by Dean Koontz
I didn’t think much about this abrupt retreat. Perhaps she had heard someone open the pantry door in the kitchen, where her can of kibble was kept. She always assumed that no one could have any other purpose for entering the pantry except to get food for her.
I welcomed X into the living room, we chatted for a bit, and then I called upstairs to Linda to find out if Trixie was with her. Trix indeed had retreated to that office, and I asked Linda to bring her down to the living room.
Trixie descended the front stairs warily, but remained in the foyer while Linda came through the living room archway to say hello to X. She tried to return upstairs with Linda, but I said, “Trixie, here,” and she wouldn’t disobey me. She stepped hesitantly to the archway, her tail held low.
Leaning forward in an armchair, X said, “Here, cutie, come give me a kiss.”
After a quick glance toward our visitor, Trixie refused to look at X again, as if by doing so she would risk being turned to stone. As X continued to wheedle, Trixie’s ears seemed to droop as if all the cartilage had melted out of them, and she hung her head as she might have if she expected at any moment to be beaten.
When she finally ventured into the living room, she slunk to me, where I sat on a sofa, and pressed up against my leg, as though for reassurance. If a large coffee table hadn’t stood between me and X, I don’t believe Trixie would have ventured out of the foyer.
Having told X that the Trickster was people-loving, as friendly as any canine who ever lived, so friendly that she made Lassie seem like a savage attack dog, I found our girl’s behavior a little bit embarrassing. In retrospect, perhaps this development should have made me nervous. But I had known X for years by telephone, even if this was only our second face-to-face encounter. I had no reason to think that I was dealing with an individual whose appearance and whose reality were as different as a rose is different from a garlic bulb.
I suggested to X that Trixie must not be feeling well, and I took her upstairs to Gerda. Thereafter, I drove X to lunch.
At the restaurant, after ordering but before we had been served more than iced tea, X said, “After lunch, I want to take a tour of your beach house.”
This statement struck me as somewhat forward, especially because it was delivered as a desire, almost as a demand, rather than as a request. Furthermore, X knew that I was on a deadline, working long days, and that to make up for the couple of hours we were taking for lunch, I would have to stay at the keyboard later into the night than usual.
Referring again to that deadline, I suggested that perhaps we could tour the beach house the next time X was on the West Coast.
“Just give me the address, directions, and the key,” X said, “and I’ll have a look at it on my own this afternoon.”
Faintly but unmistakably, in my mind’s ear, I began to hear the shrieking violins that accompanied every slashing of the knife in Psycho.
“Well,” I lied, “today isn’t a good day anyway, because the exterminator tented the house for termites. You can’t get inside.”
We talked about termites for a while, and X revealed no peculiar thoughts about them or about insects of any kind, and then we moved on to the subject of mold and dry rot, which are also problems when you have a house on the water in a warm climate, and somehow we went from dry rot to chatting about recent movies. Minute by minute, the give-me-the-keys-to-your-house-I-want-to-snoop-through-your-closets request seemed less real, as if I must have misunderstood, and the X who had asked for the keys, Bizarro X, seemed to have been someone I imagined.
After our food was served and as we began to eat, X said, “I’m going to come stay at your beach house for a few weeks this summer.”
The shrieking violins returned, and suddenly my food tasted like something termites might have gnawed on. Smiling as if I saw nothing strange in X’s announcement, I said, “Oh, well, you know, we don’t rent the place out, it’s not an income-producing property.”
“Yes, I know,” said X, “that’s what’ll make it such a special vacation, like staying in a wonderful home, not like a hotel.”
Disquieted by the presence of a sharp knife beside X’s plate, I tried to convince myself that this person must be pulling my chain, having a laugh at my expense. I might have embraced that notion if X’s eyes had not become as feverish as those of a malaria victim tormented by hallucinations. X stared across the table at me as Rasputin must have stared when he mesmerized the czar. Although I was reluctant to meet that intense gaze, breaking eye contact might be read as a weakness.
“Don’t worry,” X said, “I won’t wreck the place.”
Of course I knew at once the place would be thoroughly wrecked.
“There must be lots of interesting people to meet in a town like Newport,” X continued, “all the surfers, beach bums, and everything, but I’ll keep the parties down to one a week.”
“Well,” I said, “beach properties are pretty close together, and our neighbors don’t like parties.”
“It’s your property,” said X, “they can’t make rules for you.”
“Ordinarily,” I heard myself saying, “I would agree with you, but our neighbors are crazy skinheads, total gun nuts, they sit on their back patio with assault rifles on their laps, bandoliers of ammunition, you don’t want to push them.”
X regarded me as I had regarded X: as if I were of questionable sanity.
Instead of continuing to meet craziness with craziness, I said, “Well, as soon as you decide when you’d like to come, let me know the dates, and we’ll work it out.”
I had no more intention of accommodating X for a three-week vacation than I had of stabling a herd of Aegean horses in the beach house.
Evidently, I sounded sincere, because X said, “Great. It’ll be a lot of fun. You and Gerda will be invited to the parties, of course.”
“Cool,” I said.
For the remainder of lunch, we talked about this and that, as if neither of us belonged in an asylum, and Bizarro X appeared now and then only as an occasional facial expression that didn’t comport with what X was saying. Although telling a funny story, X glowered as if recounting a harrowing encounter with a rabid cat, while a dissertation on the threat of global warming was delivered with a sunny smile.
After surviving lunch and the drive home, when I could easily have been overpowered and strangled with a wire garrote in traffic, I was relieved when X did not suggest staying for dinner and then for the rest of my life. I waved at X’s departing rental car as if forlornly bidding adieu to a friend whose absence would make my world a grim, gray place.
A few days later, having returned to the East Coast, X called to give Linda five names to add to our free-book list. Each time a new novel of mine is published, I send inscribed copies to approximately 250 family members and friends, as a way of saying that I’m thinking of them and that my life has been brightened by knowing them over all these years, and another fifty to people who, like X, have been helpful on the business side of my life. The five names provided by X were, of course, strangers to me.
A few days later, X called to give us another five names to add to the free-book list. The following week, X called to say that none of those ten people had yet received their inscribed books, so we might want to resend, this time by Federal Express. A couple of days later, X phoned to leave the name and number of an acquaintance—let’s say the name was Q—who had recently been through a bad divorce and needed a shoulder to cry on. X felt that no shoulder in the world would better console Q than that of her favorite author.
Although a time had existed when I personally took calls from X, that time was past. Usually, we had reason to talk four times a year, but X started calling twice a week. Linda fielded all of this with her customary courtesy and patience, but X soon demanded to talk to me—and started ringing before Linda arrived for work or when she might be at lunch, hoping I would be alone and answering my office phone. Being sent to voice mail offended X. We were, after all, going to be partying to
gether next summer, hanging out with a bunch of beach bums and radical dudes, having the best time of our lives.
Without giving the reason, I severed my business relationship with the company that employed X, after which we had no reason to talk. Nonetheless, the calls continued for a couple of years—as did demands for free books to be sent to people who were delighted to have met my best friend, X, and were further delighted to hear that they would never again have to buy my novels.
When I had let X into our house that fateful day, Trixie took one whiff before the door was half open, probably did not even get a glimpse of this person, but understood at once that a deranged individual loomed at the threshold. She scampered away to hide and, when compelled to put in an appearance, would not allow herself even to be touched by the visitor.
I never again doubted her judgment of anyone, and eventually I came to trust her judgment of other dogs, as well.
Gerda and I had gone to dinner with Trixie on the patio of a Balboa Island restaurant on at least fifty occasions, sometimes just the three of us, often with friends. She had always been the perfect child, causing no disturbance of any kind.
Then on a warm August night, when every table on the patio was occupied with customers, our girl glimpsed a dog on the farther side of the street, half a block away, with its master. Her hackles rose. She sprang to her feet and barked ferociously three times.
She was an exceptionally feminine girl and as gentle as a bunny rabbit, but her voice sounded as big and fierce as that of a 120-pound German shepherd on steroids. Her first bark caused the diners at the other tables to jump half out of their chairs.
I snared her collar, pulled her head close to me, and clamped her mouth shut with my right hand. Employing the command to stop barking, which I had never used before, I said, “Quiet.”
She growled through this makeshift muzzle, but settled when I repeated, “Quiet.” She tried to press her tongue between her teeth to lick my fingers. Knowing that she would be silent now, I let go of her.
To the other diners, who were all looking at us as if wondering which among them would be the first to be eaten, I said, “I’m sorry for the disturbance. We’ve brought her here dozens of times, and she never before barked.”
A man at one of the farther tables said, “No problem. She’s a good dog, and she knows a bad one when she sees it. That beast she barked at is extremely dangerous. It’s attacked smaller dogs, and everyone who lives on the island is afraid of it for good reason.”
Trixie had tried to warn me that X was deranged. Now she warned off the neighborhood canine bully.
We ordered her a plain, broiled chicken breast.
Trixie not only had a nose for trouble, but she never hesitated to stand up to trouble, as well.
When we lived in Harbor Ridge, each morning we followed the same route for Trixie’s morning walk: out of our cul-de-sac and then south along Ridgeline, the cleverly named street that followed the top of the ridge. If we went north on Ridgeline, we came at once to a long steep hill that didn’t offer Trixie the kind of terrain on which she preferred to toilet. Since potty was the first priority of the walk, south was the sole viable choice.
A block and a half from our house, on Ridgeline, a new family moved in with the biggest rottweiler we had ever seen. In the early morning, this brute—call him Big Dog—lay on a balcony that, because of some peculiar architecture, hung only seven feet off the ground. As we approached on the public sidewalk, which lay perhaps twenty feet from the balcony, Big Dog acted as if he had seen Jurassic Park and was a velociraptor wannabe. Saliva foaming from his mouth, he barked and snarled. He threw himself repeatedly against the balcony railing, which shook with every impact as if it would splinter into a million I-Ching sticks.
Because Trixie had once been bitten by a bad dog, Gerda and I—and Linda on the weekday afternoon walks—carried pepper spray to defend against another attack. This repellent discourages any dog in mid-charge but does no permanent damage. Passing Big Dog, we kept the pepper spray ready, an index finger resting on the discharge button. The rottweiler had not been tethered to anything. He was so big that he could have gotten over the balcony railing with ease and dropped seven feet to the lawn without injury. He didn’t seem to realize with what little effort he could break free.
Morning after morning, Trixie led us past Big Dog without giving him a single glance. She kept her head high and did not hurry to get beyond his domain. In fact, she adopted a more leisurely pace during that half block. For two months, she showed no concern, though Gerda and I were grinding our teeth until we were a block beyond Big Dog.
One day, in July, Trixie had enough. Gerda was walking her that morning, and Big Dog flew into a great frenzy, throwing himself at the railing with reckless abandon, barking and snarling as if he would chew his way through the wooden pales. Abruptly, Ms. Trixie turned toward the enormous creature for the first time, and she started across the lawn toward the balcony.
Alarmed, Gerda tried to pull her back, but Trixie was too strong—and too determined—to be restrained. As far as Trix was concerned, this was Waterloo, and the bully was going down as surely as Napoleon did. Approaching the balcony, she began to bark, using every decibel of her surprisingly loud voice. At first, Big Dog answered her, but when he tried to shout her into silence, she cranked up the volume to match his.
By the time Trixie halted directly below Big Dog, barking up at him, Gerda wondered if, following the inevitable attack, she would be able to leave the hospital by Christmas. Trix gave Big Dog a thorough what-for and…after a minute, he stopped throwing himself at the railing. He grew still and quiet, and then he decided he ought to lie down and relax. When she was quite sure she had made her point with the rottweiler, Trixie fell silent, led Gerda to the sidewalk once more, and continued their morning walk.
Big Dog never again barked at us. Every morning, he remained lying on the balcony floor, watching as Trixie strolled past with either Gerda or me. Trix had never been worried about him because she had known that he was all bluster and no bite. Having read his character clearly, she put him in his place only when he became too annoying for her to continue to ignore him.
With her refined nose, Trixie could identify which humans and dogs were trouble—and which were not.
WHEN TRIXIE SPOKE, we learned to listen.
She sometimes went months without issuing a single sound louder than a sigh or a curious little grumble of discontent, which didn’t even qualify as a growl. You might think, therefore, that on those rare occasions when she barked, we would at once be concerned and would want to know what motivated her to speak.
Instead, we became so accustomed to her silence, we reacted to a bark as if it were aberrant behavior that we must gently discourage lest we set her on a slippery slope from quiet companion to barking basket case. Cut us some slack: We are, after all, just human beings.
One Saturday, Gerda and I were working in our adjacent offices, she on bookkeeping, I on a novel with an approaching deadline. As quitting hour drew near, we agreed on pizza for dinner. Thin-crust DiGiorno pizza has been such a significant part of our lives that we may at any moment pass some biological tipping point and begin to exude the aromas of cheese and pepperoni from our pores. Gerda went to the kitchen to preheat the oven, then returned to her office to finish her data entries.
About fifteen minutes later, having approached my desk without making a sound, Trixie let out a single tremendous bark. I shot from my chair as if it were a cannon and I were a clown.
Gravity brought me down again. Because I feared losing the tone of a paragraph that I hoped to finish before dinner, I responded to Trixie with the command I had used only once before, “Quiet.”
She padded away. From Gerda’s office came a window-rattling bark. I heard Gerda say, “Quiet, Miss Trixie. You scared me.”
Returning to my work space with sneak-thief stealth, the golden one launched me from my chair again with two furious barks. She gave me a look of extr
eme disapproval. Her raised ears, flared nostrils, and body language indicated she had important and urgent news to convey.
Feeling as if I were Lassie’s dad, trying to determine if this time Timmy had fallen down an abandoned well or was trapped inside a burning barn, I said, “What is it, girl? Show me what’s wrong.”
She hurried out of the room, and I followed her.
Our offices are in a separate wing of the house, isolated from the main living areas. Trixie trotted along the hallway where I shelve one copy each of about five thousand editions of my books in various languages. On a tough writing day, this collection encourages me: Having finished novels before, I will surely finish the current one.
The office hall connected to the main hall, where Trixie turned right. She picked up her pace, glancing back to see if I had wandered to a window to admire the red New Zealand impatiens in the courtyard. The short attention span of people can frustrate a dog on a mission.
I pursued her out of the hall. Halfway across the living room, I detected the faint acrid scent of something burning. Running now, Trixie barked one more time, to be sure that I would not stop at a sofa to rearrange the throw pillows.
In the kitchen, tentacles of thin gray smoke slithered out of the vent holes below an oven door. Each Thermador had a fan that sucked odors and fumes up a dedicated flue, dispersing them above the roof. The sooty octopoidal arms writhing into the room must mean the ventilation fan was overwhelmed by the volume of smoke inside the oven.
Not good.
Peering through the view window, I saw an object afire. For a moment, I couldn’t identify the thing through the obscuring smoke, and then I saw that it was a burning hand, standing on the stump of its wrist.
A burning hand!
Those who have never read my novels often think, incorrectly, that I write horror stories. If you are one of those, you might expect that we discover burning body parts in our oven with some regularity. I assure you we do not.