One Good Dog

by Susan Wilson

  “No. More like a boxer, but with a tail.” Adam is growing confident, sure of his description now.

  “Pit bull?

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

  The girl pinches her bottom lip with two fingers. “I’ll have to talk to the vet in charge about this. Just fill out what you can.” She slides a form onto a clipboard that has a pen dangling from a piece of twine. She pushes it across the high counter to Adam. “We have the welfare of the dog first and foremost as our responsibility.”

  “So, returning a lost dog to his owner is counterintuitive to that?”

  The girl looks pained. “Please wait over there.” She points to a pair of orange plastic chairs.

  Adam’s mouth is dry. Dr. Stein says that he can begin to recognize the symptoms of his anger by thinking of his posture and the taste in his mouth. Are his hands shaking? He’s supposed to take deep breaths and mentally flick away the disturbance before it grows too big. In the reception area, there is a Poland Spring water dispenser but no cups. Adam is half-tempted to stick his mouth under the spigot and get a mouthful of water that way. He deliberately slumps his shoulders, then rolls them back and down, shaking off the tension. He rotates his head around, then tilts it from side to side. There. Now smile. He prides himself on handling frustration a little better than in the past. Now delays at the post office or being stuck in traffic don’t rile him in quite the same way. Adam doesn’t attribute this to the slow pace of his days, or the loss of meaningful work; he thinks he’s simply making progress toward what Dr. Stein calls “centeredness.”

  “Mr….” A big man in a ponytail bangs through the swinging door separating the reception area from the rest of the facility. He’s wearing blue scrubs and, predictably, blue Crocs.

  “March. Adam March.”

  “Dr. Gil.”

  The name on his badge says something else, Gilbert Dufrense. Dr. Gil. How user-friendly. How he must charm the little old cat ladies.

  Adam hands him the clipboard and waits in silence as the vet studies the form Adam has filled out. “This isn’t your dog?” For the first time, the vet looks up at him.

  “I expect that your staffer has informed you of the situation. I have a sick friend, whose only concern is getting his dog back.”

  Dr. Gil sets the clipboard down on the high counter and gestures toward the hard plastic chairs. Adam makes no move to sit down. Already this errand has wasted half his morning. “Mr. March. We have a policy.”

  “You don’t have the dog, do you?”

  “We did. I think.”

  “Two things come to mind here. One, how do you know you have or don’t have this guy’s dog when neither one of us has taken a look? Two, a sick man’s civil rights are in jeopardy here.” Adam is wishing that he’d shaved before coming, worn something besides his usual jeans and faded Red Sox sweatshirt.

  The blue-scrubbed vet fingers his chin contemplatively. Adam notices that his hands are encased in latex gloves, as if he’s forgotten the purpose of the gloves is to keep him safe from contamination. “Two pit bull types were brought in. One is familiar to us; we know him. The other was … hostile.”

  Adam shrugs. “Benny is probably not hostile.” Adam is trying to think if he’s ever seen Jupe’s dog being either hostile or, conversely, friendly. He has no recollection, but logic tells him that a street man’s dog is probably going to be one way or the other. It’s probably significant that he can’t recall any of the other men petting the dog. “Why don’t we just make this easy and go see if his dog is in there.”

  Dr. Gil suddenly snaps off the latex gloves, folds them together, and shoots them over the high counter and into a wastebasket as if that’s the highlight of his day. “Okay.”

  They walk down a short corridor past doors labeled SURGERY, EXAM ROOM 1, EXAM ROOM 2.

  ADOPTIONS.

  At the end of the corridor is an unlabeled door, and Dr. Gil pushes the swinging door open to the cacophony of barks, yelps, whines, growls, ululations, and howls. The noise is like being on a Wall Street trading floor. The vocalizations are accompanied by the sound of wire doors being rattled, metal water bowls tipped, nails tap-dancing on cement and on the metal shelves of the upper cages. Prison movies come to mind.

  “Are these dogs up for adoption?”

  “Some might be. Some are fostered.”

  “Meaning?” He knows what it means to kids. It just sounds more humane in reference to animals. Kinder.

  “Put in temporary homes, see if they can make it as pets.”

  “And the others? Adoptable?”

  “Not always.”

  Like him. He remembers his social worker sitting him down and explaining that he had no hope of a real home. “You’re a big boy now, Adam”—as if it was good news she offered—“Before you know it, you’ll be all grown up, and on your own.”

  Adam looks around at the faces pressed up against the bars of the cages. Ears are pointed toward him, and he imagines they have no concept of their hopelessness. He is repulsed by the smell, an amalgam of wet newspaper, cleaning fluid, and dog. The vet walks ahead of Adam, pointing into each cage, left, then right, and calling out the closest breed match to the occupant’s description.

  “German shepard?”

  “No.” The smallish tan-and-black dog with one upright ear lifts a lip in a halfhearted sneer.

  “Beagle?”

  A definite hound-dog look. Weepy eyes and a guilty expression. “No.”

  “Border collie?”

  “Look, I said he’s a black-and-white shorthaired dog.” The fluffy Border collie stares at Adam with one blue eye and one brown eye.

  “Describing dogs is more art than science. One man’s short-hair is another man’s retriever.”

  They have come to the end of the line. One dog remains, but Adam has already come to the conclusion that Jupe’s dog is long gone. He’s about to ask if there is another shelter in the city, when he sees the last dog. This one is in a short run instead of a cage. There is nothing in it but the dog and a water bowl, as if he’s just in there for a change of scenery. As if he might be leaving shortly. As if he’s at the end of the line.

  He’s a brindle dog, one lop ear, the other a ragged half of an ear; a splash of white on his chest, on which is a long, narrow, still angry-looking scar that glows pinkish in the fluorescent light of the kennel. He sits with a quiet dignity among all these raucous others. Adam stands at the locked cage door, his fingers gripping the diamonds of wire, staring at the dog, willing it to be Jupe’s dog. The dog raises its eyes to meet his. His mouth opens; a long, wide tongue lolls out. He stands up and his tail swings mildly from side to side. He has the look of someone with just one last hope in the world.

  “This one.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Sure is exactly what Adam isn’t. “That’s him.”

  “You can’t adopt for someone else.”

  “So I’ll ‘foster’ him till Charles gets home.”

  “Look. I know. You’re trying to do a favor for a friend. But this is not our policy.” Dr. Gil puts his hand on the latch. The dog in question cocks his head, eager to see what comes next. “Especially with these dogs. Pit bulls.”

  “But you, a vet, would rather destroy him without benefit of judge and jury?”

  “He’s got the scars. He’s been fought. That kind generally don’t make it as pets.”

  “But he’s already a pet.” Adam feels a surge of anger. He isn’t someone who is told no; he is someone who says no. “I’ll post bail.”

  There is a long, uncomfortable moment as the two men eye each other. Finally, Dr. Gil shakes his head. “You need to fill out adoption papers, show us that you either own your own home or that your landlord will allow you to have a dog.”

  “I have a better idea.” There is rack filled with choke chains and leashes. “I’ll take him and give you a big donation.” Adam pulls down a leash from the rack.

  “You’ll pay the regular adopt
ion fee of two hundred dollars and sign a paper that says you won’t give this dog away.”

  “Except to his rightful owner.”

  “That you’ll return him to us if you choose not to keep him.” The vet folds his arms across a meaty midriff. “That is our policy.”

  Adam doesn’t know why he’s arguing with this Dr. Gil, except that he is unwilling to cave in to this pompous guy who probably couldn’t make it as a real doctor and so is treating animals instead. Adam is determined to walk out of the shelter with the goddamned dog. He’s not going to be told by this Big Bluie that he can’t take a stupid dog that’s likely going to be destroyed anyway. Adam’s not in it for the money; no one will compensate him for taking this dog out of this place. He won’t be receiving any state paycheck. No one will hold him up as a humanitarian. No foster father of the year title while all the time he’s making life miserable for some innocent kid. Threatening the strap if a towel gets left on the floor.

  Adam pulls himself up. What the fuck is he doing? Suddenly, the clipboard is in his hands and he’s walking out of the shelter, two hundred dollars deeper in Visa debt, which he has no hope of recovering, and holding the leash of a dog he is fairly certain isn’t the right one.

  They stand on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street to his car. Adam glances down at the dog. The mutt is looking up at him, tongue lolling for all the world like he’s happy.

  “You goddamned better be Benny.” Adam jerks the leash and the pair cross the street.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “I got his dog.” Adam ducks his head into Big Bob’s office. “Just what am I supposed to do with him?”

  “Jupe’s here.”

  A slight scrim of sweat breaks out on Adam’s forehead. Thank God. Despite his assurances to the vet, Adam has no intention of taking the dog home. Right now it sits in the back of his Lexus, the back window cracked open, a towel on the cream-colored leather. He has no idea if the dog will sit quietly or wreck his car. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s better. More himself. But he’ll be happy to see that dog. It’s all he’s talked about since he walked in, how you’re going to find it. Sorry to have put that on you, man, but it’s a good-deed merit badge.” A euphemism for points earned on his community service. Every hour he works is documented; every hour Adam spends in the center becomes one less he has to serve. A “merit badge,” in Big Bob’s lexicon, earns him another hour of service. Of course, Adam has just spent several hours and two hundred dollars performing this service, but he decides to let that go. “I’ll go get the dog.”

  The inside of his car smells like a mix of medicated shampoo and dog breath. The blunt-headed animal greets him like a lost friend, tag wagging, tongue drooping out of his split-grin face. “Come on. Your master wants a word with you.” Adam hauls the dog up the back stairs of the center.

  Jupe is waiting in the empty dining room. It’s long after lunch and most of the men are either gone or settled in the activity room. The tables are folded and garaged against the far wall. Jupe has a new watch cap, and his army-surplus jacket is buttoned up to his neck. Adam can see that his eyes are clouded with the comfort of legal drugs. He has the look of a man standing on solid ground for the first time after a long sea voyage.

  Adam half-expects that Jupe’s drug-induced calmness will abate at the sight of his missing dog, and he is going to hand the leash over and make a run for it before Jupe can give him a grateful hug. The last thing he wants is an embrace. It’s late and he just wants to go back to his place, crack open the JW, and relax in front of the television. It’s all he wants. The solitude of slow numbness.

  “That’s not Benny.”

  “Of course it is.” Adam thrusts the leash at Jupe’s hand. “Take him.”

  The dog sits down. He looks from Adam to Jupe and back again.

  “I know my own dog. This isn’t him. This is some stray.”

  “Sir. He was the only …”

  Jupe’s tears start down his gunneled cheeks. He doesn’t sob, or make a move to wipe them away. “Benny? What’s happened to him? Did you look everywhere?”

  Adam pokes the leash end against Jupe’s fisted hand. “He’s a nice dog. Take him.”

  Suddenly, Jupe’s face changes; some older part of himself shows, the professor or the father or the good husband. “Do you think that affection is so easily transferred? Do you think that you could love a stranger child who is given to you as a replacement for your own? Do you have the slightest idea what it means to love someone or something? My dog is my friend, my companion, my protection on the street. I failed to love my family enough, or myself. But I love Benny.” And just as suddenly, Jupe reverts to the craggy, hollow-cheeked man of a moment before; then he shrugs back his shoulders and walks away from Adam and the dog.

  The dog stands up, shakes, and yawns.

  Adam swallows hard. His chest feels as hollow as the Tin Man’s. He can hear his pulse in his ears; he knows that he’s got to take charge of the moment, but he’s stuck, feckless. He feels the dog nudge his leg as if to say, Let’s get out of here.

  Big Bob has watched the whole scene, as has Rafe, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his palm-frond hands stroking his cheeks. Adam thinks he hears laughter, faint ripples of amusement at his expense. The familiar knot of frustration twists in his belly, this being thwarted that provokes his just-below-the-surface anger. He has put himself on the line here for some indigent and now he’s stuck.

  “Hey man, that’s a nice dog.” Rafe’s voice is just one degree to the left of teasing. “Lemme get him somethin’ to eat.”

  Adam is slow to turn around, slow to decide if Rafe is taunting him or sincere.

  “Well, you tried.” Big Bob doesn’t come close enough to slap Adam on the back; in fact, he stays at a distance. “I guess you’ll have to take him back.”

  “Yeah. Great.” Adam has an appointment with a potential client in half an hour on the other side of town. “Can you keep him here till I get back?”

  “No. Don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “I can’t keep him.”

  “Take him back on your way across town.”

  “I don’t have time. Come on. I found the goddamn dog, or at least found one like him; the least you can do is keep him here for a couple of hours.”

  “No. Sorry. It’s cold out, he can wait in your car.”

  Adam yanks the leash attached to the choke chain and hauls the dog out of the dining room and into the back hallway. Rafe is there with a plate of leftovers and a bowl of water. The dog makes noisy, fast work of the mess on the plate and laps water to the bottom of the bowl. Rafe watches with the same self-satisfaction on his face as when he takes a moment to observe the men enjoying his food. “He’s a hungry one.”

  “You want him?”

  Rafe makes a little piffle noise. “Can’t. No pets allowed where I live.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “’Sides, my wife’d kill me, I bring one of them home.”

  Adam is nonplussed. Rafe has never mentioned a wife before. Then again, neither has he. It’s like their lives begin and end in this old Victorian building. Their conversations revolve around sports or politics, the differences between them offering very little common ground; neither he nor Rafe ever speak of a personal life, or only in a glancing way. “Well, maybe she can change her mind.”

  Rafe strokes his cheek with his fingertips, as if contemplating the idea. “No.”

  Adam tightens his grip on the leash and yanks the dog away from the plate he is still licking.

  Adam opens the back door of his Lexus. During the hour and a half the big mutt has spent lolling on his backseat while Adam has been doing his dog and pony show for a group of entrepreneurs who don’t look a day over twelve, he has managed to stink up the car with his farts and glaze both the door and the back windows with nose prints. His face splits into a grin as he lolls his tongue out at Adam’s arrival. His tail wags, slapping the white leather wi
th a tympanic rhythm.

  Adam hauls the dog out by the collar and marches to the door of the animal shelter. A strategic retreat is more honorable than a complete defeat. He’ll turn the dog over, try to get his money back, and forget the whole debacle.

  Closed.

  Fuck. It’s only four o’clock. What kind of weird hours does this place keep?

  Briefly, Adam looks around for a place to tie the dog. Maybe he can just leave him and then put a message on the answering machine why he did; surely someone comes in on weekends to feed the inmates. As quickly as the suggestion occurs to him, Adam shrugs it off. He’d probably get sent up on cruelty charges for doing that. The last thing Adam March needs is more trouble. He has a date with Judge Johnson next week, and he is harboring a self-indulgent hope that the judge will cut him some slack, maybe even give him a reprieve. “Well, stupid, I guess you’re with me.” He loads the dog back into his sullied Lexus and heads home.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Adam has only a vague notion how to take care of a dog. He’s never had one, never allowed one in his house. Although Ariel had clamored for a puppy time and again, a fat black Labrador retriever like the ones that all the other kids whose parents had houses on Martha’s Vineyard dragged along from home. “Why not? Why can’t we? Why can’t we?” Adam’s answer was an unequivocal no, with the blame tossed, from time to time, on Sterling’s shoulders. “It wouldn’t be fair to your mother; she has enough to do.” Which, even as a small child, Ariel saw right through. Adam got smarter. “It wouldn’t be fair to”—and he’d name the incumbent housekeeper—“she has enough to do.” Ariel had to be satisfied with her horses, which at least lived somewhere else.

  So to find himself in his small one-bedroom apartment, in a building with no yard, face-to-face with one of the least attractive dogs ever made, Adam thinks he must be out of his mind.

  The dog, a rusty brindle with white markings and that weird hacked-off ear, sits staring back at him. Every now and then his mouth opens and that banner of a tongue lolls out. He makes a gasping noise, slips the tongue over his nose, right, then left, and retracts it into his mouth, all the while keeping his eyes on Adam, as if he’s waiting for a speech, or a tap dance. Or a fight.