The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge

by Jim Kraus

  The attorney quietly said, “Thanks,” and placed his folder on the music stand and, with a broad sweep of his arm, opened the folder and picked up the first sheet of paper.

  If nothing else, Attorney Robert Kruel was adept at speaking in public.

  Not good at it, just practiced, and he managed, in the span of fifteen minutes, to recap the entire story of the dog bandit, list the date and time of every crime the dog committed, elucidate every lost man-hour of labor, speculate on the lost prestige of the store in question—and to lull several members of the audience to sleep.

  As he spoke, Bargain Bill turned often to the person sitting next to him, who happened to be his nephew, Karl Loughner, a third-year law student at Penn State in need of a new used car, which Bargain Bill promised him a “fantastic” deal on if he would unofficially represent him at the council meeting tonight.

  Lisa did not say much to Stewart, but she did take his hand in hers, which made Hubert look up and grin, and made Ms. Orlando raise her eyebrows, just a little, and in a most professional manner.

  Lieutenant Quinn stood to the side, his back to the street, trying not to smile or look bemused by the special meeting, but he was not doing a good job of it.

  Jerry Mallick sat in the back row, as far away from Lieutenant Quinn as he could get, and slouched down in the chair, almost on a horizontal plane. Apparently he was attending the meeting, according to what Kevin or Kellan or Carl had told Lisa at the Wired Rooster that afternoon, in a fast-fading hope of getting some sort of reward for his unwitting provision of a place for the bandit dog to live for the past few months. “He said to me, he said, ‘That oughta be worth something. A couple of bucks, at least,’ is what he said.”

  The store attorney turned over one more page in his file, looked at his watch, perhaps checking on billable hours, and summed up Tops Market’s case against Hubert in a single sentence.

  “The main element of our complaint against the dog, and owner, if that is to be decided at this meeting, is that the dog,” he said, and pointed directly at Hubert, who lowered his head in canine shame, “did, with malice, steal eleven rawhide chew bones valued at thirty dollars and fifty-eight cents, plus tax.”

  He waited until the full import of that statement sank in.

  “We are asking for damages of…ten thousand dollars to be levied against whomever is the owner of that dog.”

  Both Stewart and Bargain Bill stiffened visibly when they heard the words “ten thousand dollars.”

  Mayor Witt also looked stunned. He turned to the city clerk, who whispered in his ear.

  “I am told that the city council cannot levy special, one-off fines. Nor impose financial judgments. That would have to come at a civil trial or maybe after a criminal trial first—because we are talking about a crime here.”

  The attorney appeared miffed, legally speaking.

  “We’ll deal with damages after the city council decides on what…to do about all of this,” he said, and furiously scribbled something on that last sheet of paper in his file folder.

  “Well, okay then,” Mayor Witt said. He looked up and down at the row of council members on either side of him.

  “Do any of you have any dispute with the facts as presented so…thoroughly by Mr. Kruel?”

  Normally, even in the most sedate cases or situations before the city council, most of them had questions about something: paint color, height of trees, species of bushes, setbacks from lot lines, egress, driveway coating, signage, size of signage; just about anything and everything brought before a city council engendered questions, lots of questions—some spurious, some specious, some serious.

  But tonight, in front of the glare of big-city news reporting and publicity, no one said anything. Not a single city council member raised his or her hand or coughed, or even looked back at the mayor. He looked left and right and only saw a series of folded hands on the table.

  “So the facts in question are not in dispute in any way?”

  A few mumbled “No”s and a few “Okay by me”s rippled from the row of council members.

  “So then,” Mayor Witt continued, wishing for a moment that he had never run for the mayor position and wishing that he had no script of previous mayoral action to review that might guide his response this evening, “we need a motion or something from the council to proceed to do—take a vote or something.” The meeting, as he was certain that it would, was descending into chaos. As he’d described to his wife before he’d left, “This is all virgin territory. No one has ever sued a dog in Wellsboro before.”

  Larry Ringhofer, often the first council member to speak—and the last—spoke up. “I say we make Bargain Bill pay for the bones and he gets the dog.”

  Mr. Arden could no longer contain himself and jumped up, his arms spread out wide, and pointed at the mayor and then the dog.

  “No. The dog has to be punished. He stole from my store.”

  A murmur of boos rose from the crowd, as if people weren’t sure if booing was allowed at a special enforcement meeting of the city council.

  Mr. Arden spun around and glared at everyone who was sitting behind him and booing, which was a lot of the town’s citizenry.

  As he sat down, he muttered, loud enough for most everyone to hear, “What do you expect from the yokels in this town?”

  Another chorus of polite boos and hisses followed that statement as well.

  Attorney Kruel closed his eyes as if hoping that no one was really paying attention to his client for the evening, but he was sure that they were.

  Another councilman, Warren Dunlop, who seldom said anything at meetings, spoke up.

  “That’s a good solution. Make Bill pay for what his dog stole and since he’s claimed all along that it’s his dog, give it to him and if the dog ever steals again, we know who to come after. Right, Bill?”

  Bargain Bill grinned and nodded furiously, obviously thinking that he could put the dog in a big cage at the car lot and he would be a fabulous draw for customers, who would come to pet the “bandit dog” and have their picture taken with the infamous canine.

  Lisa appeared not to be the least bit upset by what was apparently happening.

  Neither were Stewart or Hubert, but Stewart couldn’t imagine why Lisa would be so calm about it. After all, this was Hubert they were talking about—and what the council was suggesting would take the poor dog from them forever.

  But Lisa remained implacable and serene.

  Hubert looked up at Stewart and grinned his loopy dog smile, as if to say: Everything will be all right. Don’t worry.

  Stewart sat back, squeezed Lisa’s hand for assurance, took his cue from Hubert, and relaxed.

  The crowd was still bubbling over the last suggestion and Mayor Witt suddenly looked up, brightened, and dug like a groundhog through his stack of papers, which was now a most disheveled pile. He found what he was looking for and held it up, not that anyone farther than five feet away could make out what was written on it.

  “Mr. Arden, I almost forgot.”

  Mr. Arden and Mr. Kruel looked up, a glimmer of hope in their faces.

  “Before I forget—oh, I just said that. Anyhow, I looked up the city ordinance about posting signs.”

  Mr. Kruel spoke for the two of them.

  “Signs? What signs?”

  “The big poster thing by the store was fine since it was not permanent and was indeed removable. Not that, but the other signs.”

  “What signs?” Mr. Kruel asked again.

  “Mr. Arden nailed signs about the dog on probably ninety percent of the telephone poles in town.”

  “And?” Mr. Kruel asked.

  “That’s illegal. You’re not allowed to post signs on telephone poles. The phone company says the nails make it hard to climb the poles. Or it might have been the electric company. One of them complained once.”

  Mr. Kruel began to sputter.

  “They don’t climb poles anymore. They have those trucks with that basket thing.”r />
  “Cherry pickers,” someone called out.

  “Yes. That kind of truck. Nobody climbs poles.”

  The mayor remained sanguine.

  “Still, the law is on the books. The ordinance states that the offender must pay a fifty-dollar fine for each poster placed on a pole within the city limits. You’ll have to make sure that they’re all taken down. Okay?”

  A few people in the crowd offered a smirky laugh and Mr. Arden did not answer, just turned a brighter shade of crimson in response.

  The murmurings and the chatter among the audience ebbed and flowed, like waves on the beach. The council members whispered to each other but no one seemed to be up to making any public pronouncements—especially with the glare of a big-city media star sitting in the front row.

  But Bill Hoskins was up for it.

  He stood, first faced the crowd, so they all would know who he was, and then faced Mayor Witt.

  “If I may, Your Honor, I would like to say a few words.”

  The normal procedure was to have people sworn in and registered to speak, but since this was a special enforcement meeting, no one on the council thought it necessary to do so. Besides, everyone in town knew who Bargain Bill Hoskins was, and what he did for a living, and what he had claimed to own—the “bandit dog” in question.

  “Your Honor. Council Members. Citizens of Wellsboro. Friends. Family.”

  Bill’s wife was in attendance, working on a word search puzzle during the lulls of discussion.

  “Guests. Members of the freedom-loving media.”

  It was apparent that Bargain Bill sought to enumerate every separate group of people in attendance at the meeting.

  Dave Grback, who carried an old-fashioned, authentic stenographer’s pad, was busy scribbling notes, while on the other end of the media spectrum, Heather Orlando sat quietly and tried to absorb the goings-on without being burdened by taking notes.

  “Sirs…and Ladies. I will keep it very simple. I want my dog back. We have been separated long enough. The poor pup has suffered enough. It is time he comes back to his loving family and his life can then return to normal.”

  Bill caught the eye of his wife and nodded, just a little.

  “My wife misses him so terribly.”

  At that, Mrs. Hoskins rolled her eyes, big enough that everyone could tell her true feelings.

  “No one should come between a man and his dog, and it appears that circumstance has done just that to me and Rover. He’s mine and I miss him.”

  Bargain Bill stopped talking and pretended to wipe a tear from the corner of his right eye.

  “Of course, I will pay for all that the poor dog was forced to steal to stay alive. If there is any—appropriate fine I will also pay that. And I will build the biggest, most luxurious, and most escape-proof kennel on the site of Bargain Bill’s Motors so that the poor dog will be safe, warm, fed, and protected forever.”

  The audience was silent.

  Bargain Bill let the words hang out there for a long moment, then added, “And if the dog is returned, I will discount every car on the lot by ten percent for the next thirty days.”

  Stewart, still holding Lisa’s hand and becoming quite comfortable with her small, delicate fingers enmeshed with his, looked at the faces of the individual council members. He began to grow alarmed, though he did his best not to show that alarm to Lisa—and, most of all, to Hubert.

  The councilmen, and councilwomen, were nodding, smiling, acting as if what Bargain Bill had just proposed was the most sensible and sane solution that would wrap up the bandit dog situation in a neat and tidy box and then everyone would be happy.

  Except Stewart.

  And Lisa.

  And, most of all, Hubert.

  Larry Ringhofer spoke up again, and everyone, almost in surprise, turned to listen.

  “Here’s what we need to do. Fine him a hundred dollars. Or whatever. Two hundred. Call it a ‘special use permit fee’ and not a fine. Make him pay for the stupid bones. Make sure he builds a sturdy kennel. And then let’s go home.”

  The crowd seemed pleased. It was not the fireworks and fire and brimstone they had hoped to hear, but it did appear to be a plausible and sensible solution. Everyone would be satisfied—well, everyone except Mr. Arden. And most everyone in the audience had no love lost for the man—even if his store prices were the cheapest in town.

  Bill would get his dog, the townsfolk would get a good deal on a used car, and everyone would win.

  And that was when Lisa let go of Stewart’s hand and jumped to her feet.

  Literally jumped, almost a foot in the air, as if she had been primed for this one specific moment in the meeting and had to speak now, or forever hold her peace. Heather Orlando remained seated, but with a very broad, very self-satisfied smile on her face. And as Lisa jumped to her feet, Heather turned around to face her cameraman and mouthed the words: “You are rolling, aren’t you?”

  Lisa was nearly breathless, without having exerted any physical energy.

  “Your Honor…Mr. Mayor…Council Members…”

  Everyone in the audience, including Stewart and Hubert, braced themselves for an eloquent, impassioned plea for mercy or justice or something.

  Instead, Lisa took one step toward the mayor and said, as sweetly as she could, “May I request a five-minute recess?”

  The mayor leaned back, surprised by the request.

  “Well, this isn’t exactly a trial or anything, Miss…Miss…”

  “Lisa Goodly. I wrote most of the dog stories for the Gazette.”

  “Oh yes, you’re the clever writer. A pleasure to meet you. My wife thought your stories were quite funny—and touching.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “Mayor. I don’t think I’m a ‘Your Honor.’”

  “Thank you, Mayor.”

  “Well, Miss Goodly, this is not a trial, as I said, but…I could use a cup of coffee.”

  He picked up his gavel, thumped it against the table, making that hollow sound, and stood. “Everyone take five minutes to stretch your legs. Get some coffee. And don’t forget to thank Saint Paul’s Lutheran Church for the coffeemakers and the coffee. Most appreciated. Five minutes, people. Then we start again whether you’re here or not.”

  Then he leaned toward Lisa and smiled.

  “Will you need more than five minutes?” he asked sweetly.

  “No. Five minutes is fine. Thank you.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  WHEN THE CROWD stood, Stewart and Hubert were immediately surrounded by people wanting to pet Hubert, or to meet him, or to take a picture with their cell phones, or to post a selfie of them and Hubert. Stewart had wanted to ask Lisa what she was doing and why she’d asked for a recess, but the two of them, Stewart and Hubert, were surrounded by people, four and five deep, with no way of ignoring the questions or requests for photos.

  Hubert looked up at Stewart and grinned again, as if he had not a care in the world. His two most favorite people were here, and all was right in Hubert’s world.

  He just doesn’t know what might happen. We may be separated forever.

  Lisa and Heather, now with the Action News cameraman in tow, descended on Bargain Bill. Heather actually grabbed him by the forearm, smiling while she did but not letting him slip away.

  “Ms. Orlando,” he said, not noticing her hand on his arm, “I am so happy to see you again.”

  “Mr. Hoskins, we have something you might want to see.”

  Lisa could not be sure, but she thought he flinched, just a little. She reminded herself to watch the tape closely and study his reaction.

  “But I have a lot of people here to greet. There are a lot of well-wishers and supporters. I need to at least shake some hands.”

  Heather’s smile did not leave her face, but her tone iced up, and even Lisa could see the pressure from Heather’s grip on his arm increase.

  “No, Mr. Hoskins. What we have to show you is more important that you chumming the wa
ters for customers for your used cars. Much more important.”

  Bargain Bill’s eyes had that deer-in-the-headlights look, as if he knew something semi-monumental was about to happen but he really didn’t want to participate in the unveiling.

  Heather tapped at her cell phone and a picture popped up of a middle-aged woman in a denim jacket, with hair that would charitably be called flyaway.

  “Do you recognize this woman, Mr. Hoskins?” Heather asked, the sweetness in her voice laced with a razor’s sharpness. Lisa looked on in obvious admiration of her style.

  Bargain Bill bent over the screen and studied it.

  “I do not recall this woman. Was she a former customer of Bargain Bill’s?”

  “No, she is not a disgruntled car buyer,” Heather replied, to Bargain Bill’s obvious relief. “I didn’t think you would know who she was.”

  “Okay, now can I talk to my friends?” Bill asked.

  “No,” Heather replied. “You need to hear what she says.”

  Heather tapped at the screen and the woman started to talk.

  The woman appeared a bit puzzled, then a voice was heard, just off camera, saying, “Just tell your story, Judy. Like you told me.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, like I said, my name is Judy Kubista and I used to run the Rainbow No-Kill Animal Shelter and Dog Rescue organization here in Lewisburg—along with my friend, or should I say former friend, Emily Sillers. We had to close down months ago because ‘someone’ never paid the electric bills on the place and spent the money on an RV.”

  Judy Kubista’s venomous glare was thick, and very obvious, even on a small three-inch screen.

  A piece of paper appeared from off camera, with the question, “Do you recognize this dog?”

  It was a photocopy of Hubert, printed in full color.

  Judy took only a moment to answer.

  “Nope. Handsome dog, but he never came through our shelter.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We took pride in what we did. Or at least I took pride in what I did. I knew every dog that came through our doors. And this dog was not one of them.”