The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge

by Jim Kraus

Stewart waved his arm, indicating that Lisa should take her pick of the benches. She chose the one farthest from the other people, the one bench that was more in the nighttime shadows than the others.

  She sat and Stewart sat and she sidled up closer to him—not in a pushy way, he thought, not in an aggressive way at all, but out of a desire to be close. He put his arm around her shoulder and she leaned her head against him. She reached out and took his other hand in hers and they sat in silence for a long time, for at least one full set of whatever the band was playing: three Beatles tunes, one from the Jefferson Airplane, the Young Rascals, and two by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

  Stewart knew them all.

  “I listen to the oldies station a lot. I like that better than the music on the Top Forty.”

  Lisa voiced her approval and nestled closer to him.

  “I like the older stuff, too,” she said. “Simpler times.”

  From the distance an owl called out.

  “Barn owl?”

  “Screech owl,” Stewart said. “I was sort of a nerd back in high school. I watched birds a lot.”

  Lisa squeezed his hand.

  “Maybe you can teach me about them.”

  “I’d like that.”

  They sat for a very long time that evening, just being together, just listening to the sounds of the water and the lonely sounds of an owl patrolling the night skies.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  DAY SIX of Hubert’s incarceration was noted by more people than just Stewart and Lisa.

  Heather Orlando arrived in town, her news crew in tow, and interviewed all the constituents again—from Bargain Bill, who almost broke down on camera, to Mr. Arden, who almost went apoplectic on camera, claiming that the “bandit dog” was being coddled in a luxury cell, being walked three times a day and being fed “on the backs of the poor taxpayers of this town.”

  Bargain Bill ran into the house nearly breathless. “I’m going to be on TV again.”

  His wife looked up from her word search book with a puzzled expression.

  “For what? You didn’t win the lottery, did you?”

  “I don’t play the lottery. For the dog. My poor, lost, jailed dog. Heather Orlando from Pittsburgh came back to town and interviewed me about my lost pooch.”

  His wife carefully put her pencil in the book, closed it, making sure that the pencil would stay where she put it, and looked up at her husband, now with a pained expression.

  “Bill, he’s not your dog.”

  “Shhh,” Bargain Bill replied. “You said you would go along with this. You promised. And business has been fantastic. I sold four cars yesterday. Four. On a Wednesday. In the middle of the month. That has never, ever happened before.”

  His wife raised her eyebrows, a skeptic’s response.

  “Listen, if I can sell four cars on a Wednesday, then that dog is mine forever.”

  She sighed, deeply, theatrically.

  “Well, that’s nice.”

  Mayor Joe Witt saw the TV News van pull up outside his office and he groaned, reaching for the bottle of antacid tablets he had in the top drawer. After popping just two tablets, he grabbed a small mirror from the second drawer and gave his appearance a quick review.

  The tie is okay. I wish it were a brighter color—like red, or even yellow. They say bright colors increase confidence in people. I saw that in a recent Insurance Monthly.

  He grabbed his sport coat and quickly put it on, even though his tie clashed a little, according to his wife.

  He ran his palm over his thinning hair, making sure there were no errant flyaway strands that the camera would catch.

  He took a few deep breaths, hoping that he could sound polished and adept in front of the camera. Then he stepped away from his desk and nearly tripped over the chair leg, catching himself at the last moment, and hearing the disturbing sound of fabric ripping in protest, and immediately feeling a new sense of ventilation toward his backside.

  Heavens to Betsy, he thought. Now I’ll have to keep my back to the wall.

  And it was at that moment that Heather Orlando and crew entered his insurance office, almost overwhelming his easily overwhelmed assistant with bright lights and brighter smiles.

  The first question: “So tell me, Mr. Mayor, exactly what is a ‘special council order of enforcement’?”

  And at that moment, Mayor Witt wished he had taken three antacids, instead of just his normal two.

  Kevin Connelly and John Stricklin sat at “their” table in the Wired Rooster, speaking in hushed tones. Both of them, independently, had seen the Action News van as it made its way through Wellsboro and they both knew, with a bit of a sinking feeling, just what it was there for.

  “They have to be here about the dog and the ‘special council order of enforcement,’” John said, his tone nervous and anxious.

  “I think so, too,” Kevin whispered back. “I never thought it would get this far.”

  “What are we going to do? It’s not a law. You made the whole ‘special order’ up.”

  Kevin winced at the thought.

  “I know. But we all voted yes on it, so none of us are off the hook.”

  “Blisters and toes, this stuff doesn’t happen in Wellsboro.”

  “I know,” Kevin replied, sipping on his second latte of the morning.

  They sat in morose silence for a while—at least a half latte’s worth of quiet.

  “Well, what’s the worst that can happen?” John asked.

  “They could fire us,” Kevin replied, then laughed. “Or hold a special recall, I guess. Hard to fire a council member. But to tell you the truth, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

  John nodded. “No. It really wouldn’t be.”

  “But they won’t.”

  “I know. They’ll keep us on and make us suffer, won’t they?”

  “Yep,” Kevin agreed, and drained the last of his latte, the lid of the cup making slurpy, siphoning noises as he did.

  “So, Stewart, you have made my return to Pennsylvania an absolute impossibility, do you know that?”

  Stewart sat in his living room and, with her every word, he slumped a little closer to being totally horizontal.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Stewart. You were harboring a criminal. People who do that go to hell, Stewart.”

  “Grams, it’s a dog, for Pete’s sake. He’s not a criminal.”

  “You watch your language, mister. You know what happens to people who swear and curse, don’t you?”

  They no longer have to talk to their grandmothers?

  “Sorry. But Hubert is just a dog. He’s not a criminal.”

  He heard his grandmother sigh, loudly, a loud, deflating sigh of absolute resignation.

  “I can’t ever show my face anywhere near Wellsboro again. Not even in Lewisburg. You have made my return impossible. People would point and snicker and gossip and laugh. That is what would happen, Stewart.”

  He sat up in the chair. He scowled, then let his expression go back to normal.

  “Were you planning to come back, Grams? You said when you left you never wanted to see this place again. So when were you planning on coming back? Soon? This summer?”

  Stewart’s grandmother did not answer. There was only silence.

  “Grams, I have to go to work now. Sorry the pool position didn’t work out. But I really don’t like the water all that much, anyway.”

  And as Stewart clicked off the call, he suddenly felt better than he had felt in a long, long time.

  Heather Orlando swept into the Wired Rooster like a small celebrity hurricane.

  “Lisa,” she called out as she entered, camera crew trailing her. At first every customer and every employee stared at Ms. Orlando and her bright pink suit and toothy smile, but when she uttered Lisa’s name, everyone pivoted, almost in unison, to stare at Lisa.

  “Your last story was perfect, Lisa,” Ms. Orlando gushed. “Absolutely perfect. It was funny and sad and it almost ma
de me cry: the poor dog, locked away in a dark cell—for the sin of being a dog.”

  Lisa hoped she wasn’t blushing, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks.

  To get this sort of endorsement from a celebrity newsperson—wow.

  “You’re why we came back up here today to do a follow-up story. My producers have been bugging me to get the latest scoop on what’s happening. You have a minute to sit and chat?”

  Lisa’s manager of the day shrugged and waved her off.

  “Go, Lisa,” he said in a whisper. “She’s drawing a crowd and it’s midafternoon. That never happens. So go and talk. And mention the Wired Rooster a couple of times if you can.”

  With Heather seated across from her, a bright light shining on her, and camera lenses seemingly inches from her face, Lisa tried to recap the last story she’d written for the Gazette, written in Stewart’s apartment, as he sat across the kitchen table, smiling at her. It had been hard to make it sad and emotional when she’d felt happy and emotional instead.

  In the story, she admitted her involvement in the situation, and that she’d participated in aiding and abetting the nefarious canine criminal—but she insisted she did so out of love for the sweet animal, who had no doubt suffered abuse and deprivation before he arrived in Wellsboro and found safety and solace with Stewart Coolidge.

  Even Dave Grback, the crustiest of crusty, curmudgeonly editors, said he had admired her balance between pathos and “well…not pathos.”

  After a ten-minute conversation with Lisa, Heather wrapped it up with a few comments.

  Then she stood and gave Lisa a hug, which everyone in the Wired Rooster took note of—a real-life celebrity coming emotionally, and physically, close to a local person, an unknown, a noncelebrity.

  “This was great, Lisa.”

  Her camera crew began to switch off gear and fold up lights and all the rest.

  “I wish we could have talked to this Stewart person. But the number I had didn’t work.”

  Lisa brightened.

  “I could call him.”

  Heather appeared pained. She looked at her watch.

  “If I want this on tonight, we have to run. You know, break some speed limits on the way home. The station manager wants it as well. Sweeps week, you know. This will kill. Really.”

  Lisa walked Heather out to the van.

  “Did you find anything out about those two ladies from the animal shelter?”

  Heather offered a most curious, enigmatic smile.

  “Maybe. I’m still working on it.”

  Lisa looked down and she shut her eyes in dismay. She had worn a Wired Rooster apron during the entire interview.

  I look like a scullery maid.

  Well, at least the name of the place was pretty visible.

  Just after Lisa left work that day, her mother called.

  “I keep hearing all about this dog thing.”

  Lisa tried to remain calm.

  “Mom, I told you like a hundred times all about it. The boy upstairs taking the dog in and all that?’

  “Oh, sure. That dog? Okay, then. I thought it might be some other dog.”

  “No, Mom. There’s only one famous dog in Wellsboro at the moment.”

  Lisa patiently waited for what she knew would be the next question.

  “And you and this boy…you’re still just friends?”

  Lisa wanted very much to tell her all about it, how they had become close and how Stewart had all but found faith—because of her and because of Hubert—but she held back.

  It’s not the right time. Not yet.

  “We’re good friends, Mom. He’s very nice.”

  Lisa heard a sharp intake of air on the other end of the call.

  “Lisa, you just have to be careful. Promise me that you’ll be careful. You can’t go through what you went through last time.”

  Lisa closed her eyes and tried to remain calm and even.

  That will never happen again. I promised myself that. And I promised you. And God. And she promised not to bring it up every time I mention dating again.

  “Mom, he is a great guy. And, yes, I am careful. But—I have to live life. I can’t think every person out there is going to disappoint me or hurt me. I want to fall in love, Mom. And I can’t do that always being cautious and scared and unwilling to be open.”

  Lisa only heard silence.

  Then a small cough, as if her mother was simply announcing that she was still on the line but had no idea how to respond to what her daughter had just said—that there was no reason to be careful.

  “Mom, I have to go. I’m just getting in the car, and driving and talking on the phone are illegal here.”

  “Oh. Okay. But—”

  “I’ll be careful, Mom. But you have to trust somebody sometime. And maybe I’m starting now, okay?”

  Her mother responded with a small, and uncertain, “Okay.”

  Robert Kruel sat in his office in downtown Sunbury, looking out over the smattering of afternoon traffic. Kitty-corner to his office was a Tops Market, its parking lot only half full.

  Not a shopping day here in beautiful downtown Sunbury.

  Robert “Bob” Kruel had the distinction of being one of the two outside attorneys on retainer for the Tops Market chain. Inside the small corporation, they employed one official attorney who handled all the mundane real estate and tax issues that the small grocery chain incurred. But with situations outside that purview, more well-versed assistance was called in—an attorney acquainted with the “real” world.

  Robert had gotten the call involving the dog stealing bones from the Tops store in Wellsboro.

  He had talked, at length, to Mr. Arden…

  Way too long.

  …and had interviewed a few others in the store, then had reviewed the sparse case law about animals and stores and thievery.

  He stopped staring out into the distance and shook his head.

  “I went to law school at Penn State for this?”

  He looked down at the notes he’d made for the Wellsboro City Council meeting tomorrow evening. He had circled and underlined the words “special council order of enforcement.”

  “And just where did they get that ordinance from? A box of Cracker Jacks?”

  Then he began to rub the bridge of his nose in anticipation of the headache that was just beginning to form.

  “Well, Hubert, tomorrow is the big day,” Stewart said as he and Lisa settled into the cell following their evening walk. “Or, I guess, tomorrow evening is the big evening.”

  Lisa had been silent on their walk over to the jail, as well on their joint walk. In her purse she carried a plastic Ziploc bag that held three cut-up hot dogs—“the good ones and not the store brand,” she said as she showed it to Stewart. “Hubert deserves a good meal.”

  Stewart agreed, but Hubert had shown no discomfort with the kibbles he had been eating. Somewhere, Stewart read that dogs don’t mind eating the same thing over and over again. He recalled the article stating that sometimes too much variety can be stressful on a dog.

  I have no idea why—but it was printed somewhere, so it must be mostly true.

  Finally, Lisa spoke, still holding the closed bag, which Hubert had noticed. He was now sniffing the air intently. “I wanted to do something nice for Hubert, but then I had a thought about convicts and their last meal and…”

  She stopped talking and began to cry, a little, and not loudly.

  Hubert appeared confused.

  Obviously she had some sort of treat for him, but then she started crying, so it was apparent that he did not know what to do next.

  Stewart moved closer and put his arm over her shoulder.

  “It’s not a last meal. Please. You’ll upset him if he thinks you’re upset.”

  “But I am upset. A little.”

  Stewart hugged her from the side.

  “I looked stuff up on the Internet. Unless the dog is showing rabies or something dangerous like that, or if he has chewed
somebody up, they won’t be able to do anything. And all Hubert here has done is steal things. That’s not a capital offense in any state of the union. Maybe like over in Arabia or someplace like that. But nothing bad will happen to Hubert. At least not right away. It would require like a real court order and a real judge.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “The Internet doesn’t lie, does it?”

  She began to smile.

  “I guess not.”

  So she sniffed once more, then unzipped the baggie and began to dole out the hot dog slices to Hubert, one at a time.

  If it was possible for a dog to simply swallow a hot dog slice without chewing, that is what Hubert did. He appeared to truly enjoy them, but did not take a lot of time eating them or savoring their all-beef, no-filler goodness.

  “You’re just like a man,” Lisa chided. “Just give them the food. No subtlety at all. No noticing the lack of additives and preservatives, no enjoying the authentic Ball Park frank experience.”

  After the last slice had been swallowed, she reached down and stroked Hubert’s head. He whimpered as if he truly enjoyed her touch, and probably the meal as well.

  “You’re such a good dog, Hubert,” she said, and he looked up and climbed up onto the concrete bed beside her. After a few minutes of trying to find the perfect position, he lay down beside her and placed his head in her lap, closing his eyes as she petted him.

  “Why don’t you read something to us, Stewart? Hubert likes being read to, don’t you, Hubert?”

  Hubert growled happily without opening his eyes.

  “Okay. I read this last night at home. I guess it’s famous or something. I probably heard it before, but I liked it. It’s short.”

  Lisa nestled in closer to both Stewart and Hubert.

  “It’s from the Psalms, although I can’t figure out why they don’t call them ‘songs.’ That’s the way it’s pronounced, right? Songs. Change the spelling. Get with the times.”

  Lisa nudged him in the ribs, making sure she did not move too much and disturb Hubert.