Dancing Dogs

by Jon Katz

  She went online and looked up the regulations on tethering. It wasn’t, she saw, illegal, unless the dog was choking or being deprived of food and water or on too small a lead. But this dog did indeed seem to be choking. She called the county hotline and left a message. No one called back.

  When she drove home, it was dark and there was no sign of the dog.

  The next morning, Max was not outside tied to the tree.

  She didn’t see him for two more days, and she thought that perhaps she’d done some good.

  But at the end of the week he was there again, the chain taut around the tree, so he could barely move.

  She got out of the car and approached him, and he was overjoyed to see her again. She looked around—and seeing no one—sat down next to the dog. She reached into her pocket for some biscuits and gave two or three to Max. He was happy to get them, scarfing them down.

  “You’re lonely, I bet,” she said. “Nothing to do, tied to that tree all day.”

  Max seemed gentle, happy to let Laura touch him and get close. She saw that his claws were long, his coat was thick and heavily matted, and there were bits of leaves and feces stuck in the fur around his haunches. He smelled awful, and his teeth were stained a deep yellow.

  She saw that his neck wounds were worse, and one looked especially angry, swollen, and infected. She took some ointment and rubbed it under the collar. He pulled back and put his mouth gently on her hand, as if to stop her, but she didn’t stop, and he simply stared up at her, then gave up. She could hardly believe she had the nerve to do it.

  She moved the water bowl closer. He drank eagerly.

  That night, Laura went on to a rescue mailing list and posted a message about Max. The replies were fast and furious, and they all said the same thing.

  “The dog is being abused,” one woman from Charlotte wrote. “You have to get him out of there. It isn’t stealing. It’s stopping abuse before something terrible happens.”

  Laura had never stolen anything in her life.

  No, she replied, she couldn’t. It wasn’t her dog.

  “Then call the police,” the woman said. “And if that doesn’t work, give us the address and we’ll find somebody to get him out, if you won’t.”

  Laura logged off the site.

  The third morning, she got bolder. She walked Max around the tree and left another note for the farmer.

  I am concerned about your dog. Please take care of his wounds or I will contact the authorities.

  Laura, Passerby

  She peered around the back of the house and saw the tractor way off in the far corner of the pasture. Once again, she left the note in the mailbox.

  When she got to the office that morning she called Animal Control again. There was no answer. So she called Nicki.

  “Look,” Nicki said, “you can’t just leave Max out there. We’ve got to go get him. The rescue groups will take care of him. They have a sort of underground railway. They’ll get him out of there and to a good home up north.”

  “You mean I should steal him?” Laura asked. “Because that’s what I’d be doing.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Nicki, “drive by there every morning and watch him choke to death a bit more each day?”

  The next morning, Laura stopped by the farm. There was a longer chain than before, but Max had wrapped it around the tree again. He seemed happy to see her, jumping up and down so high she feared he’d choke himself. She dressed his neck wound, which looked better. He looked fed—wasn’t skinny or emaciated. But she thought his eye was swollen, as if he’d been beaten. She took the farmer’s name—Patterson—off the mailbox and wrote it down. She made sure Max was watered and fed and cleaned his wounds. He jumped up to lick her face.

  It was hard for her to leave.

  The next day she drove by the farm as usual, and forced herself not to look. When she came by on the way home, Max was not out in front.

  She saw him the next three mornings and did not stop.

  She refused to talk to Nicki about it anymore or answer the e-mails of the rescue group. Maybe it was time to leave Max alone. She’d done what she could do.

  And yet she continued to dream about the dog every night.

  A few days later, she called the number listed for Harold Patterson at the farm address and left a message. “Mr. Patterson, this is none of my business, I know, but I’m worried about your dog, Max, who’s tethered to that tree every morning. He doesn’t look well. Could you please call me about this?” And when she left her cell number, her voice and hands were shaking.

  Friday, she pulled over to see if Max was okay, but he had wrapped himself so tightly around the tree that he appeared to be choking. His tongue was hanging down to the ground, and the collar had rubbed his wound raw again.

  She unbuckled his collar and the dog jumped into her arms. Shaking, without even looking back, she led him to her car, opened the door, and Max lay down on the backseat.

  She looked back toward the farm and thought she saw a curtain move in an upstairs window, but nobody appeared or tried to stop her.

  As she started the engine, Max jumped into the shotgun seat, leaning over to lick her on the face. It was as if he’d been with her in the car a million times. He looked happy, at ease.

  After calling her boss to take a personal day, Laura drove to a veterinary clinic near her home. She realized that she didn’t even have a leash, so she carried Max into the office.

  The receptionist looked at her dubiously. “Do you have an appointment?” The woman said this wasn’t an emergency clinic, and they took animals only by appointment.

  Laura had no idea what to do. She panicked, and then took Max back out to the car, putting him in on the passenger side before walking around to get in herself. Before she could get the key in the ignition, a young woman in a green surgical shirt came running out of the clinic. She looked no more than eighteen, Laura thought. She rolled down her window.

  “I’m Marie, a vet tech here,” she said. “He was tethered, wasn’t he? You took him, didn’t you? It’s okay. I’m in animal rescue. He looks like he needs help.”

  Laura didn’t really know what to say, so she simply nodded.

  Marie stepped back and made a call on her cell. Then she returned to Laura’s window, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  “You did the right thing. Be at the Roundtree Mall in front of Home Depot tonight at nine P.M. You know where that is? Bring any of his things, if you have any. And dog food. And if you can, a contribution for travel and gas. These women don’t have much money, and it’s expensive to drive the long distances they drive.”

  Laura looked pleadingly at Marie. “I’m not a thief. I couldn’t leave him there. He looked so pitiful. I saw him every day.” Marie squeezed her hand. “It’s okay. I know. We’ll take care of it. You did a good thing. You don’t need to tell me anything more.”

  And then she patted Max through the window and ran back into the clinic.

  Laura didn’t have any of Max’s things, and she didn’t have any dog food. She left the clinic lot—Max riding shotgun again—and drove to a nearby pet store, where she bought a twenty-five-pound bag of kibble, a new collar and leash, a clipper and brush, scissors, a dog bed, some balls, and a rawhide chew and put them in the back of the car.

  LAURA SPENT THE DAY with Max. Walking him, talking to him, feeding him, dressing and bandaging his wounds. She brushed him carefully from head to tail, cutting out the burrs and clumps of twigs and grass embedded in his tail. He didn’t like having his long nails clipped, but he submitted to it.

  Laura found several tender bruises and many smaller cuts and scrapes and scabs around his body. His stool didn’t look right to her. One of his eyes was running, and looked red.

  And she was falling in love.

  Max also seemed to be attaching himself to her, and reveling in the attention and care. She knew if she didn’t get to the mall parking lot by nine, she’d never be able to let him go. She also k
new Max wasn’t safe with her, since he was stolen. If he were found with her, he might have to be returned.

  At eight forty-five P.M., she pulled into an empty parking spot in front of the Home Depot and got out of the car with Max. She didn’t know who she was looking for, so she stood in front of the car with the dog.

  Just before nine P.M., a red minivan pulled alongside Laura’s car, and a heavyset woman with curly brown hair stepped out and offered her hand. Laura heard barking from inside the van. The woman wore a blue sweatshirt with “Rescue: Be Good to Your Dog” stenciled on the back.

  “I got this call this afternoon, and the timing was lucky. I was actually coming through from Florida up to New Jersey with a couple of pickups along the way. This is our boy?”

  She leaned down and looked Max over, offering him her hand. She handed him a liver treat. She spent several minutes just talking to him and letting him get comfortable with her.

  He looked at Laura curiously, but she could not bear to look him in the eyes.

  The woman nodded. “I’ll take him.” Laura handed over Max’s leash. The woman said, “Come on, boy,” but he stopped and glanced back at Laura, who looked away.

  Max disappeared around the other side of the van, and then the woman came back and collected his food and toys. Laura also gave her $100, which she accepted gratefully. “For gas and food,” she said, then asked what would become of Max.

  “He’s already got two possible homes up in the Northeast. We’ll check them out of course, although we know one—it’s a farm, and they’ve taken dogs before and they’re wonderful.”

  Before that, Max would spend a week at a volunteer veterinary clinic in Virginia, where he would have tests for worms and parasites. “If he’s been tethered on a farm,” she said, “he’s a good bet for heartworm. He’ll be evaluated to make sure there’s no aggression or behavioral problems. Then onto his permanent home. If you want, we can e-mail you how he’s doing.”

  Laura nodded. She felt sick, partly because Max was leaving and she would surely never see him again, and partly because of what she’d done.

  The woman said good-bye, then turned and got into the van.

  Over the next few weeks, Laura got a half dozen e-mails. There were no return e-mail addresses, only different names. Max had made it to Virginia and been tested. He had severe heartworm, and the procedure to cure him was nearly fatal, but he came out of a coma and was fully recovered. He had kidney problems, and multiple contusions and bruises. The wounds on his neck were infected, and he had gum disease too.

  One month after she left Max in the parking lot, she got a postcard from Rochester, New York. Max was on the front, standing in front of a barn, looking happy and proud, and behind him were at least a dozen sheep.

  The postcard had a short message. “Max is great. He thanks you.”

  Laura knew without being told that this was the final message. She was delighted and relieved that Max was doing so well. But the burden of what she had done weighed heavily on her conscience. She still drove by the farm every day, and most days she couldn’t bear to look at the tree. When she did, she saw the chain was still hanging off it, the water bowl upside down a few yards away.

  One evening, she found herself pulling into the farmhouse driveway. She turned off the ignition, took a deep breath, and then walked up to the front door and slammed the knocker three times.

  After a few minutes, she heard a noise inside the house, and then the door opened. Silhouetted in the hallway light was a thin, tall, ruddy-faced man who looked to be in his early sixties. He was wearing boots, jeans, and an old work shirt that was stained with what appeared to be sweat and grease marks. He had one- or two-day-old stubble on his chin. His face was sad, tired. But the shock of white hair hanging over his forehead made him look both handsome and dignified, like an old western sheriff in a TV movie.

  “Mr. Patterson. My name is Laura.”

  The old man nodded. “Laura Passerby.”

  She was startled.

  “That’s what you said in your note.”

  Now that she was standing there in front of him, she wasn’t sure what she had come to say.

  “You stole my dog, didn’t you,” the farmer said rather than asked.

  A chill wind whipped her jacket and blew her hair across her face. He looked at her closely, and then beckoned for her to step into the hallway, out of the wind.

  “Yes, I did. I took him, sir,” she said, as she stepped inside. “He’s up in the Northeast, on a farm with sheep. He’s loved and happy.”

  The farmer’s eyes blazed. “He’ll do well then. He knows how to work sheep,” the old man said. “He worked sheep here until last year.”

  “Well, he was suffering. He had heartworm, and his neck was infected.”

  The farmer just looked her. “I brought him in for a couple of days after I got your notes. He jumped out of the second-story window, and then through the screen on the kitchen window and banged himself up. You couldn’t ever leave him anywhere that he couldn’t get out of. Except that tree.”

  Harold Patterson crossed his arms. “Listen, Laura Passerby. Max was my dog. He is a good boy. And I cared for him a good deal. The farm is up for sale. My wife passed two years ago. My boys won’t work on the farm, and I can’t make it work anymore. Tried long enough. The milk prices are so low I had to let the dairy cows go, and then I sold off the sheep to pay the taxes—you see all the development around here. I’m the last to go. I’ve been cleaning up the fields so I can sell them, and I’m going to need all the money from the farm to pay off my loans and debts. I’m moving to South Carolina where my two boys live. Max was coming with me.”

  This was not what she’d expected.

  “I’ll own up to neglecting him a bit lately,” he said. “I’ve got some health issues myself now, and Max is clever and kept getting out of the house and running into the road. Was going to get himself killed. He kept chewing through the collars so I put out a chain to hold him. My grandfather tethered his dog, and so did my father. Just so he could be outside and not cooped up in the house, or running under the tractor wheels. I knew about the neck. I couldn’t do the vet bills right now—I can’t do the mortgage either. But I would have found a way to take care of him.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I was saving the dog. I still think so.”

  The farmer stepped outside and motioned for her to follow. “Maybe you did save the dog. It probably was a good decision, Laura Passerby. It probably was. I appreciate your coming here. I was worried about Max. I called the police and told them the dog was missing. A neighbor got your license one morning when you were snooping around here. But I didn’t give it to them. I figured he probably went to a good place.”

  She nodded.

  “Max was well fed and loved and he slept on the foot of my bed every night of his life. He had shelter from the rain and cold, and until a year or so ago he had a lot of good work to do and he did it. Maybe you think I’m an evil man for tying him up to that tree, and maybe I am. But maybe it’s just a way of life you don’t understand, and you have no right to judge it or to take my dog from me.”

  Laura could see how embarrassed the farmer was over his inability to take care of his dog. Everyone she knew told her that she’d done the right thing. And maybe she had. But looking into this man’s eyes, it was hard to know for sure.

  The farmer looked up at the sky, and then turned to her. The wind blew through the farm and the old house groaned and creaked.

  “I’m glad he’s in a better place,” he said. “I am glad of that.” Then he started to turn back to the house. “I’ll say good-bye now. It took courage for you to come here, young lady. But don’t steal things anymore, okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  The Dog Who Kept Men Away

  STACY SIPPED FROM HER DUNKIN’ DONUTS COFFEE CUP AND LOOKED over at the mediator for some guidance. He was sipping his own coffee and sorting through some papers.

&
nbsp; More than anything, she wanted to get out of there. She hated this room, a spare, empty conference room with bare white walls and two small windows looking out over an enormous mall parking lot. There was an anemic pale cactus in the middle of the table. Why would you have a cactus in a conference room in Sandusky, Ohio?

  There were two photographs on the walls, a stock shot of some horses in a field from the Saratoga racetrack in upstate New York (about as relevant to Sandusky as cactus), and a shot of one of the roller coasters from the nearby Cedar Point Amusement Park, where Stacy had worked part-time the summer she was sixteen, and where she had met Jamie, the bored, sad-looking young man sitting across from her, staring out the window.

  The first two mediation sessions had been awful—tears, yelling, fury. Then, in the third, things settled down and they finally reached an agreement. Until Jamie broke it.

  The end of her twelve-year marriage deserved a better room, she thought. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just right.

  Jamie, her soon-to-be ex, was yawning. He seemed distracted, eager to go home. He told the lawyer that his hours had been cut back at the Lobster Den and he was looking to sell his truck and find a cheaper apartment. Maybe even move the hell out of Ohio and go south where there might be some work. In the meantime, he had no money for Stacy.

  Jamie was allergic to jobs. And he would never move, Stacy knew, especially as long as his mother was alive and getting her pension from GM.

  The mediator collected his papers and handed them to her. He told her again that she didn’t have to forgive the nine grand, that a judge would make him pay her the money. She didn’t care. She just wanted to be free of him. She signed the papers.

  Stacy looked at her watch. She had just thirty minutes to get back to the nursing home and her job as a physical-therapy aide, helping the disabled elderly recover from and deal with strokes, accidents, surgeries, their own failing bodies. She loved the job, loved the feeling of really helping people, even if the ending was always the same. It was a lot of loss and suffering for $9 an hour, the same money her friend Sandra made working the fries boiler at McDonald’s. People in America obviously care a lot more about their fast food than their sick old people.