The Dog Thief

by Marta Acosta

  “I figured. He wears a wedding ring. So did you go to the meeting expressly to scope out guys?”

  “Unlike you, I can multitask so I could listen to the sheriff and appreciate the way the way he fills out his uniform. He’s available now, I hear.”

  “I’m surprised he’s never hit on you.”

  “It isn’t as if my dealings with him have been conducive to flirting.”

  I looked away, not interested in bringing up unpleasant interactions with the sheriff’s department. “He strikes me as very generic cop-jock. Throw him in with a dozen of the same type and I couldn’t pick him out except for the color of his hair.”

  “And yet you can distinguish your dogs by the sound of their individual barks. I’d rather window shop than get involved with a twice-divorced man anyway.”

  I fetched Bertie from the center and he joined our walk. The air still held some of the day’s warmth. I liked the dark outline of the mountains against the indigo sky. I didn’t know what the horizon would look like in Austin. “Why Austin?”

  “You know their motto, ‘Keep Austin weird.’ I thought it might be a good fit.”

  “Austin weird is second rate, self-conscious, aren’t-I-ironic, aren’t I quirky? weird. It’s not authentic weird.”

  “I cannot believe you’re even a snob about that.” The horses were a little nervous, sidling away from us. “I wonder what’s bothering them.”

  We stood still, listening for anything different. After a minute, I said, “Bertie would let us know if someone or something was around.” I signaled for him to bring Kenzie’s chestnut mare toward us. “Jaison wants us to get sheep again and use them for field trial training. I know a herding expert and Bertie could practice his instincts as a shepherd.”

  “We already have more animals than we can care for. Did you step in a road pie? Don’t answer. It’s my own fault for lending you my shoes.”

  “Not everything is your fault, Kenz.” I snapped a lead on a horse and scratched his white blaze. “I didn’t see Claire at the meeting.”

  “You managed to wait an entire thirty minutes before bringing her up, which shows you can exercise control. Don’t obsess, Mad Girl.”

  “Isn’t that what love is?”

  “No. That’s just your brain stuck in a groove.” She frowned. “You say that a calm dog is a happy dog.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You figure it out.”

  Chapter 6

  THE COYOTE RECORDER STORY ran at 7:00 a.m. and our phones started ringing at 7:10 and didn’t stop. I found a piece of construction paper and used an extra-fine Sharpie pen to draw two overlapping circles. I labeled one circle “True Crime Voyeurs” and the other “Pet Owners,” and cross-hatched the overlapping area. I wrote the title, Potential Clients Interested in Unidentified Corpses Discovered by Animal Telepathy and taped it to the fridge.

  When I went to my center, Jaison was already in my office answering calls. “She’s always been very intuitive to the spiritual auras of our animal companions.” He scrawled a note on a Post-it pad, and then stuck the note with several others on the wall.

  I collected the Post-Its. “Where did you learn the jargon?”

  “I had a short gig as a phone psychic under the name Mumphry Starlight.”

  “Mumphry is a damn good name. Let’s use it for one of the dogs. What happened to the job?”

  “Oh, you know, bullshit and hassle.”

  “Story of my life. Don’t smash my felt pens so hard.”

  “You’re too nitpicky.”

  “It’s a symptom of my condition.”

  “I know, but as my boss, you shouldn’t micromanage.” The phone rang again and he picked it up, saying, ““Good morning, Whitney Canine Rehabilitation Center.”

  I moved the stapler back to its proper side of the desk and then went outside to the deck. I dedicated time to working with Heidi on her food guarding, using a rubber hand attached to a broom stick to reach toward a bowl of kibble. The other dogs set up a commotion at the very moment that I was moving the bowl with my bare hand, and then someone said, “Afternoon.”

  Heidi lunged and I snatched my hand back just as her powerful jaws clamped down on the edge of the bowl. I turned to see Oliver Desjardins by the edge of the deck.

  “Jesus, Oliver,” I said, turning back to the food bowl. Heidi had taken advantage of the diversion to chow down.

  He wore his khaki uniform slacks and a white departmental polo with his black duty belt and holster bulky on his lean hips. I’d seen photos of him and Claire as kids, when they were skin, bones, and freckles, their thin arms tangled around each other, their wide mouths open in laughter. “It’s Sheriff’s Captain to you.”

  “I’m not going to be the only one who calls you that, Sheriff, and you very nearly got my hand amputated, because Heidi’s teeth can go through bone.”

  “Do you have the skill and physical strength to control a dangerous animal?”

  “Horses are dangerous animals and there are dozens of fatalities and thousands of injuries every year from riding accidents, so if you’re going to question my qualifications, I hope you’ll also question every rider in Coyote Run.”

  “If they acted the way you do, I would.”

  “I’m sure you’d like that.”

  “What I’d like is for the citizenry to behave responsibly.”

  “My clients put faith in my responsibility,” I said, but decided he would be more annoyed than impressed if I named my entertainment industry regulars. “I didn’t see Claire at the meeting. Do you think she’s serious about selling her place?”

  “Like I’d tell you anything. I’m here about business. The county supervisors decided we should have a Search and Rescue canine even though they know ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the people who go missing here show up three days later with gonorrhea and tattoos on their johnsons, but they’ve got their minds set, so I’ve got no choice except to deal with you.

  He spoke with enough hostility to raise Heidi’s hackles. I gestured with my palm down and she sat. “I’m not going to train a dog to sniff for drugs or harass anyone who looks suspicious to you. I rehabilitate dogs and you don’t own one. Claire told me you don’t even like them.”

  “Would you keep my sister out of this discussion?” He pointed at Bertie. “That’s a SAR dog. I’ll take him.”

  I stared at Oliver for a second before saying, “Are you out of your damn mind? I’m not selling Bertie to you.”

  “You can’t sell what you don’t own,” Oliver said. “The U.S. Army already paid for that dog and his training. I know exactly how you got him.”

  My ribs felt as if something was tightening around them. Claire must have told him. Of course she told him. She told him everything. I looked back to Bertie. “His handler wanted me to have him. He belongs with me.”

  “His handler has diminished mental capacity. Since his handler can’t care for him, law enforcement has second claim. And I am the fucking law enforcement ”

  I stepped toward Oliver, and Heidi growled, and Bertie swiftly came to my side, and Oliver unsnapped the strap on his holster and rested his hand on his gun.

  “Don’t you even think about it, Madeline Whitney.”

  I shrugged to keep in control of the emotions surging through me. Once, twice. Only three times. I was able to make myself stop at three. “You’re not taking Bertie. You’re not a qualified handler and he’s served his time.”

  Oliver’s eyes travelled down to my dog, settling on the scars on his back. “Do you have another solution? Because the Supervisors said to get a dog and didn’t allocate a cent for it.”

  I had to concentrate to unclench my hands. “I have another dog you can use for SAR. I’ll train her and teach you to handle her. Her name’s Ghost.”

  “You mean she’s not trained yet? Doesn’t it take years to train an SAR dog?”

  “It takes other people years because they don’t have a psychic connection wit
h animals.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “I’ve always had a psychic relationship with animals, but I never said anything about it because only the deluded and con artists claim they can read pets’ minds. Genuine animal psychics keep on the down low.”

  “You are full of shit. One dog is the same as another to me. I don’t care as long as I can show the Supes I’ve got a SAR dog when needed.”

  I let out a shuddering breath of relief and Oliver stared at me as if I was a freak. It didn’t matter because Bertie was safe for now. “Look, here’s what we can do. If any immediate missing person situation arises, I’ll work with you and Bertie, and I’ll also train Ghost with you, so she’s your dog. She’ll be loyal to you over anyone else. I won’t charge you for her.”

  “How long is this going to take? Because I really don’t want to spend a second longer with you than absolutely necessary.”

  “It won’t take long at all. I have extensive experience with SAR basics,” I said, sure that watching a few videos would be enough to fool this jackass.

  “You’ve got one chance, and if you fuck with me, I swear to God, I’m just looking for an excuse... You get me?”

  “Yes, I get you perfectly.”

  “You are a piece of work.” He shook his head and walked away.

  I’D ADORED CLAIRE DESJARDINS from the moment I heard that voice at the Suncrest Market asking the manager if she could have wooden fruit crates for an art project. I turned and saw her laughing and twisting her long hair into a knot. I loved her beauty and her graceful languid movements. I always watched for her. I sometimes saw her with her crew of sexy women at Rudy’s Brewhouse, or with her twin by the sheriff’s station. I didn’t know how to approach her so I didn’t.

  One day, I answered the phone and instantly recognized the rough, honeyed voice that asked “Is this Maddie Whitney? I hope you can help me because there’s a dog I’m worried about.”

  The next day we were in my truck driving over the mountain to the Veteran’s Home, where she gave art classes. We parked by the housing unit for vets from Iraq and Afghanistan, who were allowed to keep therapy dogs. “This case is different. His handler is unresponsive and in decline and no one has time to walk or care for the dog. He’s a really nice dog, too.” She pulled on a lanyard with a Volunteer Instructor badge and signed us in at the check-in desk.

  Claire took me through the facility, saying hello to the men and women we passed, while I hung back a half step. She knocked on a door decorated with a child’s drawing of a soldier and a dog with Uncle Joey written across the bottom.

  No one answered, and Claire opened the door to a small room with a single bed, a desk, and a sink. A TV mounted on the ceiling was set to a music station, playing classic rock. A young man sat in a wheelchair, staring at a window to a view of the vineyard-covered foothills. His head was shaved and crisscrossed with scars. His arms and legs were slack with no muscle tone. A dog lay on a mat beside him. A beautiful dog with dark intelligent eyes, tall erect ears, a thick golden coat with a black mask and black tail, and scarring on his back.

  “He’d be a great companion for a vet with PTSD, but the family objects to him being placed with anyone else.” Claire placed her hand over the young man’s and squeezed. “This poor son of a bitch. You know he’d take care of his dog if he could.”

  “There’s no chance he’ll get better?”

  She shook her head. “It breaks my heart.”

  And then Claire began to cry and I wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her, but I was no good with people. I was only good with dogs.

  So I’d crouched by the Joey’s chair. His eyes didn’t move or even blink and I’d said, “I know you loved this dog. Thank you for everything you’ve done for him, for all of us. I’m going to help you the only way I know how. I’m going to take your dog and give him the very best life I can provide, the life you would want him to have. I’m going to do what you want even though you can’t ask.”

  And then I stole Bertie.

  “MOST PEOPLE DON’T HATE me until they get to know me.”

  “Siblings are complicated, and twins are inexplicable.” Kenzie was arranging a vase of daisies on a console table.

  I rarely came in the living room, cluttered and fussy as it was with decorative pillows, scalloped valances, mercury glass ornaments, and other knickknacks. “Daisies always stink, even when they’re fresh. Don’t you think so?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the clients’ might. It would be better to have them come to my center.”

  “That pack is frightening for most people. You were the one who announced your psychic abilities, so you can meet the Specials here for the initial assessment.” People requesting a psychic diagnosis automatically qualified for our special rate, double the usual fee, usually reserved for those who were too rich to care and/or a pain in the ass. “Unless you’d prefer to make house calls.”

  “So I can be trapped and forced to look at photo albums? I don’t think so.” I tugged at the waistband of the navy twill slacks Kenzie made me wear. They were too stiff and the seams of my pressed cotton shirt scratched my sides. “Stop looking so worried. Jaison’s already coached me on the lingo, which he learned when he worked at a psychic hotline.”

  “He told you that? He never tells me anything except that I have ‘sweet titties.’ Which reminds me, you should talk to him about sexual harassment because comments like that are okay with friends, but not with your clients.”

  “Jai’s never said anything about my tits, and I have great tits. We review HR policy at our bi-annual off-site retreats.”

  “You’re impossible. Okay, I’ll talk to him. If you’re concerned about your appearance, stop smooshing your boobs in sports bras.”

  “They’re more humane than this medieval torture device.” I twisted, feeling the edges of the bra straps and the tightness of the band around my ribs. “I’m going to change,” I said, just as we heard a car coming down the drive.

  “No you’re not. Stay where you are.”

  The moment Kenzie left the room, I took the vase of daisies and put them in the half-bath, which already reeked of clove potpourri. I dumped the potpourri in the trash, and covered it with toilet paper to block the smell. I pulled off my jewelry and shoved it in the vanity drawer and then rushed back to the living room and sat down.

  Kenzie returned with a stylish woman carrying a fluffy little dog in a leather tote bag. “Madeleine, this is Dionne and Maurice, her animal companion.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Dionne and Maurice.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Dr. Whitney.”

  Doctor?

  Dionne reached out to shake hands. I saw the warning expression in Kenzie’s eyes, so I held my hand out. Dionne’s fingers were so lax I snatched my hand back. Maurice’s high yips provided a distraction while I shrugged hard.

  “Naughty dog,” Dionne said.

  “Pardon my reaction, but Maurice sensed an intrusion on his space,” I said. “Would you mind taking him out of the bag so I can observe him? I mean, observe his aura.”

  Dionne sat too close to me on the sofa so I shifted to the far side while she wrested the dog out of the tote. “Who’s mommy’s little boy? Do you want to come out and meet the nice ladies, little Maurice?”

  I squirmed at the pitch of her voice, but Kenzie’s laser eyes pinned me to the sofa. Finally, Dionne set a fluffy, bat-eared tri-colored dog on her lap and said, “He’s half Papillion, half Yorkie.”

  I lost interest since I’d already completed my P category of dog breeds with a Plott hound, a pug, and a Pyrenean Shepherd, and I already had Yorkies.

  My sister took the chair across from us. “Dionne, what is it you’d like to know about Maurice?”

  The client looked at me. “Dr. Whitney, is it true your dog told you where the dead woman was?”

  “It was a flock of blackbirds, but ninety-nine percent of the time, I don’t get messages from wild animals. Perhaps a psy
chic connection allowed some animals to become domesticated. Did you know that we can’t tame zebras? In ‘Sheena, Queen of the Jungle,’ Tanya Roberts was riding a painted pony, not an actual zebra. True story.”

  I would have liked to discuss the movie and the way Tanya Roberts filled out her buckskin bikini, but Kenzie cleared her throat, so I shut up.

  “Did the blackbirds tell you in words? In English?” Dionne asked. “Did they say, there’s a woman who was shot here, or come this way or something?”

  “How do you know she was shot?”

  “It was on the radio as I was driving here. Multiple gunshot wounds.”

  I stared at Maurice and his brown eyes looked back at me, each sizing up the other. “It’s more like an intuition. It’s nonverbal,” I said as I watched her hand go to Maurice’s hip. He instantly twisted and sank his pointy little teeth into her hand.

  “Maurice! Bad boy!” Dionne blinked back tears and examined her hand. “He didn’t break skin this time.” She rolled up her sleeve and showed a scattering of scabs. “This is why I’m here. Why does he do it? Doesn’t he know how much I love him?”

  “May I?” I reached to the dog, avoiding the place she’d touched. When he growled, I applied pressure on his nape. Maurice squirmed and bared his teeth, so I laid him on his back and gave warning click of my tongue.

  He struggled against me and Dionne panicked. “You’re hurting him! He’ll hurt you!”

  Maurice was maybe five pounds soaking wet. “I’m not hurting him. He won’t hurt me.” After another 20 seconds, the dog stopped wiggling and panted. I gently combed the fur at his hip to reveal redness beneath. Poor little pup.

  “Is he telling you anything?” Dionne asked, leaning forward.

  I made eye contact for an endless three seconds while I smiled. “Yes, he is, Dionne. Maurice wants you to know that although he’s small, he’s full-grown and he’d appreciate it if you didn’t use baby talk with him. He likes direct communication, such as down, sit, and heel. Even though he’s very beautiful, he’s a dog, not an accessory. Specifically, he’s a terrier so he’s smart and wants to be active. Take him for daily runs and teach him tricks. Challenge him.”