farm. I still couldn’t believe that Michael had convinced Dale—self-proclaimed goat rustler and attorney at law—to make the four-hour trip from Orcas Island to Seattle for today’s event, but I was happy he did. I hadn’t seen Dale since he represented me last fall, and I missed his back-hills country charm. Besides, I still owed him a lifetime’s worth of yoga lessons for getting me out of that murder charge. It was time to start paying my bill.
I glanced around the enclosure, looking for my friend’s distinctive gray beard. Dale had truly outdone himself. Over a dozen floppy-eared Nubians happily napped, grazed, and otherwise entertained themselves in a thirty-by-thirty chain-linked square. The perimeter was papered with a variety of goat-related signs: The Best Kids Have Hooves, Don’t Get My Goat, and Home Is Where the Goats Are among them. Every color of the goat rainbow was represented: black, brown, gray, white—even two cute little white-on-black-spotted kids that looked like reverse-image Dalmatian puppies.
The enclosure was lined with straw bales strategically placed so that exhausted parents could rest while two teenaged volunteers taught their children how to safely interact with the playful animals. The teen boys—one blond, the other brunette—had matching brown eyes, square jaws, and short, stocky builds. If they weren’t twins, they were at least brothers.
I saw pretty much everything I would hope for in a goat petting zoo: laughing children; curious, friendly Nubians; a dense carpet of wood shavings; even an obstacle course containing makeshift ramps, old tires, oversized wooden spools, and empty five-gallon water containers. The only thing missing was Dale.
After five minutes, I gave up and headed for my booth. On the way, I stopped at the tented table for Michael’s pet supply store, Pete’s Pets.
Tiffany, my nemesis and Michael’s employee, acknowledged my arrival with a bored-looking yawn. She snapped her chewing gum, glanced down at her cuticles, and frowned, a sure sign that she was in a better mood than usual. To be fair, I wasn’t paying much attention to her, either. I was too distracted by the colorful retail area Michael had created in the ten-by-ten space around her. Unlike
Serenity Yoga’s empty tent and bare table next door, the Pete’s Pets booth was filled with rhinestone-studded collars, bright yellow tennis balls, and a huge variety of dog treats ranging from organic freeze-dried meat cubes to individually wrapped dog cookies to five-foot-long bully sticks.
Tiffany finished her visual manicure and acknowledged my presence. She pointed at the six-inch brown coffee stain decorating my front.
“Nice shirt.”
I glanced at a barely visible blemish on the side of her nose.
Nice zit.
I immediately felt bad for the uncharitable thought. Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras clearly advocated neutrality toward evil, and my thoughts toward Tiffany were anything but neutral. But in my defense, it wasn’t my fault. At least not completely.
Tiffany and I had started our immature rivalry a year ago, the day she began working at Pete’s Pets. Michael, for whatever reason, liked her. Bella—the traitor—did too. Neither Tiffany nor I agreed with Michael’s taste in friends, but Bella was more discerning, and she’d decided that Tiffany was her best cookie buddy. So for the sake of the pup, Tiffany and I had put down our verbal weaponry and declared an uneasy truce.
A truce that dissolved three weeks ago when she broke up with her latest boyfriend.
Since then, she’d started wearing her jeans a size or two tighter; the neckline of her shirt, three inches lower. She’d invested in a push-up bra and dyed her hair a new ultra-platinum shade of blonde. And on more than one occasion, I’d caught her twenty-one-year-old gaze wandering to my boyfriend’s well-muscled behind. Not that I blamed her; Michael’s backside was impressive when viewed from any angle. But that particular backside was mine. All mine.
Tiffany pulled out a nail file and started sharpening her claws. “Your booth is next door.” Her bored vocal tone telegraphed her thoughts: Dismissed.
For once, I took the high road. I showed my teeth in a fake submissive grin and backed away to check out the rest of the vendors.
Serenity Yoga’s booth stuck out like the answer to an IQ test question: “What doesn’t belong here?” The vendors surrounding my table were all animal-related. Pete’s Pets was on one side, Precious Life Wildlife Center on the other. The rest of the booths showcased an assortment of animal organizations ranging from dog training centers to pet daycares to do-it-yourself dog washes. Brightly colored banners, sparkly leashes, and a smorgasbord of dog treats all vied for human and canine attention. Somehow I didn’t think I’d be getting a run on my booth.
The dog walkers were still meandering their way around Green Lake, so after I covered my empty table space with informational flyers and freshly printed class schedules, I did a little wandering myself, next door to visit Precious Life Wildlife Center.
A tiny, seventy-something woman organized educational materials at her table. A large black crow tilted his head and watched me curiously from a cage on the chair behind her.
I smiled and waved at him. “Hi buddy.”
The woman glanced up, then returned to organizing her flyers. “That there’s Blackie.”
Upon hearing his name, the crow walked to the edge of his cage and cawed. The woman made clicking noises with her tongue, reached into her pocket, and produced a peanut. “You want this, baby?” She gave him the peanut and turned to face me.
“I think he likes you.” She smiled and wiped her hands on her tunic. “Any friend of Blackie’s is a friend of mine.”
On a good day I barely topped five-foot-three, but I still had to look down to meet the wiry woman’s gaze. A flower-print blouse and pink polyester pants peeked out from under her blue medical tunic. Her paper-thin skin seemed fragile, and her face sported more wrinkles than a Shar Pei puppy. But her smile—especially when she talked to that bird—radiated an almost childlike humor.
She held out a red, swollen hand. “I’m Judith Ferguson. Nice to meet you.”
I hesitated before squeezing it, afraid I might hurt her.
“Don’t worry hon, you won’t break me. The chemicals I use are hard on my hands. Old age ain’t any easier.” She smiled. “But I manage just fine.” She gave my hand a firm shake. “You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Oh, sorry. Kate Davidson.”
“Well, Kate Davidson, it’s nice to meet you.” She picked up the crow’s cage and carefully set it on the table.
I leaned down and stared through the bars.
“He
’s gorgeous.”
I’d never paid much attention to crows. Up close, Blackie was much bigger than I would have imagined, and the word “black” didn’t come close to describing the color of his dark, glossy, almost iridescent feathers. What surprised me the most about him, though, were his eyes. They sparkled with keen intelligence and what I swore was a dry sense of humor.
I reached my hand toward the cage.
“Can I touch him?”
“Go ahead. He won’t bite.”
I poked my index finger through the bars and stroked Blackie’s soft feathers. “He’s amazing,” I said. “I’ve never known anyone with a pet crow.”
Judith’s expression grew stern. “You still don’t. Blackie’s not a pet. He’s a patient.”
I flinched, surprised by her suddenly brusque tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Judith frowned for a moment, then she closed her eyes and sighed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have grumped at you like that. Unless you’re involved in animal rehab, you wouldn’t know. But the distinction is important. I’m a certified wildlife rehabilitator, and I have to be careful.”
She gestured toward Blackie’s cage. “Corvids, even tame ones like Blackie, are considered migratory birds. They can’t be kept as pets. According to the government wildlife bureaucrats, animals like Blackie have to either be fully rehabilitated and released or euthanized.” She shook her head. “There’s no middle ground. If word got out that I was keeping Blackie as a pet, they might revoke my license.”
That sounded ridiculous to me. “You wouldn’t really lose your license over a crow, would you?”
“A single crow? Probably not, but I can’t risk it. A friend of mine’s center got shut down a few months ago.”
“What if he couldn’t survive in the wild?”
“Then, according to law, I’d have to euthanize him.” She handed me a flyer titled Handling and Helping Injured Wildlife. “This answers most of your questions.”
I scanned the page. “I had no idea the laws were so strict.”
“You don’t know the half of it, honey. Some of the rules I’m supposed to follow make me mad as a honey badger. Nobody who works in this business wants the animals they help to live in captivity. But when it’s either that or death?” She crossed her arms. “Choosing to end someone’s life should at least warrant a discussion, don’t you think?”
I did, actually.
“In any case,” Judith continued, “that’s my soapbox, not yours. As far as Blackie, here, he’s one of the lucky ones. He’s fully recovered now, and he’ll get to go back into the wild.”
“What happened to him?”
“He got caught by a dog here at Green Lake.” She pointed to a featherless spot near his neck. “See that bald spot there? That’s where the dog bit him. Broke his wing and everything.” She shook her head. “Makes no sense to me why they can’t keep those buggers on a leash.”
I agreed with that, too. Bella and I were constantly dodging friendly but out-of-control dogs here at the lake, in spite of Seattle’s supposedly strict leash laws.
“At least the guy had enough decency to get Blackie some help. Most people would have left him behind to die.”
I shuddered. The thought of letting an injured animal suffer made my stomach churn.
Judith kept talking. “To tell you the truth, I’m still surprised Blackie made it. A sane rehabilitator would have euthanized him on the spot.” She grinned. “But as my husband says, sanity’s never been one of my weaknesses. Blackie still had so much life in his eyes. I had to help him.”
She leaned toward the cage and nestled her face in its wires. “You’re Momma’s miracle boy, aren’t you?”
She waited for the crow to touch his beak to her nose, then stood up and pushed a glass jar across the table. “We’re taking donations today, if you’re interested in helping. We mainly need money, but anything helps: cages, crates, towels, blankets, food … You name it, we pretty much need it.”
I pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket and tucked it inside.
Judith gave me a brisk nod. “Thanks.”
Blackie made a chattering noise, as if trying to get our attention.
“He seems tame,” I said.
“He’s been that way since the beginning. I figure somebody raised him from a fledgling and released him. He probably grew up with a dog, which would explain why he didn’t have the smarts to fly away from the mutt who caught him. Hopefully he learned his lesson and will do better today.”
“Today?”
“Today is Blackie’s big day. I’m going to release him so he can go back to his corvid family. I’ll sure miss the little bugger, though.” She placed her palm tenderly on the side of the cage. “You’ll never forget your mommy, will you?” Her eyes grew wet. “He won’t, you know. Crows have amazing memories. Blackie here will be my friend for the rest of his life. Play your cards right, and he’ll be yours, too.”
I smiled. “And how would I do that?”
“Hold out your hand.”
I did as instructed—I had a feeling no one intelligent ever argued with Judith—and she placed several unsalted peanuts in my palm. She nodded toward the cage. “Go ahead now, feed him.”
Blackie cawed and marched to the edge of his cage. I gingerly wove a peanut through the bars, hoping I wasn’t about to lose a finger. Blackie took it, hopped a few inches away, and cracked open the shell. In less than a minute, he hopped back to the edge of the cage and cawed at me again, clearly asking for seconds.
“You can give him another one. He won’t get fat.”
I gave him a second peanut. He hammered the shell with his beak and liberated the two nuts within.
Judith narrowed her eyes and looked at me shrewdly. “What’s your angle, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m supposedly here to teach people how to handle injured wildlife. Truthfully, I’m hoping to scrounge up donations. She gestured with her chin toward Tiffany and the Pete’s Pets booth. “Your friend over there is selling overpriced dog food. But I can’t figure out where you fit in. What’s a yoga studio doing at a pet rally?”
I pointed toward the main event stage. “My boyfriend organized the fun walk.” I mentally crossed my fingers and hoped that would end the conversation.
Judith eyed me expectantly. “And?”
I should have known I wouldn’t get off that easily. I glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then leaned forward and mumbled.
Judith frowned and cupped her hand around her ear. “What’s that? You’ll have to talk a might louder than that, honey. I’m seventy-five. My hearing has gone south with the rest of my body.”
I sighed, steeled my shoulders, and forced myself to say the words at full volume. “I’m teaching a Doga class.”
“Doga? What in the heck is Doga?”
I tried not to flinch. “Yoga for dogs.”
Judith shook her head in apparent disbelief. “Well, now don’t that beat all? Yoga for dogs … ” Her voice trailed off.
To be honest, I wasn’t all that sure about Doga myself. My breath-centered style of yoga required mindful connection of movement and breath—a skill that was challenging for most humans to master. The thought of Fluffy or Fido inhaling while lifting his paws seemed, well, ludicrous.
But when Michael flashed his gorgeous blue-green eyes and asked me to teach Doga as part of the closing ceremonies for today’s event, I couldn’t say no. So I’d done some research, set my ego aside, and here I was.
Teaching Doga.
At best, I would show the (hopefully small) class a few human-assisted dog stretches. At worst, I’d become the new laughingstock of the Seattle yoga community. If I got super lucky, Raven’s protesters would stage a sit-in and block the entrance to my yoga space, making the entire point moot
.
Which reminded me, I needed to find Michael and warn him about the protesters.
I was about to do exactly that, when a sound startled me from behind.
Three
“There she is!”
Dale Evans, my white-bearded, goat-rescuing attorney from Orcas, waved furiously from the edge of my booth. Michael stood behind him, grinning from one gorgeously crinkled eye to the other. I’d never met the two women standing between them, but even they looked amused.
Dale wore his normal outfit: worn jeans, baseball cap, suspenders, and dark brown work boots. His bright red T-shirt featured a cartoon cowboy riding a bucking-bronco-like goat. The caption read Chief Goat Wrangler. Bandit, his black-and-white Jack Russell terrier, jumped up and down at the end of his leash. The matching red bandanna he wore read Wrangler’s Assistant.
Dale lifted me off the ground in a tight hug. I hugged him back, turned my face away, and tried not to think about the millions of multilegged microbes swarming from his face to mine.
It didn’t work.
No matter how often I assured myself that Dale’s facial hair was perfectly hygienic, being anywhere near his long white beard gave me the willies. My best friend Rene teased that pogonophobia—the irrational fear of beards—was a clear sign of mental illness, but it didn’t matter. No matter how much I loved Dale—no matter how much I loved any bearded man, for that matter—I couldn’t stomach face-to-fur contact. Even thinking about it made my skin crawl.
Dale set me back on the ground, took a step back, and held me at arm’s length. “Let me get a good look at you!” He ignored the dark coffee stain decorating my chest, narrowed his eyes, and frowned.