by McMan, Ann;
“Okay.”
“Make sure she heels . . . that’s part of her training.”
“Right.”
“Don’t let her yank on the leash. She likes to pull.”
“Got it.”
“And grab some poop bags . . . she’ll probably have to dump two or three times.”
“Okay.”
“There are some biscuits in a bin inside the closet. You can take some along as treats . . . she minds better when there’s a food incentive.”
“Roger.”
“Be sure you get the small ones. She swallows the damn things whole, without chewing. Last time I gave her a big one, she choked and we had to give her the Heimlich maneuver.”
“Marty . . .”
“She shot that thing all the way across the hall into the family room.”
“Marty . . .”
“It nearly took out Alvin’s eye.”
“Marty . . .”
“Sheila put one of those Boca burgers on it to keep the swelling down.”
“Marty . . .”
“Teddy was pretty pissed . . . he wasn’t finished eating it yet.”
“Marty!”
“What?”
“Jeez Louise. I got it, okay?”
“You didn’t have to yell.”
I sighed. “If I don’t get going, I won’t get her there in time.”
“Hold on a second.” I could hear someone else in the background muttering. He came back on the line. “Hey, I gotta run. You’ll have to finish your story later.”
He hung up.
I shook my head and put the phone down.
The last thing I felt like doing was taking Marty’s psycho dog for a walk. The only bright spot was that the obedience school was in the same general area as the Baltimore Bicycle Works. And I wanted to stop in and take a look at Clarissa’s Christmas present—a brand new Bianchi Metropoli Uno. I ordered it three weeks ago, and they called me yesterday to let me know that it had arrived. The sleek hybrid was perfect for Clarissa, who’d never had a bike growing up. It was solid and stylish and well suited for navigating the curbs and potholes of city streets. Plus it was Italian. And Clarissa loved anything Italian.
I hoped she’d like it. I looked forward to many happy outings with her.
Thinking about giving it to her made me smile.
And that made me think about what a putz I was being about the party. Inviting both of our families to a holiday celebration was a big step for Clarissa. It was a bold and public acknowledgement of our relationship. And it was a precursor to her moving in. She wanted everyone to see us together in a home environment before unveiling those plans. It was wrong for me to let my uneasiness spoil her best intentions. If she could afford to be so magnanimous, then so could I.
I glanced at the wall clock again. I still had about ten minutes before I needed to leave for Marty’s. I pulled my laptop over and quickly typed up the details of our party. I filled in the email addresses of my parents, my brother, and Marty and Sheila. My finger hovered for a moment over the mouse. I had a momentary sense of impending catastrophe . . . like the one Mrs. O’Leary’s cow probably felt as soon as that lantern went over.
I took a deep breath.
Clarissa was right. It was ridiculous to be so superstitious.
I closed my eyes and clicked “send.”
Sadie didn’t just yank on her leash; she damn near pulled my arm out of its socket. I fought her for the first six blocks, then just gave up and started trotting along behind her. It seemed to work better that way.
It didn’t help that it was cold as hell. The temperature had plummeted overnight and, even though the sun was out, it was still well below freezing. The frigid air was burning my lungs. I tried to rein Sadie in so I could stop and catch my breath. At this rate, I’d end up with bronchitis before we reached St. Paul Street.
Christmas was only a week away, and most of the shops were advertising blowout sales. All the city decorations were starting to look a bit frazzled. The big weather systems that kept rolling up from the south were bringing more rain than snow, and everything just looked . . . gray.
A sidewalk vendor up ahead was selling hot sausages. Sadie seemed entirely too interested by that prospect, so I decided to cross the street. Some of the houses along this block had what could only be called eclectic decorations. Most of them looked like mini shrines to the Baltimore Ravens. Santas wearing bright purple jerseys, tinsel wrapped goal posts, and trees festooned with tiny footballs dotted the front lawns of several homes. It was festive and tacky, in a consistent and decidedly Baltimore way.
Even Sadie stopped to admire the spectacle. But that was short-lived. A squirrel fell out of a tree and had the great misfortune to land within three feet of her nose. The only thing that saved it was the scrap of iron fence that separated us from it. Sadie lunged toward the fence like she’d been shot from a cannon, dragging me along behind her. I’m surprised that her momentum wasn’t enough to slam us both between the rusty bars.
The squirrel took off and ran north along the fence line with Sadie in hot pursuit. I still had hold of her leash and I was doing my best to try and slow her down. We were nearly at the intersection of East 22nd Street. The squirrel switched back and roared up the side of an Ash tree before jumping over to the eaves spout on a house. Sadie stopped on a dime but my forward momentum kept me going. I tumbled over her and landed face down in a half frozen puddle of muddy slush. I cursed and rolled up into a sitting position and glowered at Sadie, who was paying no attention to me at all. She sat stiffly at attention, staring with criminal intent at the chattering squirrel, which was flipping us off from its perch on an outcropping of gutter.
I shook my gloved hands and tried to wipe the worst of muck off the front of my jacket. It cut a ludicrous, brackish-colored swath from my shoulders to my thighs.
“Thanks a bunch, dog.”
Sadie’s steel blue eyes never so much as blinked in my direction, but I noticed her left ear twitch. At least I counted that as some kind of recognition.
I sighed and looked up the street. At least we were only a block from the damn doggie reform school. I still had five minutes to get her there on time. Maybe they’d take pity on me and let me try and clean up in their restroom.
I climbed to my feet and gave a sharp yank on Sadie’s leash.
“Come on, Scarface. You’ve got a date with destiny.”
My gloves were soaked, and I could feel my fingers starting to freeze. I was also pretty sure that my knees were skinned-up beneath my jeans. Sadie, of course, was now trotting along beside me in a perfect imitation of a well-heeled dog.
I wanted to clobber her.
I noticed that I was getting odd looks from passers-by. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. I’m certain it was abundantly clear to the holiday masses that a mud-covered vagrant with a sour expression was stealing this perfectly behaved, immaculately groomed Siberian husky. No doubt they all would see my picture on the evening news. Of course, everyone would think it was the famous news anchor being implicated in a holiday dognapping scheme instead of me.
And that would mean more record-breaking audience shares in the Baltimore market for my look-alike, Rachel Maddow.
That woman really owed me big time.
We nearly reached the entrance to Charles Village Critters. A shiny black Mercedes pulled over to the curb and stopped. A waifish-looking woman dressed to the nines in gray cashmere and Jackie-O sunglasses climbed out. She was holding some kind of designer-type dog that looked like a four-footed replica of her: expensive and incredibly high maintenance. They were even dressed alike. The dog wore a dove gray coat with a fur-lined collar. I wasn’t certain about its breed. A Whippet, maybe? It was something nervous and whiny.
The white-haired woman gingerly sat the dog down on the ground and turned to address the driver of the Mercedes.
Then it happened.
Sadie and the dog saw each other.
It was like the heaven
s parted. I swore I could hear the finale from Kismet rolling out along the boulevard. Ruth Anne Swenson and Samuel Ramey going full-tilt boogie in an all-star duet of “Stranger in Paradise.”
Sadie jerked to a halt. She and the Whippet stared at each other across the expanse of chipped concrete, parking meters, and potted plants. Time stood still.
It was love . . . or something very much akin to it.
Sadie emitted an ear-splitting chirp. It was one of those high-pitched, fingernails on a chalkboard sounds that Siberian husky’s make in lieu of barks.
The Whippet answered her with a shriek that rolled out like a tsunami warning.
Sadie’s call sounded again. Soon a medley of whines rose up and twisted together in the cold air. It was every bit as atonal as a chorus of cheap coffee grinders.
Then the unthinkable happened.
Just as the Mercedes pulled away, the Whippet broke free and flounced toward us on a wave of gray cashmere.
The wispy woman who had been holding onto its leash stumbled and nearly fell as she attempted to lunge for the escaping dog.
“Maris! Stop!” she bellowed.
Maris?
I did my best to plant my feet and cinch up Sadie’s leash, but I knew it was going to be a lost cause. Even a twenty-mule team pulling a load of borax across Death Valley would be unable to stop Sadie if she wanted to run. And right now, Sadie wanted to run.
I gave it my best effort. I held on long enough to walk away with top honors at any bronco busting championship. The leash I had wrapped around my hand was pulled so tight I could feel my fingers starting to tingle. My feet were sliding across the sidewalk as Sadie dragged me along behind her.
The wispy woman was lurching toward us. She had a curious, bobbing gait—like someone trying to jump hurdles with a stiff leg. Then I realized that she’d broken the heel on one of her ridiculously high shoes.
Maris reached Sadie. The two dogs balanced on their hind legs and danced around each other in a nearly perfect imitation of an Arthur Murray routine.
And cha-cha-cha, break and swivel . . .
They were still caterwauling.
“Get that thing off my Maris!” the wispy woman croaked. She sounded like a smoker.
I didn’t bother to point out that her Maris was actually the one on top of the thing.
“I’m doing my best, lady.” I circled the two dogs, looking for the best opening to reach in and grab Sadie by the harness.
Sadie had two-thirds of Maris’s head inside her mouth.
“Oh my god! That thing is eating my baby.” The woman was nearly hysterical. She kicked at Sadie with her broken shoe. “Stop. Stop it.”
“Stop kicking her,” I yelled. “They’re playing—they’re not hurting each other.”
“Your dog is killing my Maris!” she screamed.
Passing cars slowed down. Pedestrians stopped to watch the spectacle.
The woman flailed at the dogs. I let go of Sadie’s leash and stepped over to haul her back.
“Stop it.” I held her firmly by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “They’re just playing. Dogs do that. You need to calm down.”
“How dare you.” The small woman was surprisingly strong. “Get your hands off me. You and that thing of yours should be locked up.”
She kicked me with her one good shoe. Hard.
“Jeez, lady.” I jumped back, expecting to see a four-inch heel projecting from the top of my foot. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
But she wasn’t paying any attention to me. She was pointing, open mouthed, at the empty sidewalk behind us.
The dogs were gone.
“Where is she?” She gave me a murderous look. “If anything happens to my Maris, there won’t be enough of you left to bury.”
I looked about frantically.
A burly man in a buffalo plaid jacket was leaning against a parking meter, smoking. He raised a meaty hand and pointed up St. Paul Street with his cigarette.
“They went that away,” he said.
I scanned the area in time to see the flash of Sadie’s white behind as she rounded the corner on 25th Street—plainly in hot pursuit of Maris.
Perfect.
One of the fastest dogs on the planet was now being chased by one of the most stubborn.
The angry, wispy woman was wailing and screaming for the police.
I considered my options.
If any of us survived, I’d get to spend a lifetime making Marty pay . . .
I took off after the dogs.
“Gillespie!”
The big iron door rolled back. I looked up from my seat on the low bunk. Late afternoon light was filtering in through a high, transom window at the end of the corridor. Something about this place was starting to feel downright homey. It exuded a calm that was mostly missing in the rest of my life. I knew that I’d be sorry to leave it—especially when I had to confront what I knew would be waiting for me outside in central processing.
I’d used my one phone call to reach out to my brother, Father Frank. Again.
I asked him to wear his collar this time.
This time. Jeez . . .
At the rate I was going, I should ask the City of Baltimore for a time-share on this joint.
But it did occur to me that maybe having a big, jovial priest bail me out would lend a holiday flavor to my misfortune. Why not add a little Bells of St. Mary’s flourish to lessen the sting of my most recent crime against humanity—especially since I knew that both of the dogs were safe and sound?
Which, by the way, was more than I could say for my unhappy prospects.
I couldn’t begin to imagine how I was going to explain this one to Clarissa. Somehow the words, “It wasn’t my fault,” rang hollow—even to me. And not just because I’d said them the last time I ended up here.
I followed along behind the matron as we headed for the discharge area.
“See ya on the flip side, Dorrie.” I waved at the big woman in the first cell who apparently was a fixture in this particular lockup.
“Later, doll face.” Dorrie gave me a two-fingered salute.
It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the fluorescent light in the discharge area. I didn’t see Frank. Just my luck he’d pick today to run a few errands on his way downtown to bail his baby sister out of the joint.
There were six or eight other people seated around the room on beat up wooden benches. Most of them looked tired and bored, and entirely used to being precisely where they were.
Then I saw her. My heart skipped a beat.
Uh oh . . .
Clarissa.
She did not look happy.
I opened my mouth to ask what she was doing there, but she raised a hand to stop me.
“Don’t. Say. Anything.”
I sighed and walked to the window to claim my belongings.
Clarissa was silent on the entire ride back to my house. I was dying to ask how she found out about what had happened, but I was afraid to do so. I knew she’d tell me when she was good and ready.
“Can you at least tell me where the dogs are?” I asked, timidly.
She glared at me. “Home where they belong.
I didn’t speak again and neither did she.
When we got home and entered the house, Clarissa tossed her coat and bag down on a chair and headed straight for the liquor cabinet.
That wasn’t good news. Clarissa rarely drank the hard stuff, and I’d never known her to indulge on weekdays—or during broad daylight.
She held up a bottle of Remy. “Want some?”
That was something, at least. I nodded vigorously and headed for the kitchen to retrieve two glasses.
When I got back to the living room, she had collapsed on the sofa and flipped on the gas logs. I set the two tumblers down on the coffee table in front of her and turned on the lights on the Christmas tree.
“Feeling festive?” she asked. Her words were like jabs from an ice pick.
I shru
gged.
Our tree this year was more modest in scale than the trees I’d had in years past. This one was a solid six-footer. A Frasier Fir from Ash County, North Carolina. In addition to the strands of blazing blue-and-white lights, the tree was covered with tiny red-and-black paper birds. Cardinals and Ravens . . . my eternal emblems of hope and despair.
Today the fifty-fifty odds they presented seemed more appropriate than ever.
Clarissa poured us each a hefty dose of the cognac. I sat down on the sofa at a safe distance from her and picked up my glass.
“Are you ever going to ask me about what happened?”
“I already know what happened.” Her voice was still icy.
“Well maybe you’d like to fill me in, then—since I kinda lost track after the parade?”
She sighed and sipped her cognac. Then she shifted her position and faced me.
“I changed my mind.”
I was confused. “About what?”
“I want to hear your version of events.”
My version?
“What other version is there?” I asked.
She waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t prevaricate.”
I sighed. “The dogs took off and I chased after them. When I finally caught up to them at the Christmas parade, I got arrested. End of story.”
“End of story?”
I nodded.
“I think your CliffsNotes summary omits a few pertinent details.”
“Such as?” I was starting to squirm.
“Let’s see.” She tipped her head back while she tallied up the missing details. “Aggravated assault. Disorderly conduct. Personal and public property damages totaling more than $42,856, disruption of the Mayor’s Christmas Parade, and indecent exposure.”
“Indecent exposure?” I asked, incredulous.
Clarissa raised an eyebrow.
“Oh . . .” I remembered. “That.”
“Yes. That.”
“Come on. That one was so not my fault.”
“And the other litany of crimes?”
“Well . . .”
Clarissa sighed. “Diz? You do realize that you’re going to be the centerfold in tonight’s police report?”