by Tor Seidler
Yet Professor Rattigan got out of the car. “Come on, boy,” he said, giving Gulliver’s leash a tug.
Gulliver descended dubiously onto a curb separated from a sidewalk by a strip of patchy grass that clearly hadn’t been watered all month. They proceeded down a cracked, uneven sidewalk till the professor said, “426A, guess this is it.”
The house before them had a door on street level and another up a flight of rickety-looking stairs. It was sided in hideous, lime-green asphalt shingles, and the mustard-colored paint on the street-level door was peeling. The professor knocked on it.
No one answered. The professor pushed a buzzer.
“Bring it around back, will you?” shouted an oddly familiar voice.
Between this shabby house and the one next door was a passageway choked with dried-out weeds. As they proceeded down it, the noise level grew. Kids screeched, dogs barked, and a sportscaster cried, “It is high, it is far, it is . . . gone!”
“Sounds lively, doesn’t it, boy?” the professor said.
They stopped at a chain-link gate to a backyard as active as Washington Square on a sunny Sunday. Splashing in one of those plastic, aboveground pools were four or five human children with skin colors ranging from the pink of Chloe’s ribbons to the brown of Beef and Liver Delight. Parked in lawn chairs around a picnic table with a boom box blaring a baseball game was a similar assortment of adults. They were all drinking beer — the men out of bottles, the women out of glasses — except for an ancient black woman who sat calmly stroking a calico cat in her lap. Barking and running in circles around the pool were three huge, mangy-looking mutts.
The biggest dog of all bounded over to the gate and growled at a shocked Gulliver. A man turned down the volume on the ball game and jumped out of his lawn chair.
“Dr. Rattigan! I’m so sorry! I thought you were the pizza guy!”
Gulliver didn’t immediately recognize their doorman. He associated him with the lobby of One Fifth Avenue, and instead of a charcoal-gray uniform with burgundy piping the man had on shorts, flip-flops, and a loud, half-unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt.
“Shut up, Frankie,” Carlos said, grabbing the big mutt by the collar. He opened the gate. “We’re having a little birthday party. Juanita’s eight today. Nita, come say hi to Dr. Rattigan.”
A brown-skinned girl clambered out of the pool and raced toward them, crying, “Is that Gully?”
Just inside the gate was a bush with dusty leaves and, beyond that, a motorbike draped with a tarp. But before Gulliver could take refuge behind either one, the dripping-wet girl had him in her arms.
“You’re so cute!” she cried, nearly squeezing the life out of him. “This is the best birthday present in the world!”
As Gulliver squirmed to escape, another child clambered out of the pool, a brown-skinned boy slightly larger than his torturer.
“He’s not just yours!” the boy cried, yanking Gulliver out of her arms.
“Pedro’s right, he’s everybody’s,” the doorman said. “Just like Frankie and Pudge and Pogo.”
“And guess who’ll end up feeding and brushing him,” said a woman wearing a sun hat.
“Dr. Rattigan, I’d like you to meet my wife, Consuela,” said the doorman.
“Please, Dr. Rattigan, sit and have a beer,” Consuela said, shaking the professor’s hand.
Professor Rattigan was a wine drinker, not a beer drinker, but it seemed only polite to accept the invitation, since they were doing him such a favor. When he’d arrived back at One Fifth Avenue yesterday, he’d stopped to talk to the doorman and told him he was soon to be engaged.
“Gosh, Dr. Rattigan,” Carlos had said, “I always figured you were too smart to fall into the same trap as the rest of us.”
“Well, I think you’ll understand when you see the lady,” Professor Rattigan had said, smiling.
“When’s she coming?”
“Next week, just for a visit. Then we’re going to France to visit her family, then back here in early September. But the reason I bring it up is, there’s a hitch. She’s allergic to long-haired dogs. I thought maybe you could spread the word among the tenants, see if anyone might want to adopt that gorgeous fellow over there.” He’d pointed at Gulliver, who’d been over by the mail room with his neighbor’s cocker spaniel.
“I’ll spread the word, sir. But if nobody steps up to the plate, we’d take him.”
“You? Really?”
“Sure.”
“Where do you live, Carlos?”
“Astoria, out in Queens. We’ve got three dogs already, but the more the merrier. I always liked Gully. Can’t believe you’d give him up.”
“It breaks my heart, believe me. In a lot of ways he’s my closest friend. But I don’t really have any choice.”
“Guess not. So you want me to spread the word?”
“Not if you’re serious about your offer.”
“He’s had his shots and all that stuff?”
“Of course.”
On seeing the neighborhood and the house, Professor Rattigan had had qualms about leaving his beloved pet here, but the cheerful atmosphere in the backyard reassured him. There seemed to be three families at the party: the Montoyas — Carlos and his wife and two kids; and a very dark couple from the West Indies named Ponson who lived on the top floor with their son and the elderly woman, evidently a grandmother; and a Polish-American family from across the street named Sewinski. They were all very friendly, and though Gulliver seemed a bit dismayed at being fought over by wet children, the professor suspected he would soon be lapping up all the attention. In fact, he felt a pang to think how soon the dog would forget all about him and his former dull existence.
“I owe you for this, Carlos,” he said. “You’ll have to think of some way for me to repay you.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” Carlos said. But after a moment he added, “Well, actually . . .”
“Yes?”
“You wouldn’t know anybody at the Columbia School of Journalism, would you?”
“I know the head of the program.”
“Wow. The thing is, I always wanted to be a journalist — write for newspapers, you know.”
“I suppose it’s never too late. Though I suspect most of the student body would be quite a bit younger than you.”
“Oh, jeez, not me! I’m not stupid, I know it’s too late for me. I’m talking about my oldest kid. Roberto!”
In a moment a door opened to what looked like a toolshed in the rear of the backyard. Out came a boy, or rather a young man, wearing cargo shorts and a Planet Hollywood T-shirt. He had a shaved head and a silver earring in one ear.
“Roberto, meet Dr. Rattigan,” Carlos said. “He’s a professor at NYU, and he knows the head of the Columbia School of Journalism.”
Roberto seemed less thrilled about the connection than his father did, but he shook the professor’s hand politely and told him about the classes he’d taken last term at Queens College.
“When are you going to give the kids your surprise, Robbie?” Consuela asked quietly.
“Now, if you want,” Roberto said. “Good to meet you, Dr. Rattigan.” He pointed at Gulliver, trapped in Pedro’s arms. “Cool dog.”
When Roberto disappeared back into his hut, the ancient black woman grinned, showing yellow snaggleteeth.
“Roberto going to be fine journalist,” she said in a singsong voice. “You will see.”
“Granny’s always right, you know,” said Mr. Ponson.
When Carlos explained that Roberto was living at home to save money for journalism school, Professor Rattigan said, “Speaking of money, I’m going to send you a regular check to pay for Gulliver’s Prime Premium.”
Consuela hooted. “You think Frankie and Pudge would let him get a bite of that? But don’t you worry, we’ll take good care of the sweet little
guy.”
Pedro had finally set the sweet little guy down. Wet, bedraggled, and stunned, Gulliver was quickly surrounded by the three towering mutts, all of whom sniffed at him in the crudest possible manner. The two largest, Frankie and Pudge, looked as if they were part Lab, part rottweiler. The other, slightly smaller but still twice his size, looked as if she was a mix of about six different breeds.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Gulliver,” Gulliver said.
Pudge and Frankie snorted, but the female said, “I’m Pogo. You like salsa?”
“Who’s Salsa?”
“The music,” she said.
Thanks to the lowered volume on the baseball game, music could be heard blaring from another backyard. Gulliver frowned at the thumping beat.
“We prefer classical.”
“What’s that?” Frankie growled.
“Is it like reggae?” Pogo said. “I love reggae.”
Gulliver, who’d never heard of reggae, made a snap decision not to waste his breath on these undereducated mongrels. He just smiled vaguely beneath his mustache and shot a look at his professor, wondering how much longer they were going to have to suffer this barbaric atmosphere.
Catching Gulliver’s look, Professor Rattigan experienced a peculiar sensation. Here he was, a distinguished professor, soon to be married to the woman of his dreams, and suddenly he was on the verge of bursting into tears in front of his doorman. He took a swig of beer and rose to his feet.
“I think I’ll be going, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I don’t really care for long goodbyes.”
“Pizza’s coming,” Consuela said temptingly.
But Professor Rattigan wasn’t a pizza eater.
“I know how you must feel about your dog, sir,” Carlos said sympathetically, standing up with him.
Professor Rattigan would have liked to make light of the situation. He would have liked to pick Gulliver up and say with a smile, “Don’t hold it against me, old boy. Remember — to err is human, to forgive canine.” But he couldn’t do it. If he picked Gulliver up, he knew he would turn into a blubbering mess. So he simply told Mrs. Montoya and the others that it had been a pleasure to meet them and wished Juanita a happy birthday.
If Juanita heard him, she didn’t acknowledge it. She and Pedro were now on a small trampoline behind the pool, screeching with glee as they bounced each other higher and higher into the air.
“I brought his carrying case and bed,” Professor Rattigan said.
“Come through this way,” said Carlos.
As Professor Rattigan followed his doorman into the house, he couldn’t help casting one last look over his shoulder. But what with Gulliver surrounded by his new canine friends, all he saw of him was his stubby, happily wagging tail.
“How soon they forget,” Professor Rattigan thought wistfully.
Gulliver’s tail was moving, but it wasn’t wagging happily, it was quivering anxiously. When he’d been encircled by larger dogs in the past, they’d always been on leashes. These smelly mutts had no human beings to restrain them. If they took it into their empty heads, they could rip him to pieces.
“Where’d you get the fancy-schmancy collar?” Pudge asked.
Little as Gulliver felt like conversing, it was impossible to ignore such a direct question. “He brought it back for me from a trip,” he murmured.
“Who?” said Pogo.
“Him,” Gulliver said, stepping back for a view of his professor.
But no professor was in sight, which made the long hair on the back of his neck stand straight up. Only for a second, however. Their doorman wasn’t around either. He must have taken the professor into the house to show him something. Or to conduct some sort of business. That probably explained this bizarre stopover on the way to the airport.
“Where do you live?” Pogo asked.
“New York City,” Gulliver said. “And Paris.”
“This is New York City.”
“I mean Manhattan, of course.”
“Queens is as much New York City as Manhattan,” Frankie declared.
“Whatever you say,” Gulliver murmured, not about to argue such a point. “Excuse me, will you?”
There was a gap between Pudge and Pogo, and he slipped through it. As he approached the old woman, the cat in her lap hissed at him.
Gulliver stationed himself right by the gate, hoping the professor would get the hint when he came back out. Soon another child climbed out of the pool and headed for him, a nasty-looking, pink-skinned boy with a missing tooth and white cream on his nose.
“He’s mine!” Juanita shouted.
She raced over from the trampoline, and the two kids almost pulled poor Gulliver limb from limb.
“Chris, it’s Juanita’s birthday,” Mr. Sewinski said sharply, and the nasty-looking boy, scowling, released Gulliver’s hindquarters.
“Such a sweet doggie,” Juanita said, carrying him back to the trampoline.
To Gulliver’s immense relief, he was set down again. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to be on quite firm ground. A slick material wobbled under his paws.
Juanita and her brother, Pedro, began jumping up and down on either side of him. He shot into the air. When he came down, it was all he could do to land on his paws. The devilish children screamed with delight, and before he knew it, he was in the air again. This time he lost his bearings entirely and landed — ooomph! — on his left side. Up he went again, now totally disoriented. The instant before he touched down for a third time, both kids landed, turning the ground into a springboard that instantly sent him back up and sideways, up, up . . .
When he hit the pool, the concussion dazed him. He gasped — and got a mouthful of water.
Hands clenched his chest. He was hoisted into the air by the nasty boy with the missing tooth.
“Don’t kill the poor thing his first day,” Consuela advised.
Juanita yanked Gulliver away from the boy. “That cool you off, Gully?” she said.
Shocked out of his wits, Gulliver was suddenly on the ground again.
This time it felt solid.
“Look at him!” said Frankie the mutt.
“He looks more like a rat than a dog!”
Gulliver shook himself violently, spraying water in all directions. He’d caught sight of himself in the mirror at Groom-o-rama after his scented bath and knew that the foul mutt wasn’t far off the mark. When his splendid coat was matted down and stuck to his body, he looked pathetically small and skinny.
It was simply too much to bear. Utterly desperate, he resorted to unheard-of behavior. He let out a bark.
It wasn’t impressive. In fact, some might have called it more of a yap than a bark. But it came from the depths of his beleaguered heart.
Yet not even this brought his professor back. Gulliver stared through a screen door into the ground-floor apartment. No one was visible inside. Had the professor gone up to the top floor?
“Look, he wants to scope out our place,” said Mr. Ponson, laughing as Gulliver headed up a set of outdoor stairs.
“He fit through okay,” old Mrs. Ponson predicted.
The elderly woman was right. Gulliver managed to squeeze through the cat-sized pet flap in the door at the top of the stairs. He found himself in an unpleasantly hot kitchen with a funny smell, rotting and spicy at the same time. He moved on to the Ponsons’ cramped living room. Then three small bedrooms. The whole place had the kind of furniture people left out on Manhattan sidewalks for garbage pickup. At One Fifth Avenue they had two bathrooms for one person; here there was one bathroom for four. There was hardly a book to be seen, and no Old Masters on the walls, just a bunch of framed family photos, none of any interest except for one, hung between the living-room windows, that showed a grinning black man standing in front of a shop with the Eiffel Tower loom
ing in the background. It was a comfort to see something familiar. But Gulliver didn’t linger, still certain he would soon be seeing the real thing.
Up to this point cats had played little part in his life. He’d heard a few alley cats howling at night in Paris, and during a youthful visit to the veterinarian for shots he’d seen a just-declawed cat with bandaged front paws. But when he got back to the kitchen, the calico cat was stationed in front of the pet flap — and she definitely had not been declawed. In fact, she looked quite vicious.
Though he didn’t know it, Gulliver was facing a defining moment. If he cowered now, the cat would have his number forever. But just then all he cared about was finding his professor, so he walked up to the beast without so much as flinching. And small as he was compared to the mutts, he was at least bigger than this cat.
She hissed, but moved aside to let him pass.
At the foot of the stairs Gulliver made straight for the first-floor back door. It had a much bigger pet flap than upstairs, but the kitchen beyond it was just as hot as the one above. Hadn’t anyone in Queens heard about air-conditioning? Gulliver walked into a living room that featured a tattered sofa, a La-Z-Boy recliner, and a gigantic TV set. Then he checked three dumpy, depressing bedrooms. In Pedro’s a pair of goldfish swam around in a bowl, and in Juanita’s a tiny furry creature in a cage on the desk squeaked in dismay at the sight of him. But they were the only living creatures in evidence.
As Gulliver was passing back through the living room, the click of the front door gave him a jolt of hope. But when the door opened, it revealed not his professor but the doorman — with Gulliver’s carrying case in one hand and his bed in the other! What in the name of dog were they doing here instead of on their way, with him, to Paris?