Lawyer for the Dog

by Lee Robinson

  “Do you think your parents could learn to cooperate in sharing custody of the dog?” Silence on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry I had to bother you about this.”

  “Ms. Baynard?”

  “Yes?”

  “What I told you about my daughter is confidential.”

  “I don’t see why I would have to bring it up.”

  “And if my father has some idea about calling me as a witness, you can tell him it’s not a very good idea. What I’d have to say wouldn’t help him. It wouldn’t help either one of them. I feel sorry for the poor dog.”

  “Sherman seems to be holding his own.”

  “You know what?” Her voice is acid with sarcasm. “Maybe the dog should divorce them. Find a new home.”

  * * *

  After the phone call I feel sick, as if the Harts—Mr., Mrs., and now Anna—have somehow infected me with their anger and sadness. Even Sherman, poor fellow, seems to be succumbing: He’s lethargic, not exactly sleeping but not fully awake, either. Every few minutes he whimpers and his whole body jerks. His nose feels warm. I take him back to my bedroom, settle him on the bed, lie down beside him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, stroking his back.

  What am I apologizing for? None of this is my fault. I didn’t break up the Harts’ marriage or screw up their relationship with Anna. I didn’t ask for this case. I’m not responsible for Joe’s midlife crisis, if that’s what it is. I didn’t ask for custody of this little dog. No, I tell myself, it isn’t your fault, but I can’t shake the feeling that maybe it is. As if to comfort me, Sherman nuzzles into my neck. Each time he exhales his whiskers tickle me a little, but I don’t mind.

  A Memo to the File

  The howl seems to come from a wild beast, a cry from the darkness, but when it wakes me I realize it’s right here, beside me. Sherman. He’s in pain.

  There’s nothing to do but call the vet. I dial the emergency number and he answers on the third ring, sleepily: “Tony Borden.” Just hearing his voice calms me. He listens as I describe the symptoms.

  “He’s quiet now,” I explain, “but he just isn’t … He’s not acting like himself. I was going to call you in the morning but—”

  “Can you bring him to the clinic?”

  I check my watch. It’s 2:00 a.m. Delores won’t be here for another six hours. “I can’t leave my mother.”

  “It’ll take me half an hour to get there. What’s the gate code? I don’t think I kept it.”

  “Should I be doing anything?”

  “See if he’ll take some water, but otherwise just try to keep him quiet, and don’t feed him anything.”

  Almost as soon as I hang up, Sherman seems better. He follows me around as I check on my mother—she’s managed to sleep through this—and change into jeans and a T-shirt. He’s right behind me in the kitchen as I start a pot of coffee. He even seems interested in his empty food bowl, looking up at me expectantly, cocking his head as if to say, Where’s my breakfast?

  “Maybe I overreacted,” I say when I open the door for Dr. Borden. “He seems a lot better now.”

  “Let me take a look at him. Come here, boy. It’s okay.” I watch as the vet examines him, gently probing his abdomen, listening with the stethoscope. Sherman stays amazingly still, as if he knows he needs this.

  “What have you been feeding him?” he asks.

  “Maryann Hart gave me a bag of that dry stuff. But while I was gone my mother gave him some meatballs. He threw up.”

  “That’s probably it—the meatballs,” he says, putting his stethoscope away. “Schnauzers have finicky stomachs.”

  “But his nose is warm, isn’t it?” I’m beginning to feel a little foolish.

  “Not really.”

  “So you think he’ll be okay?”

  “Probably. Cut down on his food a little—maybe three-quarters the usual portion today. And don’t give him any more people food. If he has a recurrence of vomiting or he seems worse, bring him out to the clinic.”

  “I feel terrible getting you up in the middle of the night. I guess you must think I’m pretty silly.”

  “No, you’re conscientious, the same as you are for your noncanine clients.”

  “It’s more than that. I’m beginning to understand how the Harts feel … If anything were to happen to him—”

  “He’s going to be fine. You’re just a little nervous, like most new mothers.” He says this with a smile, in a voice not at all condescending, but kind. It’s the kindness that makes me cry.

  I start toward the kitchen hoping he won’t notice the tears. “I made some coffee,” I say, but I feel his hand on my shoulder, and when I turn around he kisses me. There’s no hesitation in this kiss, no holding back. I don’t hold back, either. There’s nothing to get in our way except Sherman, who lets out a sharp little yelp when I accidentally step on his foot.

  * * *

  If I wrote a memo to the File of Myself, that longstanding controversy between my head and my heart, it would go something like this:

  MEMO TO FILE

  SARAH BRIGHT BAYNARD, ATTORNEY, PLAINTIFF V.

  SALLY BAYNARD, WOMAN, DEFENDANT

  It has come to my attention that there is an inherent conflict of interest between the Plaintiff and the Defendant. This conflict is of many years duration but recent events have made it impossible to ignore. The parties have reached a crisis in their very close relationship. The Plaintiff (hereinafter Attorney) ignored one of the most basic tenets of professionalism by having sexual relations with a witness in an ongoing case, this taking place in the presence of a third party, one canine whose welfare Attorney is charged with protecting. Plaintiff was fully aware that what she was doing was unethical. Defendant (hereinafter Woman), however, felt nothing of the kind. Without hesitation she invited the witness into her bedroom, closed the door, and proceeded to enjoy herself as she had not done in years. Meanwhile, said canine observed the proceedings from his position on the floor next to the bed. When Woman (attorneys do not make noises like this) began to moan, canine began to bark loudly. Whereupon the witness began to laugh, and this brought about a situation which can only be described as disastrous. Woman’s (and Attorney’s) elderly mother was awakened, came into the room and, upon observing her daughter and witness naked in the bed and laughing hysterically, began screaming. Witness hurried to clothe himself and left Woman’s home in great haste.

  To further illustrate the inherent conflict of interest between Attorney and Woman, it must be noted that on the morning following this incident, Attorney feels terrible and Woman feels better than she has in many years. Were Attorney and Woman not sharing the same body this would not be a problem, but under the circumstances some action must be taken to cure the conflict.

  Attorney is presently ethically obligated to act in the best interests of the canine and this obligation must supersede her own desires as Woman. Until such time as Attorney is free from this obligation, Woman must terminate her relationship (if indeed it is a relationship) with the witness. She may also wish to think carefully before she attempts to explain this incident to her mother.

  In addition to the conflict of interest between Attorney and Woman, there exists a further complication in this matter: Woman has become emotionally attached to the canine whose interests she has been ordered to protect, and this attachment may threaten her ability to render unbiased judgment in the case.

  Note: This memo is highly confidential, intended for the parties only, and should be destroyed after reading.

  Such a Little Sexpot

  At the breakfast table my mother looks more exhausted than usual, but she doesn’t seem to remember what happened last night.

  “Come on, Mom, try to eat your cereal.”

  “Can’t…” she says, her voice weak.

  “Can’t what?”

  “Sw … swim.”

  “You don’t have to swim today if you don’t want to.” She’s always liked the indoor condo pool, oblivious to the
group of old men who frequent the shallow end. They never swim, they just stand around, waist deep, talking and talking. Delores, always the keen observer, has shared her thoughts on this: They pee in there, I know it. Old men can’t hold it that long!

  “No, I mean…” My mother opens her mouth and points down her throat.

  “Swallow?”

  She nods. “Can’t.”

  “Do you have a sore throat?” She shakes her head. “What about some scrambled eggs and grits? That would be easy to swallow.”

  She won’t eat, but she seems content with Sherman in her lap. She strokes his back as if she’s always had a dog to keep her company at the breakfast table.

  “He’s a good dog, isn’t he, Mom?” She smiles. I miss this smile. So often these days she just stares blankly, as if the world has been drained of everything interesting.

  When Delores comes she eyes Sherman and says, rather dramatically, “Oh, Lord, he’s still here,” but I can tell she’s having a hard time holding onto her disapproval.

  Suddenly my mother’s smile disappears and she points to me: “Naked!”

  “She’s really going downhill fast,’ I whisper to Delores.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Delores mouths back.

  My mother’s mind sputters and sparks, then fires: “Such a little sexpot,” she shouts, her index finger still aimed at me.

  “That’s not nice, Miz Margaret. You behave yourself now!” says Delores.

  I can’t get away from the condo fast enough. “Come on, Sherman, we’re already late.” Sherman jumps down from my mother’s lap, follows me to the door, those black eyes full of questions: Why are you in such a rush? I was just getting used to those ladies, and now you’re taking me away? Where’s the vet? What am I doing here, anyway?

  “You need this?” says Delores, holding Dr. Borden’s hat, a faded Red Sox cap, which he’d left on the table.

  “It belongs to a friend,” I say on my way out.

  “You better be careful out there today,” she warns. “It’s Friday the thirteenth.”

  * * *

  On the drive to the office Sherman sits in the passenger seat, his nose turned toward the window. The radio is full of bad news, so I turn it off.

  “You want the window down, honey?” I ask. “I guess it’s okay, as long as you don’t jump out.”

  He looks at me with his answer: Why would I do that? I’m not stupid!

  But the moment I roll the window down he curls his front paws over the door handle and I reach over to grab his collar. His eyes reproach me: I’m fine. Just want to get a better view. Don’t want to miss any smells, either.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pull you so hard. We’ll be at the office in just a minute. I’ve got a client coming in, but you can play with Gina. She can be a real pain in the butt sometimes, but she’ll be on her best behavior with you because she likes handsome guys.”

  I don’t think he’s listening now, but I like talking to him. “I hope we didn’t freak you out too much last night, the vet and I.”

  He turns around at the word “vet”: I don’t understand what you’re saying, but you seem excited about whatever it is.

  * * *

  “You might want to turn your collar up a little,” Gina whispers in my ear as I follow Natalie Carter back to my office.

  “What?”

  “To hide that hickey, or whatever it is.”

  “Tell her I’ll be a minute,” I say, ducking into the bathroom. There’s a purplish-red blotch on my neck, just below my left ear. I follow Gina’s advice; the upturned collar almost covers it.

  If Mrs. Carter notices anything she handles it gracefully. “You’re looking really nice this morning. New haircut?”

  “No, but thanks.”

  “Something’s different—I’m not sure what—but it’s a good look.”

  I open her file. “So, Derwood says he’s going to represent himself. I can’t force him to hire a lawyer, but it’s going to make things more difficult.”

  “He wants to meet with you before he answers the complaint. He says he wants to ‘spare me unnecessary distress.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He knows some things,” she says.

  Okay, I think, here we go. Now she’s going to tell me everything she should have told me in our first meeting, before I filed the complaint and had it served on her husband. Hadn’t I given her my standard advice? You need to tell me everything. Think of it this way: I’m your lawyer for everything you tell me, but for everything you don’t tell me, I’m not your lawyer.

  “What things?”

  “I had an affair, but it was years ago. I didn’t think he’d have the nerve to bring it up, considering his behavior.”

  “How long ago?”

  “At least five years. It was just a brief fling, but I felt so guilty I told him about it. I shouldn’t have.”

  “Did he forgive you?”

  “He said he did, but every now and then, when I’d get mad about his … his bedding down with his court reporter … he’d bring it up again. We’ve slept together plenty of times after that, if that matters.”

  “It matters. Was this the only time you were unfaithful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Natalie, it’s essential that you tell me everything.”

  “That was the only time.”

  I scan my notes from our first meeting. “After you discovered he was still sleeping with his court reporter, this last time … in September … you left him, and you haven’t slept with him since then, right?”

  “That’s right.” Mrs. Carter opens her purse, retrieves a compact, applies some lip gloss. “They’re all jerks, aren’t they?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Men.”

  “Not all of them, I guess.”

  “I mean, they’re so used to doing whatever they want, and having us put up with it—they’re actually shocked when we finally say, ‘Enough!’”

  I look at my watch. The watch comes in handy when I need to move things along. “If there’s anything else I need to know, please tell me before we go any further.”

  “No. That’s it. I’ve been a good girl ever since.”

  “Since Derwood won’t hire a lawyer, I’ll meet with him, but I doubt it will be productive. I’m going to write him a letter first, for the file, to remind him—as he knows already—that it’s not advisable for him to proceed without representation. If he insists on being pro se, I’ll ask him to prepare a proposal for settlement.”

  “That sounds good,” she says. “There was something else I wanted to ask you about … The furniture I inherited from my mother, and her china…” She goes on and on about Queen Anne this and Wedgewood that. I’m having a hard time concentrating. Tony Borden is getting in the way.

  It’s been a long time for me, he said.

  Me, too.

  You don’t seem like a woman who would spend a lot of time alone. You’re so … I don’t know … luscious.

  I’m just plain old Sally.

  There’s nothing plain about you. I’ve been thinking about this ever since we had dinner.

  You have?

  I’ve been thinking, is it possible in a million years that a woman like you would want to get together with a sad old veterinarian?

  You’re not old. Maybe a little sad.

  See, you noticed it already.

  Sad is the wrong word. Serious.

  Whatever it is, I come with plenty of baggage.

  Doesn’t everybody?

  I guess so. Speaking of which—what about the judge?

  Oh, he’s got his share.

  No, I mean, you and the judge.

  It’s got nothing to do with you and me.

  But it does, if you’re still in love with him.

  I was confused for a while, but not anymore. Like we were saying, everybody comes with baggage. Even Sherman.

  When Natalie Carter’s voice yanks me back into the r
oom I apologize. “I feel like I’m coming down with something,” I say.

  “You look a little flushed,” she says.

  I can’t get his voice out of my head. My heart’s still banging against my ribs. It’s just a dumb muscle, but it’s persistent, and I can feel it trying to pound some sense into my brain.

  Another One?

  “No dogs in the courthouse, Ms. Baynard,” says the deputy stationed at the metal detector just inside the entrance.

  “He’s my client,” I say, winking. I know this guy. I come through this detector maybe twenty times a month. “Seriously, I have permission.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “We have a meeting with Judge Baynard.”

  Sherman perks his ears as if to say, Please. The deputy melts. “I guess he don’t look too dangerous.”

  “He’s a sweetheart.” I put my briefcase and my keys in the plastic bucket.

  “Better take that collar off him before he goes through. That tag will set the system off. Nice little fellow. What kind?”

  “Miniature schnauzer.”

  “You sure this is okay?”

  “I’m his court-appointed guardian. We’re going to see the judge about his case.” All this is true, but it’s hard for me to keep a straight face.

  “Okay, but keep him on the leash.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There’s a crowd waiting for the elevator so Sherman and I take the stairs to the second floor. He’s in heaven on the staircase—so many new smells, the delicious deposits from so many shoes, odors from all over Charleston County and beyond. He pauses every other step or so, his nose trembling, his docked tail twitching with excitement. “Come on, boy,” I say, trying not to tug the leash too hard, but in the stairwell he finds a treasure, a McDonald’s bag still giving off the scent of hamburger. “No, honey, leave that alone. It’ll make you sick.”

  From behind her desk outside Joe Baynard’s chambers, his secretary, Betty, can see us coming down the hall.

  “Is the judge busy?” I ask.

  “Who’s this?”

  “This is Sherman, the star of Hart v. Hart. Sherman, say hello to Betty.”

  “I see why they’re fighting over him. How’d you get him in here?”