The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge

by Jim Kraus

  Stewart flipped through the pages, then stopped, and went to the front of the Bible, and to the index of chapters. He found the page number and flipped to it, then thumbed through a number of chapters, finally stopping.

  “You think they could do all this alphabetically. It would make it a lot easier to find stuff.”

  He smoothed out the page and adjusted the book in his hand and then began to read, in a clear, serious tone:

  “The Lord is my shepherd; I have all that I need. He lets me rest in green meadows; he leads me beside peaceful streams. He renews my strength. He guides me along right paths, bringing honor to his name. Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me. You prepare a feast for me in the presence of my enemies. You honor me by anointing my head with oil. My cup overflows with blessings. Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me all the days of my life, and I will live in the house of the Lord forever.”

  No one spoke for a long moment after he was finished. Then Hubert raised his head and growled with certain emphasis.

  “Hubert liked it,” Lisa said. “And I thought it was beautiful. That’s one of my most favorite parts of the Bible. When I was little, and scared or lonely, I would read that.”

  Stewart didn’t say anything, just pulled her close to him.

  And they sat there, on the hard concrete bed, in the Wellsboro Jail, for a long, long time. No one wanted to break the magic of that intimate moment.

  It was Stewart who said “It’s time to go. You and I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

  “I know. But I wanted this to last.”

  “Me, too.”

  They slipped out of the cell, and both knelt again at the door, giving Hubert one last hug and a pat on the head as a farewell.

  Hubert, as he had been doing during his incarceration, whimpered and growled as they left—not a lonely growl, but simply one of acknowledgment, saying he knew they had to leave and he knew they would be back and they would not ever forget about him.

  Hubert watched them leave. He was glad that the Stewart and Lisa humans held hands as they left. He knew that human people do that when they care about each other. That the Stewart human and the Lisa human cared about each other was almost the best thing that Hubert could imagine happening.

  The best thing was that the Stewart human had begun to understand what it meant to be part of the pack. And understand what Lisa called God. Hubert did not know that word, but he knew what it was—the power of all nature, the clarity of the world, the need to be loved and warm and fed. To a dog, that was what God was. The best dog of the best pack. To be at peace. And now Stewart had began to understand the meaning of that and to feel it in his heart. Hubert could tell his heart was changing.

  That was the best and most wonderful thing Hubert could imagine.

  Hubert knew something was going to happen tomorrow and that the something involved him in some way. He could tell this by the urgency with which the humans spoke about something happening. When things were far off in the future, too far off for dogs to be concerned about, humans spoke with a certain tone. When that thing got closer, Hubert noticed, the humans’ tone grew different—a little faster, a bit more urgent.

  He could tell from what they’d said tonight that something would happen tomorrow that they considered important.

  Hubert knew that he did not know all the ways of humans, but he trusted his Stewart human more than he had ever trusted any human in the past. Stewart said that he would take care of Hubert and that was exactly what Hubert chose to believe.

  He would not lie to me.

  Hubert circled his pillow and blanket, mooshing it down just so, and then he stopped and looked up at the moon through the small window.

  Stewart is now found. That’s what I needed to see. And now that he is found, it doesn’t matter what happens to me. That power that Lisa called God…He will be happy that I helped—that I was somehow involved in the process of finding. And if this is the last thing I ever get to do with humans, then the God of all knows best.

  And with that, Hubert sat down, and then lay down. He could still see a sliver of the moon as it glistered in the darkness and, deep within his dog soul, he knew that full moons meant safety, since no dangers in the forest could slip into existence from out of the shadows—not with a bright moon above. Moonlight offered safe haven, and Hubert closed his eyes, knowing—hoping—that he was safe and always would be.

  I did what I was supposed to do.

  He closed his eyes but felt the moon on his face.

  It would be enough if that was all I could ever do.

  Chapter Thirty

  STEWART HAD REQUESTED an early shift that day, which had been approved. He wanted time to get ready for the evening’s special city council meeting and jot down a few notes. If he was called on to testify, he wanted to make sure of saying the proper thing.

  He had researched city council meeting protocol and practice in Wellsboro and discovered that as a resident of the city, he had a right to be recognized and heard, as long as he was “respectful and civil, and that [his] comments remain germane to the topic at hand.”

  That was from the city’s Web site, and Stewart copied the description down in his notebook—just in case someone tried to prevent him from speaking.

  Lieutenant Quinn had already given him the okay to bring Hubert to the meeting.

  At first, however, the lieutenant was skeptical.

  “Listen, I don’t think they allow animals at these meetings,” he’d explained, rubbing his temples as he spoke. The whole Hubert-in-jail scenario appeared to have given Lieutenant Quinn a permanent almost-headache.

  “But the dog is on trial,” Stewart countered. “He has a right to face his accusers.”

  Lieutenant Quinn’s face indicated that he wasn’t buying the argument, despite having no affection, or respect, for the city council process.

  “He’s not a citizen,” Lieutenant Quinn stated. “He’s a dog.”

  “But I think it will be really important to show that Hubert is a good dog, well behaved, and not a threat to anyone.”

  Lieutenant Quinn raised one eyebrow.

  “And you’re sure he won’t start to get hysterical at the meeting and chew off the mayor’s leg?”

  “I’m sure. Hubert and I had a long talk about behavior this afternoon.”

  “So no politically induced mauling?”

  “Nope. Not a one,” Stewart replied.

  “Rats.”

  After a moment, Lieutenant Quinn relented, smiling.

  “Okay. You take the dog. I want to be there to see it. This will be fun.”

  Stewart came to the jail to get Hubert at six thirty for the seven o’clock meeting.

  They did not have far to go, being in the same building and all, but Stewart wanted to take Hubert for a quick walk before the meeting, just in case it ran long.

  The normal city council meetings were held upstairs in a not-so-large meeting room, but due to the larger than normal crowd expected for this special meeting, the council had shifted their location to the fire department section of the building, parked their two fire engines out on the street, brought in chairs from the Methodist church, and borrowed two large coffee urns from the Lutherans down the street. They left the two fire truck doors up, owing to the mild temperatures.

  The ten or so city council meeting regular attendees, most of them senior citizens, who always arrived early, were impressed.

  “We never got free coffee before,” William Hasse remarked, both irked and pleased, which was his normal go-to-meeting attitude.

  “Ought to have more light-fingered dogs in town,” John Lucas replied. “Or light-pawed.”

  John paused and his face wizened up like a raisin.

  “Do dogs have fingers? I’m sure they don’t, but what are they called?”

  Joe Cambruzzi waved his hand, dismissing both of them. “Wh
o cares, Lucas? Nobody.”

  William scowled back at Joe, continuing a feud that began back in the 1970s over parking meters in the downtown business district. “Pads. They’re called pads. And lots of people care. Vets, for one.”

  Joe waved his hand again and walked away, slowly, making sure not to spill coffee on the immaculately clean floor of the fire station.

  When Stewart arrived, Hubert calmly, sedately walking right beside him, he created a minor stir among the crowd that now filled nearly half the available seats. Stewart heard the murmurings and saw numerous finger-points. He sat in the front row, thinking that if he did have to speak, or if someone wanted to point out Hubert, that would be the best vantage point.

  Since he sat at the end of the row, he could watch people arrive. Mr. Arden came in only a few minutes later, accompanied by another sallow-faced gentleman who appeared as though he would rather be anywhere in the world than in one of the open bays of the Wellsboro Fire Department.

  The very bright fluorescent lights did no one’s appearance any favors.

  Mr. Arden pointed at Hubert and whispered something to the sallow-faced man, then grinned, a grin that was devoid of happiness but saturated with smugness.

  Two tables were set up in front with a scattering of nameplates for the council members, all brought downstairs from the regular city council meeting room. But since they were simply flat panels that fit into permanent holders at the real city council tables, the nameplates had to be propped up against white foam coffee cups with little bits of masking tape to hold them almost upright.

  “We know who we all are,” snapped Larry Ringhofer, council member from the far west side of town. “This looks stupid.”

  Someone in the middle of the crowd called out, “And for certain you know stupid.”

  Larry glared at the crowd. He suspected Joe Cambruzzi, but by the time he located him in the fourth row, Joe was sporting an angelic look, a senior citizen angelic look.

  Mayor Joe Witt fussed with a stack of papers piled on the table in front of him, checking his watch every three minutes. He liked to start meetings on time.

  Councilman Kevin Connelly whispered, “How come the mayor has papers? Did we get a packet for this meeting?

  John Stricklin whispered in reply, “Nope. No packet. But think about it. Have you ever seen Witt without a stack of papers in front of him?”

  Kevin arched one of his eyebrows, then smiled and nodded. “Maybe he brought them from home.”

  “Makes him look busy,” John added.

  A van door slammed and everyone’s heads pivoted to the right, or left, depending on where they sat, to stare out to the street.

  The Action News Alive at Five van had pulled up and its occupants began to exit, carrying all manner of TV equipment and cameras and lights and sound-recording apparatus. One portly news team member hoisted the microwave tower on top of the van, checking to see if they had the power and reception to do a live remote.

  And from the front seat, Heather Orlando descended, in her trademark pink suit, full-coverage makeup, and impossibly high heels, carrying an Action News wireless microphone and a clipboard.

  And then Lisa Goodly stepped out of the van, smiling.

  “She’s that gal from the Rooster who wrote those stories,” someone in the crowd whispered, loudly enough so that virtually everyone could hear.

  Lisa spotted Stewart and Hubert and waved, then subtly pointed to Heather with a Can you believe this? look on her face.

  Mayor Witt appeared dismayed, which was a standard look for him during many city council meetings. It was obvious that he wanted to stand up and tell Ms. Orlando and the rest of her news team that this was a closed meeting that only the residents of Wellsboro could attend, but that would require a full vote by the council, debate, and then someone appointed to check everyone’s ID so they could prove their residency status. And it was just as obvious that Mayor Witt knew he could not do that, and was trapped into letting a camera crew record every second of this special meeting.

  Heather beamed as she walked into the open bay and pointed to a corner of the room where the camera could be set up that would not interfere with anyone’s sight lines.

  Lisa took a seat next to Stewart and gave him a quick hug.

  Heather took a long time walking to the front row and perched in a seat next to Lisa.

  And after they were settled, heads pivoted again, as Bargain Bill Hoskins drove up in his trademark firecracker-red convertible and took a seat on the other side of the front row, waving to just about everyone in the audience, and especially to Hubert.

  Hubert did not respond to Bargain Bill, but then Stewart had told him to relax, remain calm, and not get antsy.

  From the middle of the crowd someone said loud enough for everyone to hear, “They should have charged admission to this one. They could have cleaned up.”

  At exactly seven o’clock, Mayor Witt took the official gavel and rapped it on the table. The sound produced was a sort of hollow thump, not nearly the call-to-order sound that his podium upstairs made. He had to hit the table another five times just to get everyone in the large room to shut up.

  After nearly a minute, the murmuring slowly ebbed, like water draining out of a very slow-draining tub.

  Once it was quiet, Mayor Witt rapped the gavel again and almost shouted, “I hereby call this special session of the Wellsboro City Council to order.”

  He stood and then declared, “Now we will all stand for our National Anthem.”

  The council members stood, as did the crowd, slowly and with hesitation, who all looked about and then at each other and then back to the mayor.

  “Did the city clerk bring down the official—what da ya call it—the official city boom box?”

  The city clerk, Paul Hatch, a rail-thin older man, appeared befuddled.

  “Do we have one of those?”

  Mayor Witt was growing impatient and more dismayed.

  “Whatever it is we play the National Anthem on upstairs, for heaven’s sake.”

  Paul made a vague move with his hands as if trying to catch a slow moth. “But, Mr. Mayor, that’s, I think, built into the sound system upstairs. It’s not what you might call portable.”

  “Well, now what are we going to do? We have to start meetings with the National Anthem.”

  The crowd began murmuring again. Obviously, this was not the way the mayor had planned on starting this special session.

  Finally, in the rear row, Miss Hazel Irwin, a high school music teacher and one of the longest tenured teachers at Wellsboro Area High School, stood up and in a very firm I’m-taking-charge-of-this-unruly-class-of-students voice, declared, “Good grief. We all know the song. Let’s just sing it and get this meeting started.”

  She began, “Oh say can you see…” in a higher pitch than most people were comfortable with, but the crowd gamely mumbled and sang along, a weak, reedy, off-pitch rendition, but, to the relief of the mayor, they got through the whole song, and it got the meeting started, making it “official.”

  “All right, then. We are here to discuss the ‘special city council enforcement’…area…ordinance…”

  Councilman Stricklin interrupted gently, “Special council order of enforcement, Mayor.”

  “Yes. That. Because of that dog. Over there,” he said and pointed directly at Hubert, who was sitting next to Stewart at the end of the row, hardly moving, just turning his head in order to see who was talking. The dog had appeared to enjoy the singing of the National Anthem and looked as if he hoped they would do more of that later on.

  The mayor’s hard glare dissolved for a moment.

  “That is the dog, right?”

  Stewart stood up, as did Hubert.

  “It is, sir.”

  The mayor sighed audibly.

  “Good.”

  Hubert would have been a hard dog not to recognize, from the two large signs at the market and at Bargain Bill’s used-car lot, from the articles in the Gazette and
his picture printed twice as large as the picture of the newly crowned Miss Tioga, and from the several hundred posters nailed to telephone poles all over town.

  The mayor officiously extracted an envelope from his stack of papers and unfolded the letter that was inside. Obviously it was an official letter since the stationery appeared to be thick, with some sort of embossing on the top.

  “I have here an official request from the legal counsel representing the Tops Market, a registered business within the Wellsboro city limits, and a Mr. Robert Kruel, attorney at law and special general counsel for Tops, who has requested to speak before the city council in regards to the complaint against said canine.”

  Mayor Witt often lapsed into a curious amalgam of legalese and nonsense chatter when he attempted to sound official.

  The rest of the council members remained silent, obviously unsure if this needed to be motioned or voted on or approved by voice vote or what.

  “Since Tops Market is indeed a legal entity within the city of Wellsboro,” the mayor continued, “they have the right of citizens to present petitions and requests seeking redress of complaints and…”

  Mayor Witt must have lost his train of thought, because he stopped midsentence.

  “Well,” he continued, “I guess then Mr. Kruel can state his case. Or whatever.”

  Mr. Kruel tried to not be obvious in shaking his head in disbelief, but he wasn’t good at being subtle.

  “Thank you, Mayor Witt,” he said and he stood and looked a little confused himself, as if searching for some sort of podium to stand at and place his thick file folder of notes and papers.

  One of the firemen seated off to the side stood, hurried into a back room, and returned with a black, well-used music stand. He crouched down, as if to avoid walking through the light of a projector, even though no projector was in use, and placed the music stand near the attorney from Sunbury.

  Of course the entire crowd stared at him intently as he did so.