by Donna Ball
An eyebrow arched slightly beneath the brim of his baseball cap. “Actually, you’re the person in powerful places I was talking about.”
My confusion displayed itself in a scowl, and he explained, “Your name comes up a lot. Seems like you’re related to, or friends with, just about everyone around here. People listen to what you have to say. It makes me think you would be a good person to have on my side. And,” he added, “I do happen to think you’re cute.”
“You,” I told him with great deliberation, “are delusional.”
“Is this man bothering you, Raine?”
“Speaking of people in powerful places,” Miles Young said, and turned with a grin. “How are you, Sonny?”
I was glad to see that, though she used a metal walking stick and had combed her bangs forward to hide the bruise on her forehead, Sonny displayed no other ill effects from her fall. Of course, I also knew that her long sleeves, colorful knit poncho and ankle-length suede skirt hid a multitude of bruises. “Hello, Miles,” she returned pleasantly. “Enjoying a day in the country, are you?”
He nodded appreciatively. “I think I’m really going to like it here.”
“Well, don’t get too comfortable. Your plan still hasn’t passed the water commission.”
“No,” he agreed, still smiling, “but it’s passed everything else.”
“Are you in line?” she inquired, tipping her head toward me.
“Afraid not.”
“Good, because Mystery wants to run the agility course.” She handed me a ticket. “See you in court, Miles.”
“Have a good day, Sonny.” He turned to me and added, “You too, Miss Stockton.”
“You were awfully nice to that creep,” I muttered as he left.
Sonny chuckled. “Oh, he’s not so bad. I’ve known a lot worse, believe me.” She handed me Mystery’s leash. “Now let’s give Mystery her money’s worth. The dancing dog is going on pretty soon and I don’t want to miss it.”
I have to admit, I was skeptical about the dancing dog. It sounded too much like a circus act to me, which is not to take anything away from the skill that’s required to train a dog for the circus or any other entertainment venue. It’s just that the whole thing seemed a little cutesy-pie, and put me in mind of poodles in tutus hopping around on their hind legs.
After all, dogs are creatures of great nobility and dignity. They plunge into turbulent seas to rescue fishermen; they cross the frozen tundra with life-saving serum; they dig through the rubble of collapsed buildings and snowy avalanches to find helpless victims. It was the domesticated dog who, by assisting early man in the hunt, by protecting his villages and guarding his flocks, made it possible for humans to have enough leisure time to build the Golden Gate Bridge and paint the Sistine Chapel. It could be said that we owe civilization as we know it entirely to the domestic dog.
I am therefore fundamentally against anything that demeans or diminishes the dignity of the dog in any way.
And that, I’m sorry to say, was what I had always imagined canine musical freestyle did.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Thanks to Dolly’s megaphoned promotion, practically everyone at the fair had gathered around the roped-off town square to watch the performance. Had Maude and I not already secured our front-row seats underneath the blue canopy by virtue of our jobs, we would have been standing out in the sun with everyone else, fighting for a spot near the ropes. Sonny sat beside us, holding Mystery in her lap.
Dolly blared from the megaphone, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, Sandra Lanier and the incredible Ringo!”
Out onto the field strode a young woman in tight black satin pants and a long, floaty gold-and-white top. Her blond hair was caught back from her face in a wreath of gold and white flowers, then tumbled over her shoulders. Beside her trotted a dog that might have been a collie-golden retriever mix. The gold and white of his coat was an almost exact match for the gold and white of her top. His head was turned attentively up to his mistress, his eyes never leaving hers, his pawfalls in perfect synchronization with her steps. Maude and I exchanged a look, partly in secret comment on the outfit, partly in genuine admiration for the obedience skills of the dog.
From the sound system came a harp chord, and the woman made a sweeping curtsy to her dog. On the second harp chord the dog returned a gorgeous, perfectly cued bow to her. A chorus of Ahs went up from the audience. The recorded orchestra broke into a spritely rendition of Vivaldi’s “Spring” and the two of them took off, moving as a single poetic unit in a ballet of perfectly synchronized turns, spins, leaps and twirls. She floated across the grass, her filmy gold-and-white top fluttering and billowing in a reflection of her dog’s flowing coat. They moved first in counterpoint, then in unison. When she turned, he turned with her; when she spun, he spun opposite, forming a beautiful figure eight that met in the middle. He seemed to know, without a visible cue, when she was going to kick into a jeté, and he would dash between her legs while she was practically in midair, or leap over her backward-extended leg, circle her body and pick up on her heel side with his paws striking the ground in precise harmony with the beat of the music. It was incredible. At first I actually had to press my hand against my lips to stifle gasps and cheers like the ones that were coming from every tourist in the crowd, but before the performance was over I was clapping and cheering and crying out with delight just like everyone else. Cisco, puzzled by my behavior but clearly intrigued, put his front paws on the ring gating and barked out his own cheers to the canine half of the dance team.
“Oh, my God, oh, my God,” I exclaimed as Sandra Lanier was taking her second bow. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life, have you?”
Maude nodded crisply. “Well-done,” she said. This, for her, was the equivalent of a standing ovation. “Quite.”
Sonny was wiping moisture from her cheeks, and she wasn’t the only one. “Beautiful,” she said, laughing even as she dabbed tears. “Whoever would have thought dogs could do something like that? It makes you wonder what else is possible, doesn’t it?”
I think that summed up my own feelings exactly.
I pushed myself forward as Sandra Lanier and Ringo left the ring. “Hi,” I said, holding out my hand. “You were incredible, unbelievable. Thank you so much. Thank you so much for doing this.”
She laughed as she shook my hand, and I realized I must sound like a gushing twelve-year-old at a rock concert. “Thanks,” she said. “We really love it.”
“I’m Raine Stockton.”
“Sandy Lanier,” she said.
“I own a dog-training business just outside of town,” I went on. “This is Cisco. He does search and rescue.” I hoped I didn’t sound as though I was trying too hard to give myself some legitimacy.
“How do you do, Cisco?”
I liked the fact that she greeted my dog, and that she added, “Do you mind if Ringo says hello?”
“I think Cisco would be honored.”
The two dogs did their sniffing ritual, and she said, “I saw you earlier in the agility demo. I’ll bet Cisco would be great in freestyle.”
“He probably would be, but he has a handicap—me. Are you a professional dancer?”
She laughed. “Good heavens, no. I’m a physical therapist. I learned to dance for Ringo.”
“Gorgeous dog,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, and turned a gaze on him that was so full of adoration that I knew immediately how they had achieved such harmony on the dance floor. “He is. I got him from the shelter when he was three months old. I could tell from the first he was going to be special.”
Cisco, with his usual happy-go-lucky manners, gave a grinning, invitational bark and play-bowed to Ringo. Sandy laughed. “See, he already has a move!” She looked at me, eyes twinkling. “Would you like me to show you some more?”
I was sucked in. The mere thought of being able to do something as beautiful as I had just seen was an irresistible temptation. Before I knew it the crowd had
moved back to form a small circle and we were at the center of it. Armed with a training clicker and a plastic baggie filled with chopped hot dogs—already I liked her style, and so did Cisco—Sandy Lanier proceeded to teach my handsome working dog how to dance. In a matter of moments she had him spinning at my side, weaving through my legs, and—his apparent favorite— twirling on his hind legs.
“Great,” I commented wryly as Cisco launched himself to his back legs and spun around yet again, eagerly anticipating his hot dog reward. “I’ve been trying to teach him to turn off a light switch all week, but he refuses to stand on his hind legs. What have you got that I don’t?”
She laughed. “Some dogs just dance to a different drummer.”
In the distance, the bluegrass band struck up “Turkey in the Straw,” and Sandy bowed to me, her eyes filled with mirth. “Shall we dance?”
Before I knew it, Cisco and I were performing a hilarious square dance duet with Sandy and Ringo, weaving, crossing, allemanding and spinning. Most of the time I was laughing so hard I didn’t care where my feet were, and the rest of the time I was either bumping into Sandy or tripping over Cisco, but my dog was having the time of his life. The crowd was clapping in rhythm and hooting their encouragement, and a photographer snapped our picture for the paper. When the music stopped, we really hammed it up, bowing and posing and blowing kisses. Then I caught a glimpse of Buck, standing at the edge of the crowd watching us, and the look in his eyes was so sad, so unguarded and lost, that the laughter died in my throat.
Suddenly I didn’t feel like dancing anymore.
“Come on,” I told Sandy. “I’ll buy you a Coke.”
We made our way back to the blue tent amidst grinning applause, Cisco bounding happily around me, and Ringo, as attentive as ever, glued to Sandy’s side.
“I think Cisco missed his calling,” Sonny said as we approached. “He should have been on Broadway.”
I introduced her to Sandy, and Sonny said, “You were marvelous. I can’t tell you when I’ve been so moved. Did it take you long to learn?”
They chatted while I fished some soft drinks out of the cooler underneath the table. I handed one to Sandy and another to Sonny.
Sonny was asking, “Are you going to be in the area long?”
“I’m heading out to do some hiking tomorrow,” Sandy said. She perched on the edge of the table and popped the top of her soft drink. “Ringo and I like to spend a week on the trail every autumn.”
“Oh, yeah?” I sat beside her. “What part do you hike?”
“We generally get on the Lovitt-Hugh Trail at Beacham Falls and follow it until it intersects the Appalachian at Devil’s Knob. Then we take the Appalachian Trail back down to High Point station.”
“Sounds great.” I sighed, fleetingly jealous. A week on the trail in the crisp yellow autumn, with nothing but clear mountain air and breathtaking mountain views everywhere I looked, and no one but my dog for company. But then I remembered that no matter how frantic my life seemed now and then, I had all of this beauty whenever I wanted it, while she only got to visit once a year.
“Are you staying in town tonight?” Sonny asked.
“I haven’t decided yet,” replied Sandy, swinging her crossed ankles. “I passed a hotel that takes dogs on the way into town, or we may get a campsite.”
“I understand Cisco has a new career,” said Maude from behind us. She had Hero on a lead beside her. “I’m sorry to have missed the performance, but I thought this fellow needed a little exercise.”
She extended her hand to Sandy. “You, my dear, were exquisite. Gorgeous attention on that dog. I’m Maude Braselton, and it is a pleasure.”
Sandy beamed as she hopped down from the table. “Thank you. Everyone has been so kind. And I’ve had a great time with Raine and Cisco.”
Suddenly Hero barked. We all looked at him, startled, but were even more surprised to see his tail wagging madly, his eyes alert and his mouth open in a panting smile.
Sandy exclaimed, “Well, hello! And who is this handsome fellow?”
“His name is Hero,” I said, “and he certainly seems to like you.”
She knelt and began stroking Hero’s head and ears. He practically melted at her touch. I hadn’t seen him so animated since I’d taken him from the cabin a week ago.
“Actually,” I corrected myself, “his real name is Nero. We’re just fostering him until someone can come and get him. He’s a service dog,” I explained, “whose owner was killed. He has to go back to the agency that provided him.”
Her hands had stopped stroking Hero, and she looked up at me with a flicker of shock in her eyes. “Killed?” she repeated.
I nodded. “Murdered, in one of the cabins on the lake last week. The poor dog was trapped inside for days before anyone realized what had happened.”
“How . . . awful.” She sounded as horrified as I felt even now, when I told the story. She stood slowly, staring at Hero. He gazed up at her, tail wagging, eyes bright, and whined.
“You might have heard about it on the radio,” I added. “Her name was Mickey White.”
She kept staring at Hero. “No,” she said. “I don’t . . . I didn’t hear. I have to go,” she said abruptly, and her smile seemed forced and strained. “It was nice meeting you. All of you.” A vague glance that met no one’s eyes. “Ringo, with me.”
Ringo took up perfect heel position beside her and the two of them left without another word.
Sonny, Maude and I looked at each other in confusion, but no one said anything. No one, that is, except Hero, who turned in the direction Sandy had gone, and barked.
“I tell you,” Sonny said, stroking Hero’s head as it rested on her knee, “she reminded him of something. Happier times.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said, “but he certainly seems happier now. I think he likes you.” Of course, all animals liked Sonny. Whether she could actually talk to them or not, she did hold an undeniable charm over almost all living things.
“I like him too,” Sonny said, smiling down at the Lab as she massaged his ears. “He’s such a serious fellow, though. I wish I could make him laugh.”
“Dogs don’t laugh.”
“Of course they do. Cisco was laughing the whole time he was dancing with you.”
“Oh, great. Even my dog was laughing at me.”
“Dogs laugh when they’re having fun, just like we do. This guy needs to have more fun. Even Mystery thinks so.”
“Border collies think everyone needs to have more fun.”
“That girl, Sandy, reminded him of when he used to have fun,” Sonny said thoughtfully, gazing down at Hero. “Times when he was with his mistress. Times when he was working. That’s why he was so excited to see her.”
The purple shadows were growing long and the vendors were packing up. Maude was loading the car and exercising the dogs before putting them inside. Sonny and I counted the receipts from the Pet Fair while Dolly bustled around giving orders to everyone who didn’t have sense enough to look busy. Buck had gotten a friend to help him pack up the agility equipment and take it back to my house. Tangled bunting and overflowing trash cans were the last forlorn remnants of a perfect golden day.
I had asked Buck, as a way of thanking him for his help and in a rather pathetic attempt to reestablish the norm, if he wanted to have dinner. He had replied, as pleasant as ever, that he’d already promised Wyn they’d go for barbecue. They often did that after working a shift, and they often invited me. I waited, but no invitation came.
Wyn would have brought it up if she had been standing there. I got the feeling that Buck was glad she was not. I tried not to be depressed.
“Dogs don’t have much of a long-term memory,” I reminded Sonny.
“You just saw a dog perform a ballet to Vivaldi,” Sonny replied, deadpan. “Do you want to rethink that statement?”
I shrugged. “Well, I admit, he did perk up when he saw her.”
“I think he recognized her.�
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I looked at her, thoughtful. “It’s possible,” I admitted.
“Dolly said Sandy and Ringo go all over the Carolinas performing. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to think Mickey and Hero might have seen her at some event or another.”
“And that would have had happy memories for him.”
I said with a sigh, “Too bad they didn’t last.” As soon as Sandy had disappeared from sight, the Lab had returned to his former despondent mood. He hadn’t cheered up until Sonny had called him over to sit with her and Mystery while she helped me with the receipts.
“He’s just so lost,” Sonny said. “He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be now. And he feels responsible. He says if he had been a better dog, his woman would still be with him, and he’d still be helping her.”
I wished she wouldn’t say things like that. Sometimes they made too much sense not to be true.
She looked at me and seemed to hesitate. “There’s something else,” she said. “I wasn’t going to mention it, because it doesn’t really add up. An animal that traumatized, that confused . . . you can’t expect him to understand anything that’s happened. But today I got the oddest impression from him. I ignored it at first, but he seemed certain, almost urgent.” Her tone was apologetic, but her eyes held mine with the conviction of what she relayed. “He seems to think,” she said, “he insists that it was a snake that killed his mistress.”
I said, “It was a gun that killed his mistress.”
“Or a snake with a gun.”
“I don’t think dogs are metaphorical.”
“You don’t think dogs can talk to people,” she pointed out, “or that I can talk to them.” Then she shrugged. “Of course, maybe I’m misunderstanding.”
“Maybe,” I agreed, and in a way I was glad to hear something this nonsensical coming from one of her purported communications with the animals. It was a lot easier to believe she did not know what she was talking about at times like these.
“It’s just that I keep getting the same picture,” she said, “and I know it’s coming from him.” She unfolded a piece of paper that was stuck in among the dollar bills in the donation jar and glanced at it. “It’s the same . . . Oh, my goodness.”