The Dog Thief

by Marta Acosta

  “He likes his tote!”

  “Dogs like a burrow. Get him a crate so he his own small secure space. The last and most important thing is that he’s got a hot spot on his hip here.” I pointed to the affected area. “He thinks it may be an infection, but it could also due to an allergic reaction. He snaps when you touch him there because he’s in pain. Please take him to the vet. I recommend Dr. Benjamin Meadows here in Coyote Run.”

  “I didn’t know he was sick!”

  I shrugged, releasing the tightness running down my spine. “Don’t blame yourself. After all, you’re not psychic. One more thing: don’t pass your insecurities to him. If you really love him, you’ll try to be more confident. Use calm tones, not high pitched squeals. Be his pack leader, Dionne, not a neurotic enabler and you’ll both be happier.”

  Kenzie’s warning look was gone as soon as it appeared. She stood and smiled at Dionne. “I know how draining these readings are for my sister, so we’ll have to end this session. Maddie, why don’t you have a lie-down and I’ll see Dionne and Maurice out?”

  I escaped to my room and heard the women’s voices at the front of the house and then the door closing. I was unhooking my bra when my sister came in and said, “Nice tits. Okay, that went better than I thought it would, but you could have let her keep the baby talk.”

  “No, I couldn’t because baby talk drives me insane. The little guy’s been trying to tell her he’s in pain.”

  “Which is exactly why she brought him to a communicator. Give her credit for that, Dr. Whitney.”

  “You could have warned me about the Doctor.”

  “You earned the degree, so we may as well make some use of the title. It’s not like you’re going to apply for any forensic jobs again. Or are you?”

  “Moot point, since no one would hire me. Speaking of forensics, if the victim was shot several times on Carozzo property, Phin and Tess or their workers would have heard. Did they assume hunters or kids were trespassing? If they didn’t hear shots, the body was moved to the pine stand.”

  “Who pays attention to gunshots? This isn’t your concern.”

  “I pay attention when it seems like it’s on our land. Lividity would show if the body was moved post-mortem or if...” I shook my head, trying to shake the ugly image away. “You’re right: it’s not my concern. I’ll be in the fields with Ghost.”

  “You are charging the sheriff’s department for training her, right?”

  “Of course, but Oliver and I have yet to work out the details.”

  “Maddie...” she began, but I was already out of the room.

  I ran all the way to my center, happy that I’d passed my first test with a special client. Easy money. I left the puppies in their kennel and put Ghost on a lead. She’d had a bath and I’d combed out her matted fur, which was now soft pearly fluff in the late afternoon sunshine. She was interested in our surroundings and began digging at a gopher hole. She had prey drive, but if she didn’t have play drive, I might not be able to train her to track in the limited time I had available. The thought of losing Bertie was more than I could bear.

  WITH THE PASSING OF each hour, I felt more uneasy, as if I was being subjected to a low electric current and the charge increased incrementally. After I’d had three or four or five tall gin and tonics that were mostly gin, I thought it would be a good idea to visit Claire to clear up things and have sex or make love or whatever. When I saw her we could discuss the best semantics. I put on clean jeans and an embroidered camisole she’d given me, and rode my lunky beach cruiser to her place.

  I crashed a few times, once skidding on the gravel and sliding into a muddy ditch. Claire lived in a small cottage, with a few acres of fruit trees she couldn’t keep up. She had planted a front garden with chartreuse dahlias and zinnias contrasting against burgundy canna leaves with spikes of yellow foxglove because she turned everything around her into art.

  I brushed off my clothes, went to the front door, let myself shrug, and rang the bell. While I waited, I combed my hair with my fingers and licked my lips. A minute later, the curtain at the front window flicked as Claire looked out, a flash of red-gold hair around her pale face.

  I smiled and waved. The curtain closed. I waited as patiently as I could, but the drinks had run through me, so I knocked again and shouted, “I need to use the bathroom.”

  She didn’t open the door so I tried the handle. It was locked, so I leaned on the doorbell. “Claire, let me in! I really need to pee.”

  I couldn’t believe how rude Claire was being, continuing to ignore me, while I was calling her name, pounding on the door, and hopping from foot to foot in desperation. My face twisted as I yelled, “Please, please, Claire, please!” until please sounded more like a mewl than speech.

  Finally, I couldn’t hold it anymore and I dashed down the driveway, to the backyard, and behind a big lilac bush. I yanked down my jeans...and that was when Oliver Desjardins walked around the bush and said, “Jesus Christ.”

  He grabbed my arm and began hauling me forward. My jeans wrapped around my ankles and I stumbled, but didn’t fall because he held on as he led me past Claire and to the open back door. He shoved me through and I caught my balance and stumbled to the bathroom.

  It was a relief to collapse on the toilet. I stayed there a long time before flushing and washing my hands. I listened at the door, waiting for Oliver to leave. I could hear his low hard voice in harmony with his sister’s, honey and sand, sweetness and grit.

  I opened the bathroom cabinets and saw a new organic lavender-mint deodorant that smelled fresh and clean like Claire. She still had my toothbrush here. It must mean something. I brushed my teeth, washed up, and swiped on deodorant.

  Goddamn Oliver was still here. So I got in the bathtub, covered myself with a beach towel, and went to sleep.

  I BECAME AWARE OF BEING uncomfortable and cold. I was in total darkness. I dreamed Claire was yelling my name, but I knew I’d been the one yelling her name.

  “Maddie, are you awake!” Claire’s voice seemed muffled.

  Something hard and cold trapped my arms against my sides and I thought, it’s finally happened—I’ve been buried alive! The killer has found me and buried me alive! And then I heard a loud clack, and light blinded me, and then all I could see against the brilliance was the stark outlines of elongated beings looking down at me.

  I thrashed against the steely walls of my coffin and screamed, “I’m not going into the goddamn light!”

  “I just want you to get out of my tub go the fuck home, babe.”

  My eyes adjusted and now I could see the black sky outside the window. I was fully dressed in Claire’s tub. Oliver stood behind Claire in the doorway. They were as severe and fantastic as angels, their fair hair catching and radiating the hall light behind them like halos, but they were decidedly not angels.

  I sat up, trying to straighten my spine, and slipping against the porcelain. “I apologize for any inconvenience. I needed to use the bathroom.”

  Oliver burst into laughter and punched Claire’s shoulder. “You really know how to pick them, Sis.”

  “Shut up.” Claire slugged him back. “Maddie, Oliver will drive you home. Don’t ever come back drunk. In fact, don’t ever come back at all.”

  “Claire, do you want to file a restraining order?” Oliver gave her an encouraging smile.

  “She’s harmless. Can you get her out of here?” Claire turned and walked away.

  He reached down, gripped my arm, and yanked me out of the tub.

  “I would have left on my own, Claire,” I shouted as Oliver dragged me down the hallway. “You didn’t have to call him.”

  “She didn’t,” Oliver said. “I stopped by for coffee.”

  We went outside and Claire slammed the front door shut.

  “I can ride my bike home.”

  “What did I tell you about not causing trouble? You’re going to a holding cell for D&D.”

  “I’m not drunk or disorderly. I was in a bath
tub sleeping.” I was conscious of my slurred s’s so I spoke carefully. “That’s the antithesis of disorderly.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Whitney.”

  He opened the back door of his cruiser. When he pushed my head down and shoved me inside, I recognized the fresh bitter orange scent of neroli, because Claire began using her brother’s cologne after I complained about her gardenia perfume. The door locked with a click and he got in the driver’s seat. I was wondering where Kenzie was and if she would be able to pick me up from the station when Oliver took a call from his dispatcher, their conversation punctuated by clicks and hums.

  I leaned back and checked out the improvements and modifications of the cruiser since the last time I’d been in one. Then the word dog caught my attention and I heard the dispatcher tell Oliver, “The neighbors said it’s dangerous and barking up a shit-storm. The EMTs won’t go in until you take care of it.”

  “Is this urgent?” he said.

  “An anon caller reported it as an OD, so, yeah, it’s urgent. Iron bars on the windows and doors. We’ll have to go in with a ram.”

  “I’m on my way.” Oliver signed off the call and swerved over to the side of the road. The lock on the back door popped up. “Get out and go home.”

  “What did she say about a dog?” I leaned to the wire grate between our seats. “I can help.”

  “It’s a dealer’s guard dog and you are in no condition to do anything. Get out.”

  “No.”

  “Goddamn it. Pass out where you are then.” He flipped on the siren and the cherry top and hit the gas.

  The siren was too sharp and too loud and the lights hurt my eyes, so I closed them and clasped my hands. My head spun and my stomach clenched with the nauseating mixture of gin and anxiety, and the taste of juniper was at the back of my throat, so I counted to keep from getting sick.

  One hundred and eighty-seven seconds later the car jerked to a stop. I opened my eyes. We were on a block of neglected rentals and cheap duplexes. An ambulance flashed lights in front of a ramshackle crack shack with a cyclone fence. Bottles, plastic milk cartons, and rusted car parts littered the front yard. Aluminum-foil covered the windows

  “You stay there while I take care of this.” Oliver didn’t lock me in, and when he left, I got out of the car, almost tripping on the curb.

  The emergency crew had already opened the gate and the bars on the front door with bolt cutters, and a dog barked ferociously inside the house. The front door thudded every time he threw himself against it.

  “Bloodthirsty motherfucker,” a bystander said. “I’m pretty sure he ate my cat.”

  An older woman with a bad perm said, “Someone please shoot Zeus and put him out of our misery.”

  A man with an EMT shirt said, “The sheriff is here to put the dog down so we can go in safely.”

  A chill ran down my spine. “The dog’s only doing his job, trying to protect his master.”

  The neighbor woman looked at me. “I know you. You’re the animal psychic, right?”

  Before I could answer, another squad car rolled up and drew away her attention. I ran by the rusted cars in the driveway to the back of the house, passing barred window, and clumsily weaving through mounds of trash. A narrow half-window was slightly ajar of what I guessed was the kitchen or back porch. It was too small for a man to fit through. I hoped it wasn’t too small for me.

  I couldn’t reach the ledge so I dragged a ratty plastic patio table to the wall. The table wobbled when I climbed on top. I placed one hand flat on the grimy wall for balance as I shoved the window sash with the other. It didn’t budge.

  Bracing myself against the wall, I used both hands to wiggle the window three-quarters of the way open, releasing a rancid funk of chemicals and garbage. I levered myself up and squeezed through the window, praying the dog was still at the front door.

  I tumbled onto crusty dishes filling the kitchen sink and covered counter. Pots and plates crashed down. A thick patina of grease stained the walls brown, and the stench made my eyes water. The grimy door to the rest of the house stood open.

  A bullhorn brayed, “This is the sheriff. We’re coming in,” and something solid pounded against the door so forcefully the small house shook.

  I grabbed a sordid dish towel and wound it around my forearm. “Come here, boy! Come on, Zeus!” I shouted, nerves jangling through me.

  Instantly, a huge snarling creature charged into the room. I saw the black and brown fur, the white teeth, the fury and the power. He launched himself at me, going for my throat, and I brought up my leg and kneed him in the chest to stop his momentum.

  As he fell back, I grabbed his collar and lifted high up on his neck, throwing off his center of gravity. The steel spikes on the collar dug deep into my palm as I strained to keep hold while arching away from his snapping jaws.

  My labored breaths and his snarls were low, drowned out by the noise outside the house.

  My shoulders and arms ached because he was so strong. Foam from the dog’s jaws flicked on me with every jerk of his head, and I concentrated only on keeping in control with a dog trained to target weak spots. If I let go, he’d rip out my throat. I’d be dead and Oliver would come in and shoot Zeus, too. He could take Bertie then. And I’d never see Claire again. So I wrestled the dog with all my might and all my wits. As we twisted and turned, battling to outmaneuver the other, I realized, this dog has been trained as a protection dog.

  The moment Zeus moved to a new position, I said “Sit!” and when he tried for my arm, I thought, if he’s had Schutzhund training, he might respond to German, so I released his collar, jumped away from his jaws and commanded, “Sitz!,” my skin tingling with fear and hope and hope and, oh, so much fear.

  He sat.

  “Good dog. Braver hund!”

  I dragged a chair to the kitchen door. I shut the door and jammed the chair beneath the handle a moment before I heard the battering ram rip through wood and Oliver shouting, “Where the hell is it?”

  “Oliver!” I shouted. “It’s Maddie. I’m in the kitchen. Don’t come in! I repeat: do not come in!”

  The dog began to growl. “Nein!” I said. I grabbed the scruff at the back of his neck, the way a bitch disciplines her pups.

  Looking around I saw empty bowls on the floor, a chain lead, and an empty kibble bag. The dog’s narrow spine protruded. There were glass pipes, burnt squares of foil on the laminate table, and fast-food wrappers on all surfaces. There were piles of dog shit in a corner, and I wondered when he’d last been let out. “I bet you’re hungry.”

  At the front of the house there was a lot of commotion, so I guessed they found the shithead who’d OD’d. I snapped the leash onto Zeus’s collar and searched the kitchen for anything edible. Zeus bolted down a box of Ritz crackers and three raw eggs, before lapping up a bowl of water.

  I unlocked the back door, commanded, “Fuss,” and took him out. Flashing lights from the ambulance on the street bounced on reflective surfaces, giving me enough light to pick my way through the yard, by a twisted fender, bent hubcaps...

  The easiest path away from the chaos was over the chain link back fence. I could see Zeus’s weakened condition, so I built a tall pile of trash against the fence. I released the lead and grabbed the fence, pulling myself up and jamming my toes into the links. “Hopp.”

  The dog paced back and forth, surveying the fence, and then he leapt onto the pile of trash and leapt so his forepaws were at the top of the fence. I was throwing myself over the raw edge of fence, the prongs gouging my stomach, as he jumped down. A moment later, I crashed down beside him.

  I stood slowly, pressed against my belly with one hand and picked up the lead. “Fuss,” I said, and Zeus walked at my heel through a slightly less junky yard. A back door opened, showing a man outlined in the gray fluorescent light spilling out. I noted Zeus’s alertness and kept the lead lax, not wanting to feed his tension.

  “Who’s out there? I’ve got a gun.”

  “Who
doesn’t? I’m Dr. Madeline Whitney and I’m with the sheriff. I’m just cutting through to the street.”

  “I don’t give a shit. You and that monster get the fuck off my property.”

  “That’s my intention. Thank you and have a nice day.”

  The man remained in the open doorway, so I was able to see a cement path between his house and the next. Then we were on a broken sidewalk on the other side of the block. The moon and the outline of the mountains helped me orient myself and I headed home.

  When we were under a streetlamp, I paused to lift the hem of my shirt and look at my stomach. The fence prongs had ripped through the top layers of skin, but hadn’t drawn much blood.

  Zeus walked beside me and I told him, “It’s a wonderful night to be out. Clear and crisp. I’m glad I ran into you because I’ve been looking for an interesting D breed, and you, my friend, are even more exciting than a dingo.”

  I took a longer route, avoiding shortcuts through lonely fields where the moonlight shone down on things I didn’t want to discover. The dog and I walked along the gravel edge of roads bordered by star thistle that stung my ankles. My energy wound down as we finally reached my center, setting off a reaction of the dogs in their kennels.

  I put Zeus in an end kennel reserved for aggressive animals. He lapped another dish of water and devoured a bowl of kibble. I left a note for Jaison. Then I took Bertie to the house with me. It was only 11 p.m. and Kenzie wasn’t home.

  I washed down four aspirin with two glasses of water and went to bed, calling Bertie to take his place beside me.

  “Things could have gone better with Claire,” I told him. “She kept my toothbrush.” My thoughts were already drifting away from Claire to the dog trapped in a crack shack.

  I woke once in the night, confused by the sound in my ears, like blackbirds flapping wings, and then the sound faded. I rested my hand on Bertie, glad he was safe with me and I was safe with him.