4 Woof at the Door

by Leslie O'Kane

  Regardless of Mr. Atkinson’s personal appraisal of me, getting his perspective on the barking situation would be helpful. Doobie took another leap at the fence, and nearly managed to climb over the fence, which finally got a rise out of Ty. Joining the recorded voice, he cried, “No, Doobie! Down, boy!” Ty pulled the dog’s massive back paws off the fence support beam, which caused Doobie to yelp as he fell onto our side of the fence. “Bad dog!” Ty shouted, yet, for the first time in my presence, he patted his dog. He glanced at me. “Let’s go back inside the house.”

  I said nothing, watching with interest as Ty tried to coax his dog away from the fence. “Come on, boy.” Doobie jumped up on the fence again. Ty grabbed his collar and needed every ounce of strength to drag Doobie back to the house. Ty’s smile while doing so hinted that he was proud of the dog’s disobedience.

  Once inside, I leaned against the kitchen counter and watched the difficult procedure as Ty strained to lock the dog door despite his dog’s noisy and furious attempts to bull his way through it. Afterwards, Ty bolted the series of locks on the door, then turned toward me, laughing. “See what I mean? He’s really something to handle. You sure you’re up for this?”

  I stared at the gray eyes above those silly rose-colored glasses. “Do you want your dog to be trained?”

  His smile faded. “Of course. I hired you, didn’t I?”

  “Out of duress. You’re afraid the authorities will take your dog unless you get his barking under control.”

  He scowled. “All right, yes. You got me. I believe in letting everybody do their own thing. I’m a free spirit—” he indicated his clothes—”as if you couldn’t figure that out for yourself. That’s why I chose Doobie in the first place. He’s got a lot of energy, and he can handle himself real well. I don’t want to break his spirit.”

  “Do you consider training a dog ’breaking his spirit’?” I asked pointedly.

  He hesitated, but finally frowned and muttered, “Obviously I’ve got no choice in the matter. I need to be able to control Doobie, or those whiney neighbors of mine are going to see to it that he’s declared a nuisance. Can you get him to quiet down enough to suit the neighbors, without turning him into some kind of a Hush Puppy?”

  I resisted a smile. “The only way I can do that is if you’re willing to assert yourself as his master.”

  “Fine, fine. We’ll buy into the whole dog-obedience scene, if that’s what it’ll take.” He sighed as he stared at the ever-barking Doobie. “I sure wish you could tell me what’s going on today, though. He’s never barked quite this bad before. It’s gotta be Atkinson’s dog. Maybe she’s in heat, or something.”

  That was the first sensible thing Ty had said—an assessment which reinforced my core issue: Without the dog owner’s full cooperation and approval, there was little chance my program would succeed. I did my best to explain this to Ty, who assured me he understood and that, even if he disagreed “on principle” about my wanting to train dogs, he would still comply fully with my instructions.

  During the rest of our hour, I discussed the standard ways that Ty would need to assert himself over Doobie. Ty also needed to tone down his dog’s aggressiveness, which meant giving Doobie a lower-protein diet, more exercise, and staying away from rough-housing and tug-of-war games. Ty nodded throughout, but I could tell that, underneath that silly wig of his, my words were falling on deaf ears. Secretly I was putting my hopes on his wife’s assistance, but she never arrived. Not a good sign.

  After our hour was up, I headed next door to Hank Atkinson’s house to find out if Ty’s hunch about the Samoyed being in heat was correct. Preoccupied, I almost bumped into an elderly man on the sidewalk, who had bent down to tie his shoe and was partially hidden in the shadows. The man let out a howl of protest at our near collision.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there.”

  He merely glared at me, cleared his throat noisily, and shuffled off down the street. Apparently this was not the friendliest of neighborhoods.

  Hank Atkinson’s front door was wide open, except for the thin screen door. A dog was whining.

  I peered through the screen. No dogs were within view, though the whines sounded like a dog was just on the other side of the doorway. A pair of male voices were coming from the next room, which, if the general layout was the same as Ty’s house, would be the kitchen. I rang the doorbell.

  A gray wolf charged through the house, straight toward me.

  Chapter 2

  I gasped, automatically putting a hand over my exposed throat. All that separated me from the wolf was a thin screen. The wolf could leap through that in the blink of an eye.

  I stood my ground and hoped the wolf was domesticated. In any case, if I turned and ran, I would only trigger chase-of-prey instincts. The wolf stopped at the other side of the door, and we stood staring at each other.

  What was going on here? There was no way Ty Bellingham’s description of his neighbor’s “white fluffy” Samoyed could have actually referred to this wolf.

  A male voice chuckled, and I was vaguely aware of a figure in the shadowed inner doorway behind the animal. “I see you’ve met Kaia, our local celebrity,” said the man. “Don’t worry. He’s perfectly harmless.”

  “That’s nice to know,” I replied, though I was fully aware that was a false statement on his part. Kaia had his teeth and his claws intact, so while he might be completely domesticated, he was not harmless. Nor, for that matter, was any canine.

  The man stepped into view alongside the vigilant wolf. He was in his sixties, rather dumpy looking with tobacco-stained teeth and a week’s worth of gray whiskers. He wore unbelted and low-riding brown pants, and a stained light blue T-shirt. Was this the neighbor Ty Bellingham had implied was a skirt chaser? If so, he must be deceptively fleet of foot.

  “Are you Hank Atkinson?” I asked, recalling a joke that if this was “God’s gift to women,” I hope He kept the receipt.

  “No, that would be me,” a second man said from the background. The first man stepped aside to allow Hank access to his own door, but kept a watchful eye on me over Hank’s shoulder. Hank Atkinson was in his forties, strikingly attractive with reddish-brown hair graying at the temples. He wore khaki shorts and a denim shirt with rolled-up sleeves that accentuated his muscular, stocky frame. “And whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any.” He started to shut the door on me.

  “I’m not a salesperson. My name is Allida Babcock. I’m a dog behaviorist. Do you have a couple of minutes to discuss your dog with me?”

  “Sammy?” he rolled his eyes. “Why? Are you in the market for a used Samoyed? If so, this might be your lucky day.”

  “No, actually—”

  “So. You’re a dog behaviorist, eh?” He gave me a salesman smile of his own and leaned against the door frame. “Maybe you can answer some questions. I’d been hoping to breed my Samoyed to Kaia here, but it looks like that’s not gonna happen. She backed herself into a corner and is protecting herself for all she’s worth. Can she tell Kaia isn’t a dog?”

  “Yes, and she might be frightened. Some female dogs can be very discriminating when it comes to mating.”

  Actually, I silently considered, I’d known of many instances where female dogs had rejected male dogs, albeit in those cases that immediately came to mind, the male dogs were of the same or smaller breeds than the female. I’d had no experience whatsoever when it came to mating dogs with wolves, but, it was logical to assume that his dog was frightened. I sure would be.

  The man who’d first come to the door chuckled again. “How d’ya like that? Your Samantha thinks she’s too good for Kaia. Ain’t that just like your typical dame?” He jabbed Hank in the shoulder.

  Hank stiffened, but made no reply.

  “Why’n’t you invite the lady in?” He gave me a sly smile, “‘Less you’re afraid of being in the same house with a wolf.” He laughed again, then added, “And I ain’t talkin’ ’bout the four-legged kind.”

&
nbsp; Charmed, I’m sure.

  “Come on in.” Hank opened the screen door. “It’s not as if you’ll be seeing anything illicit going on, damn it all.”

  I stepped inside, keeping a wary eye on the wolf, who returned the favor, his nostrils flaring as he checked me out. Kaia, the two men, and I shared a relatively small square of hardwood flooring that marked the entranceway to a nicely decorated living room. The air bore an unwashed-dog odor. I couldn’t identify its source, but I was betting on Hank’s human visitor. I glanced over at him. He blatantly gawked at my chest. Was he hoping my blouse would suddenly spring open like the doors of a cuckoo clock?

  I heard another whimper and glanced to my left, along the front wall. Except for her head, which poked out from around the edge of the love seat, my view of the Samoyed was blocked. She had a few square feet in the corner of the living room between a roll-top desk and the love seat. She was whining and clearly ill at ease, staring at Kaia, who, in turn, seemed utterly indifferent, showing more interest in me than in her. If Sammy was truly in heat, Kaia was strangely unaffected.

  “That’s my Samantha, over there.” Hank frowned as he looked at her and crossed his tanned arms across his broad chest.

  “Are you sure she’s in heat?” I asked.

  “Nah, but she will be any day now,” Hank said. “Thought I’d go ahead and have her meet her future mate. They don’t seem to take to one another. Was giving them a preliminary intro to each other a bad idea?”

  “No, but ideally, this initial introduction and their future meetings should be in the male dog’s—” I paused and corrected myself— “in the wolf’s…home. By doing this in the reverse, you’ve put her in a defensive position toward Kaia. She’s compelled to defend her home from him, which isn’t conducive for mating.”

  Hank’s guest guffawed. “That bitch doesn’t want to get into any position for Kaia, if you ask me.”

  Hank shot a glare in the man’s direction and said, “‘Fraid it isn’t possible to do this at Kaia’s place.”

  “You have discussed all of this with Sammy’s veterinarian, haven’t you?”

  “Er, no. Maybe I’d better do that. I got to admit, I don’t have much experience with dogs. She’s my first. Owned her for less than two years. She’s been acting strange the last few weeks. Kind of stand-offish. Does she look all right to you?”

  I took a step toward her, and she immediately let out a series of warning barks. She was clearly set to defend herself, if necessary. “I can’t examine her under these conditions. She might let me get closer, though, once Kaia’s gone.”

  I glanced at the other man, who was apparently the wolf’s handler. For the dog’s sake, I needed to find out what was going on here, and that meant forcing myself to be pleasant to this rather disgusting person. I held out my hand to him. “I’m Allida Babcock.”

  He took my hand, his palm rough and calloused. “Larry Cundriff. Pleased to meet you, miss.” He held my hand a little longer than necessary.

  I resisted the urge to wipe my palm on my slacks. “Are you Kaia’s owner?”

  “Me? No, no. I just…work for the owner, that’s all.” The question had put him ill at ease. Something wasn’t above-board here.

  “Has he or she got a license for owning an exotic animal?” I asked, watching the wolf, which was making himself at home. He had leapt onto a small off-white sofa across the room from us.

  “Sure, he does.”

  “What’s the owner’s name?”

  The man cleared his throat and ran his fingers along his whiskered chin. “No offense, miss, but uh, what’s it to you?”

  “I’d be interested in speaking with him or her about purchasing a pup,” I lied.

  He grinned. “Ah, well. In that case, you’d be better off making the arrangements through me. That Damian, he’s a real straight arrow. He won’t sell a wolf pup to anyone without first checking that you’ve got a suitable home and licenses and all that crap.”

  “Nevertheless, could I get his number?”

  Larry made a show of patting his pockets and shot a nervous look at Hank, still standing beside him. “‘Fraid I don’t have one of his cards. Not on me. Sorry.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “So, Hank,” Larry said, pretending not to have heard my last question. “What do you think? Think it’s about time to, uh, pack it in?”

  Hank nodded. “You might as well take Kaia home. I’ll be in touch when the time comes.”

  Larry whistled and patted his thigh. The wolf gracefully leapt off the couch and allowed Larry to slip a choke collar around his neck. “Pleasure meetin’ you, miss. An’ like a said, if’n you want yourself a wolf pup, you talk to me. Hank here knows how to reach me.”

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Larry had some insidious deal going, perhaps behind the back of the wolf’s owner. “Damian” likely didn’t even know that Larry was studding Kaia out. I needed to learn Damian’s last name, without raising Larry’s or Hank’s suspicions.

  I decided I’d have a better chance of getting answers from Hank, who would likely suffer less ramifications if caught. I followed a step behind Hank, but remained silent as Larry took Kaia out through the kitchen and into Hank’s three-car garage, where a plain steel-gray van with tinted windows was parked. The two men loaded the very amiable wolf into a cage in the back of the van, then Larry took off, Hank shutting the garage door after him. Strange that Larry’s vehicle would be parked inside Hank’s garage. Apparently, they didn’t want to raise neighbors’ curiosity by leaving the van in the driveway.

  Hank led me back through the kitchen. Despite Ty’s words to the contrary, Hank hadn’t been at all flirtatious toward me so far. He did walk with something of a swagger, though. His bearing hinted at his having considerable pride in his muscular, if somewhat compact, physique. “So, can you take a quick look at Sammy for me?”

  “I’d be happy to.” The dog was still where we’d left her. I got a slightly better view of her, enough to see that she was surprisingly plump. She’d been lying down, but immediately sat up when we entered the room. I stopped in the center of the living room. “It’d be best for me to give Sammy the chance to get comfortable with my presence and come to me,” I explained.

  He nodded and plopped down in the same spot on the couch that the wolf had recently abandoned. Hank splayed his legs and laced his fingers behind his head, taking up as much space as possible as he regarded me at length.

  “Larry called Kaia a ’local celebrity.’ How come?”

  He widened his eyes and stared at me. “Oh, now, surely you’ve seen my commercials, right?” He gave me a full-wattage smile, his perfect teeth contrasting with his tanned skin. “‘Safe and sound, thanks to Hank’s’?”

  “Oh, right,” I said, playing along. I watched television only irregularly, and less often than ever, now that my temporary living quarters had put my mom in control of the remote. “So that must be the wolf in your commercials.”

  He gave me a broad grin, his chest visibly puffing with pride. “That’s right. Kaia circles me during the commercial, and then sits next to me.”

  “And Kaia’s owner? Is he there as you’re shooting the commercials?”

  Hank’s smile faded a little. “Yeah, he’s usually just out of view of the camera, behind the couch or right next to the cameraman.”

  “What’s Damian’s last name?”

  He frowned and rose slowly. Though he wasn’t tall—five-eight or so—he strode toward me in a John-Wayne sidle, looped his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts, and rocked on his heels. “Look it, little girl, I’m not doing anything illegal here. It’s true that Damian doesn’t know about my arrangement with Larry to stud Kaia. Damian doesn’t treat his employee half as well as he treats his animals. The only way Larry can make ends meet is when someone like me slips him a hundred bucks or so. And, you’re sure not going to see Kaia complain.”

  If I ever hoped to learn Damian’s last name from Hank, I
needed to keep myself in check and not be baited into an argument. “That much is certain,” I murmured noncommittally. My thoughts raced. Maybe I didn’t have to learn the owner’s identity from Hank. I could ask around till I found a friend who’d seen these commercials and could tell me when they were broadcast. Then the television station might be able to give me the name of the commercial’s production studio, which would know who the wolf’s owner was.

  Hank’s Samoyed finally felt secure enough to gingerly venture a couple of steps out from her post in the corner. I knelt and said softly, “Hello, Sammy. That’s a good dog.” She cautiously approached, sniffing at me. She walked with a stiff-legged gate and was panting. She lay down on her back in the submissive position the moment I was in reach of her. I obliged and rubbed her tummy, surprised to feel telltale bumps and swelling.

  Talk about “inexperienced” dog owners. Couldn’t he even tell that his dog was pregnant? A veterinarian would likely be able to give a more accurate estimation than mine, but by my best guess, this dog could be as much as sixty days into her sixty-three day gestation period.

  Admittedly, my dog skills are better than my people skills, especially when it comes to tactfulness, but I at least knew not to blurt out, “You idiot!” Plus, if the loudspeaker system on the fence was there because of Doobie’s jumping into Sammy’s yard, I had a feeling that the neighborhood discord was about to intensify. “Have you noticed changes in your dog’s physical appearance in the last few weeks?”

  “You mean her weight gain?” Hank barely glanced at her. “She’s always been pretty plump, though. I just figured she’s getting her winter coat in a little early. She’s a good outdoors dog.” He frowned. “At least she was, till that worm, Bellingham next door, bought that mutt of his.”