The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge

by Jim Kraus

  What now? I mean, I’m a bag boy at a supermarket. That can’t be what girls dream about, can it? Meeting some guy whose most important daily task is asking “Paper or plastic?”

  While the two human players in this drama were happy but confused, the canine player seemed beside himself with joy. He continued to head-butt against Stewart’s leg, demanding to be petted and paid attention to, grinning wildly, grinning as if everything he had hoped had come to some sort of fruition.

  But dogs can’t see ahead. I read that somewhere. Their sense of the future is just not there. He’s happy now. So am I, actually. But I’m worried about what’s going to happen.

  He scratched behind Hubert’s ears.

  And he doesn’t know what’s going to happen.

  And, unknown to both more advanced players in this evening’s activities, Hubert did understand what the future meant. And while he could not foresee what was about to happen, it was also obvious that he had perfect peace in the path that their lives, or loves, would take.

  He grinned up at Stewart.

  Just be patient. We will help Stewart see.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, just a few minutes before seven, Stewart stumbled out of bed, responding to a soft tapping at the door.

  It was Lisa.

  He did a quick body scan. He was wearing athletic running shorts and a Penn State T-shirt. That was enough coverage for company.

  “Listen, I can’t stay since I’m already almost late. But I needed to tell you something.”

  Uh-oh. I did do something wrong.

  “Hubert has to see a vet. All this time, and I haven’t even considered that. He needs to be checked. He could have some sort of disease or parasite or something. And he needs a rabies shot. What if he accidentally bites someone? He’s got to be protected. We have to get him to a vet. Like right away.”

  Stewart thought about trying to smooth his hair into a less wild style but thought it would only draw attention to it. Lisa seemed too preoccupied to notice.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “What time do you get off work?”

  “Two.”

  “Okay. Meet me back here as soon as you can. I heard about a vet in Coudersport that’s really good. And she’s open until six. I checked.”

  “Coudersport? That’s like an hour away.”

  Lisa nodded, as if in a hurry.

  “Yep. But if we go to a vet in town—well, they’ve all seen the posters and the Gazette. They’ll turn us in. We have to go out of town for this.”

  “Oh. Yeah. You’re right.”

  “Good. Then I’ll see you back here at two.”

  “Okay.”

  Lisa stood in the doorway for just a second, then turned back.

  “And last night, Stewart, was really, really special.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean fireworks sort of special.”

  What do I say now?

  “Well…for me, too. Really special.”

  She smiled, a sort of knowing smile.

  “Good.”

  And that was when Hubert barked, not loudly, but loud enough, and Lisa hunched over, shut the door quickly, and hurried down the steps. And Stewart turned to Hubert, put his finger to his lips and hissed, “Shhhh.”

  Lisa drove faster than Stewart remembered her driving. Not excessively fast, not like a speed demon, but around ten miles an hour faster than whatever posted speed limit there was. Hubert did not seem to mind, but Stewart was nervous. Speeding tickets, or the possibility of speeding tickets, made him nervous. And his old Nissan, now dead, seldom managed to go fast enough to break any rural speed limit.

  Despite her speed, Lisa was also a very good driver, always looking at the road, even when talking, and always keeping her hands in the “nine and three position” on the steering wheel.

  “So, how do you know this vet?” Stewart asked.

  “A customer at the Rooster talked about her. There’s not that many lady vets in the area and when I was little, I wanted to be a vet.”

  “Why didn’t you? You’re smart enough.”

  Stewart winced after he said that, thinking that it may be not only an obtuse compliment, but perhaps some sort of backhanded comment on female intelligence.

  But Lisa did not appear to be offended.

  “I ran into high school chemistry. None of it made sense. Atomic numbers. And I sort of figured that to be a vet you might have to know something about chemistry. And besides, I liked writing more. I was better at writing. I love animals, but writing is who I am.”

  Stewart nodded.

  He wondered, for the next three miles, why he had chosen political science as his major at Penn State. He wasn’t political, didn’t really like politics, and had no patience with layers upon layers of bureaucracy and systems organization.

  He wished he had a passion, like Lisa.

  Maybe it’s not too late to find a passion.

  “We’re almost here,” Lisa announced, bringing him out of his reverie.

  He stared out his window.

  “Not much of a town, is it?”

  “It’s about the same size as Wellsboro.”

  Stewart smiled.

  “Like I said, not much of a town.”

  Lisa broke her safe-driving record by letting go of the wheel with her right hand and playfully punching Stewart in the arm, giggling as she did.

  “Look for Broad Street.”

  They drove on for just another minute.

  “One of us should get a GPS unit in their car,” Lisa said.

  “I’ve got a map thing on my phone, but this place is like two pixels wide.”

  Stewart was pretty sure Lisa would have punched him again, but she was too intent on finding the address.

  “Next street,” Stewart said.

  “Good eyes.”

  And they pulled up in front of the large Victorian House with the sign EMMA GRAINGER DVM in front.

  “Looks like our house,” Lisa remarked.

  “But in better repair.”

  Hubert was up now, sniffing loudly. If Stewart had to guess, he would have said that the sniffs were nervous in nature.

  The three of them got out, and Hubert had to be urged to accompany them to the porch. Stewart actually had to grab his collar to get him through the front door. Once inside, the dog huddled behind Stewart’s legs as Lisa went to the counter.

  “Hi,” she said, in a most innocent manner, “I called earlier. Lisa Goodly. We’re bringing Hubert in. He’s a stray, so we don’t know if he’s had any shots or not.”

  The young woman at the counter nodded.

  “You can go into examination room number 2. We actually only have one exam room, but saying we have a number two sounds better, don’t you think?”

  Stewart hoisted Hubert onto the stainless-steel table in room number 2. The dog was trembling, just a little.

  “I know, Hubert. It smells funny in here.”

  The vet, a most attractive younger woman, came in wearing a white lab coat and carrying a stethoscope. She introduced herself and Lisa gave a quick, though somewhat misleading, history of how Hubert came to be with them.

  “He just showed up one day. And he’s such a nice dog. We asked all around, but no one seemed to be missing a dog. And we’d like to make sure he’s healthy and get all his shots and stuff.”

  Dr. Grainer nodded and began an examination, listening to his heart and lungs, taking his temperature, which Hubert did not like one bit. She brought out a small unit that looked like a fat magnifying glass without the glass, and slowly ran it over his body, focusing on the shoulder blades and neck. Then she felt that area, carefully and thoroughly.

  Hubert did not mind that as much as his temperature check.

  “No microchips that I can read or feel.”

  “Good,” Lisa said. “I mean, good that no one thinks he’s lost. Well, maybe they do—but you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” the vet said.

/>   She looked very carefully at Hubert’s face.

  If Stewart had been asked, he might have said that there was an unasked question in her eyes. She checked his eyes and ears and teeth.

  “He looks to be in good shape. The scars he has are old—but they healed nicely. There must have been some serious abuse in his past. But besides that, he does need a shot—a combination vaccine.”

  “Rabies, right?” Lisa said.

  “Rabies, yes, and parvovirus, distemper, and hepatitis as well. I like to give all at once. Some vets do one at a time, but his will save you some money. And it’s just as effective.”

  “Good,” Stewart said.

  She slipped out and returned with a syringe, tapping at it with her finger, just like real doctors do when they give injections. The shot itself took Hubert by surprise, and he yelped and twisted when she injected him.

  “Good boy,” she said, petting his head.

  Hubert did not look like he was buying her pleasantries—not after what she had just done.

  The vet turned to write something down on Hubert’s chart.

  Lisa leaned to Stewart and whispered into his ear.

  “She’s wearing a cross. I bet she’s a Christian.”

  Stewart was not certain that wearing a cross implied belief, but it seemed to make Lisa very happy and he nodded back at her.

  “Well, you’re good to go. The young lady at the front desk will have your bill and your rabies tags. And good luck. Hubert seems like a very nice dog.”

  “He is,” Lisa said. “Thanks.”

  Stewart took out his checkbook and paid for the injections and exam—more than he expected, and more than he usually spent on his own health care. But Lisa was right. He needed to be sure that Hubert was healthy and posed no health risk to them or anyone else.

  Above the reception area, Stewart pointed to a framed poster.

  I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13.

  “You were right. She probably does go to church.”

  The young woman behind the counter smiled.

  “You’re right, sort of. I mean, she does go to church. She has to. She’s dating a pastor in town.”

  As the three of them piled into Lisa’s car and drove off, Emma, the veterinarian, sat behind her desk, thinking, and worrying.

  This sort of thing used to be easy. Before I met Jake.

  She sighed deeply and picked up the phone. On her desk was a faxed copy of Hubert’s picture—sent from the Wellsboro Police Department to all veterinarians in the tri-county area.

  It’s the bandit dog. For certain. A very good-looking animal.

  The phone call connected and she heard the buzz of the first ring.

  I just can’t lie anymore. He’s managed to complicate one more aspect of my life.

  And just before the police picked up, she looked at Pastor Jake’s picture on her desk and smiled.

  But he makes it all worth it. He does.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Hubert seemed none the worse for wear. Stewart was careful not to pat the spot of his injection, but it was apparent that the dog had all but forgotten, or perhaps forgiven, Stewart for the indignities he had made Hubert suffer through the day before.

  His shift at the Tops Market did not begin until ten that morning, so he woke a little later than normal. He drank his first mandatory cup of coffee in the dark, the outside illumination matching the inside of the apartment. Hubert was up, of course, and sat at the foot of the chair where Stewart sat, waiting patiently until he finished that odd-smelling beverage and put on shoes.

  Shoes meant “Walk” to Hubert.

  Stewart grabbed a jacket and looked for Hubert’s leash.

  It was nowhere to be found.

  Then Stewart remembered—he had taken it with them on their visit to the vet’s office and he must have left in Lisa’s car. He made his way quietly down the steps, telling Hubert to walk softly.

  Rats. Lisa must be working the early shift today.

  Lisa’s car was not in the driveway.

  Stewart bent down to Hubert just inside the downstairs door.

  “Hubert, I don’t have your leash today. If we go for a walk, will you promise to stay right next to me and not run off? Promise?”

  Hubert looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, as if attempting to assure him that whatever it was he was requesting, Hubert, being a good dog, would do his best to accommodate him.

  “Okay. You stay beside me. We need to do this quick because the sun is coming up and we don’t want people to see you—not just yet.”

  Stewart and Lisa had discussed having Hubert “come out,” as it were, once they figured things out. In one of their plans, Stewart would offer complete restitution for the lost merchandise and they would purchase the necessary dog license from the city and make sure pets were allowed in their building.

  “But we can’t do that now. Not just yet,” Stewart said, summing things up. “We have to think this through. Maybe we broke some laws we don’t even know about—and neither of us can afford big fines, right?”

  “Right,” Lisa replied. “We’ll figure out something.”

  Hubert and Stewart walked together on the sidewalk, heading away from town. The sun was higher than Stewart thought it would be, so, in essence, the pair was out in broad daylight. That was something Stewart had avoided most of the time.

  Better to be cautious.

  But they could be seen—or, more accurately, Hubert could be seen and identified by anyone out walking, or driving slowly. Anyone, that is, who was observant and on the lookout for criminals.

  Criminal dogs.

  And then it happened. Something Stewart had tried to avoid and shield Hubert from.

  A Chevy Cavalier, speeding toward them, slowed down, just a little, then a lot.

  Drivers often slowed down for people with dogs, not knowing what that dog might do at the last moment.

  The Cavalier appeared vaguely familiar.

  Then Stewart recognized it from the parking lot of Tops Market. It was always parked in the farthest row of spots, in order “to make room for the people who pay our salaries.”

  The Cavalier bucked and squealed to a stop, as best as a decades-old Cavalier could do—a well-used car with mediocre brakes to start with. The sudden stop caused the vehicle to fishtail and the rear end of the car swung farther out into the street, narrowly missing a parked Ford Escape, its back tires actually smoking a little from the stop.

  It’s Mr. Arden! I knew I recognized that car.

  Mr. Arden, already dressed in his standard heavily starched white manager’s smock, leaped out of the car, pointing, gesturing wildly, and screeching, “It’s the bandit dog. It’s the bandit dog!”

  Stewart had seldom, if ever, heard such a high-pitched screech, almost as if Mr. Arden had been inhaling helium just before he spoke.

  “Stewart! He’s right there! Catch him! Noooooow!”

  Hubert looked up at Stewart, obviously confused, and Stewart could see a deep anxiety form in the dog’s eyes. Hubert’s face reflected something nearly overpowering to him, something deep and frightening.

  “Hubert!” Stewart said and lurched for his collar.

  And that was when Hubert, against his better judgment, took off like a wild animal, racing away, his paws barely touching the ground as he ran. Stewart took off after him, calling his name, running as fast as he could, losing ground with every step.

  I need to get more food. I need more food.

  The screaming and the squealing tires and the pounding feet in pursuit spurred Hubert’s nearly involuntary, automatic, flee-or-fight, instinctual response. Actually, it was less instinctual and more learned behavior. He had experienced all those actions and sounds and smells before—many times.

  The noise and the terror and the anger and the pursuit reminded him of those long-buried memories, the memories that were seared into his mind and scarred onto his body.

>   Screaming is followed by hitting and hitting is followed by hunger and more hitting. And hunger. A long time of pain and hunger, but mostly hunger.

  The terror of those memories drove Hubert faster and faster, and he did not even slow down until he came upon the automatic doors of the Tops Market.

  Mr. Arden, back in his car, followed Stewart as he ran, swerving in and around cars and other obstacles.

  “He’s your dog? How could you?”

  Stewart did not answer, just panted, sucking in as much air as he could. He had not jogged, or run, since high school, probably. His sides already began to ache, after only three blocks.

  “He’s your dog? I don’t believe it.”

  Stewart turned on Maple and Mr. Arden squealed his Cavalier around the corner, still shouting through the open passenger window.

  “Were you holding out for a bigger reward? Is that it? Money is what drove you and your criminal dog friend?”

  Stewart grabbed at his left side.

  “No.”

  “That’s extortion, isn’t it, Stewart? Or maybe blackmail.”

  Stewart did not answer.

  “Whatever it is, you are in serious trouble right now, mister. Serious trouble. Both of you.”

  And they both came to a gradual stop as they saw Hubert, now just a blaze of black-and-white dog, tear past them on the other side of the street, headed back to his home, to Stewart’s home.

  Stewart gasped one more time, then turned and ran back toward home.

  “Trouble! You’re in for it now.”

  Mr. Arden continued to rant until Stewart could no longer make out the words over his panicked breathing.

  Hubert was inside Stewart’s apartment, sitting in the corner of the small living room. He had hung his head down in obvious reaction to the bad thing he had just done and was awaiting, without whimpering or trembling, the punishment that was certain to follow.

  But at least he now had food stored, under that flat, soft thing. He had a stack of rawhide bones. They would not be enough to stave off all hunger, but they would be enough to keep him alive. And he was pretty certain that the Stewart person wouldn’t take them from him.