Canine Christmas

by Jeffrey Marks (Ed)

  After six rings, no answering machine or voice mail or anything, I was ready to give up when a tremulous voice said, “Hello?”

  “Mr. Thomas Atkins?”

  “This is Tom Atkins. Who's that?” The voice was that of an old man. Very old, beaten down, sick maybe.

  “Mr. Atkins, this is Dr. Andi Pauling at Dr. Doolittle's Pet Care Center. We have Willie-Boy.”

  I heard a sharp gasp. “Willie-Boy? You have my Willie-Boy? But Branson said—”

  Suddenly a new voice spoke—younger, sharp, a little mean. “Who is this?”

  I repeated my name and my errand.

  “I don't know why you're bothering us, but you have no right to do this!”

  “What do you mean? The dog is right here!” I shot Trinka a puzzled glance, and she rechecked the microchip number again. There was no mistake.

  “Sir, this dog showed up in my clinic this morning, bedraggled and exhausted and with no collar. He has a microchip that identifies him as Willie-Boy belonging to Tom Atkins. Now, if you don't want the dog—”

  “Yes, yes, of course that's all right,” the voice said, its earlier sharp anger now replaced by mild irritation. “Everyone makes mistakes. But please don't call here again.” And the line went dead.

  “That was weird,” I said, putting the phone down. “It's like we were having two different conversations.” I got a new dial tone and hit Redial. Got a busy signal. Tried again with the same results.

  Trinka said, “If the phone number's right, the address might still be valid.”

  All five of us exchanged glances. Should we try?

  “The man who answered the phone said he was Tom Atkins, the dog's owner. He sounded a little shocked that we had his dog. The other guy, the one who grabbed the phone away—he wasn't someone I want to deal with.”

  “I'll go!” It was Marie, our perpetual volunteer.

  Trinka grinned. “We'll all go. After work.”

  Though we could probably have closed early without anyone noticing, we waited until five. That gave us a chance to bathe and brush the little mutt. Didi presented him with a new collar from the rack out front. Trinka started to protest the donation, but I glared at her and said, “Throw in a leash, too.”

  “You gonna clean his teeth for free, too?”

  I pretended to consider it. “Well … they sure could use it. Too bad we don't have a signed consent form.”

  Still, a shaggy wirehaired mongrel cleans up just so well, and the Willie-Boy we led out to my car that afternoon didn't exactly have a bounce in his step. He followed the leash willingly enough, lifted his leg on the bush outside as if from long habit, and after a moment's hesitation climbed agreeably into the passenger side of the Miata. But even after a nap and a bowl of food, he looked worn-out and dejected. I hoped we weren't letting him in for even greater disappointment.

  Since it was the end of the day we took four cars, Trinka leaving her Harley to ride with Marie. We made quite a caravan.

  Didi's Thomas Guide got us to a side street near the foot of the mountain. It was only a few miles from the clinic, but far enough for a directionally challenged mutt to get himself lost if he wandered off on his own. Despite the evidence, I allowed myself to hope this was what had happened.

  It was a nice house but needed paint and gutter work. The landscaping was uninspired—grass, oleander, and one palm tree overdue for trimming—and weeds protruded through cracks in the concrete driveway. Either the inhabitants hired a cut-rate gardener like I did, or did just enough themselves to keep the neighbors from complaining.

  I climbed two steps to a wide concrete stoop and knocked on the door. Nothing happened. I knocked again, then a small sound told me there was someone on the other side. I gazed at the peephole, waiting.

  Behind me, Willie-Boy whined. It was the low, eager sound of a dog trying unsuccessfully to restrain himself. I looked back to see him pulling at the leash. He was a dog transformed. His tail was curled over his back, his head was up, his mouth open in a panting grin. He glanced at me, as if wondering what was taking so long, then returned his gaze to the door.

  I knocked once more.

  Finally, it opened.

  I found myself facing a man who did not match the voice that had first answered the phone. That had been a creaky voice—old or sick or both. This man was maybe mid-forties, overweight in a lazy, self-indulgent way. He had a pinched face with small, mean eyes.

  For a moment I stood mutely, certain that we had the wrong house, that Thomas Atkins had moved, perhaps given his dog away to someone who had failed to notify the microchip registry of the change of ownership. But then Willie-Boy growled.

  Turning, surprised, I saw the formerly sweet-tempered, patient little terrier bristling. Hair up, back in a straight line, he bared his teeth and produced an admittedly unconvincing rumble. I followed his gaze back to the man standing before me.

  “Mr. Atkins?” I said, knowing this was not he. This must be the man who had hung up on me. Branson? Something was definitely wrong here.

  “You have the wrong house.” He started to shut the door.

  I surprised myself by jamming my foot against it. “I don't think so,” I said. “I want to see Mr. Atkins.”

  Instead of becoming indignant, or shoving harder at the door, or threatening to call the police—all things I myself might have done in the same circumstances—he seemed to have no idea what to do. He stomped one foot, placed his fist on his hip, and sighed in exasperation. “My uncle doesn't want the mutt!” he said, casting an uneasy glance at Willie-Boy.

  Behind me, the dog barked once and strained against his new leash.

  “Then let him tell me so himself.” I felt vaguely shocked at my own persistence, but the prickling on the back of my neck told me something was very wrong here. And I was outraged on behalf of the dog. There are times when a beloved pet can no longer be kept, but there are humane ways of addressing that situation. Dumping the dog on the street is not one of them. Mr. Atkins had been a client at one time, and if he had orchestrated such abandonment, it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing to make him own up to it.

  “He's napping! I'll tell him you were here. Now go away!”

  I hesitated, not adept at barging past people and really not sure what to do next. The door began to close, and I knew that if it did so I would not be able to get it to open again.

  Maybe the dog sensed that his chance was slipping away and broke free, or maybe Marie let him go. At any rate Willie-Boy came flying past me, leash trailing. He snarled viciously, startling the man in the doorway enough that instead of slamming it, he stepped back. The dog did not attack him, as I half expected. Rather, without a backward glance, he dashed past him into the house.

  Forgetting us, the man shouted in outrage and dashed after Willie-Boy.

  The five of us exchanged glances. “Is that it?” Didi asked. After all, we had set out to take Willie-Boy home, and home he clearly was.

  “I don't know,” I said. “Whoever that was, doesn't seem too glad to have him back. I'm afraid he'll just dump him again. Or worse.”

  Trinka said, with a completely straight face, “We've come this far. There could be a medical emergency involving that dog. We have an ethical duty to go in there and make sure he's all right.”

  Suppressing a smile, I took a quick visual poll. Everyone seemed inclined to follow the dog inside the house. “He left the door open,” Sheila said. “That's, like, such an obvious invitation.”

  We went in.

  The house felt smaller than it probably was, darkened by drab carpet and wallpaper. The tightly drawn drapes that blocked out the sun felt severely out of place in southern California, land of vertical blinds and creative use of light. The air was stale and a little rank.

  We hadn't seen where Willie-Boy went, but there weren't many places to choose from. We passed through the dingy living room, noting a small cramped kitchen to our left. Beyond was a short hallway, with a couple of closed doors—closets an
d a bathroom, I surmised— then two small bedrooms on the left and a larger one at the end on the right.

  Voices led us to one of the smaller bedrooms. Our group crowded into the cramped space. It was dingy from lack of light, and the stale odor intensified here. The querulous voice from the telephone was saying, “… told me he was dead!”

  It was a heart-wrenching reunion. Willie-Boy romped on the bed, tail waving, legs practically dancing, as he licked his master's face. The old man, who did look vaguely familiar now that I saw him, alternately held the dog at arms' length and clutched him in a feeble embrace. The shine on his cheeks might have been dog kisses … but was probably tears. I noticed a dark bruise on his right bicep, another one in the yellow stages of healing on the left. Illness? Abuse? My stomach knotted with unease.

  The man who had answered the door—Branson, I guessed—literally stomped in frustration. “That mutt isn't welcome here! I'm warning you, Uncle Tom! Either that dog goes or I go!”

  The old man began sobbing in earnest. He hugged and patted the dog. Willie-Boy settled down complacently in his lap, gazing with unmistakable menace at Branson.

  I looked at Trinka and she nodded. “Excuse me,” she said to the younger man, “Could I speak to you in the other room?”

  “This is a family discussion. You are not invited!” he said.

  “I might be able to suggest a solution for …” She jerked her head toward the dog, giving the impression she sympathized with Branson.

  He hesitated, fists on his hips, then sighed theatrically and followed her into another room. Didi went with her.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, I approached the bed.

  “Mr. Atkins, I'm very sorry for this intrusion. I don't know if you remember me. My name is Andi Pauling, and I'm the veterinarian who implanted the microchip under Willie-Boy's skin. Today he wandered up to my clinic, and we looked up his number and called you. Frankly, we thought the dog had been abandoned but it's so close to Christmas and, well, we wanted to give him a chance. But if you can't keep him, well … I can see about trying to find someone who could.”

  His arms tightened protectively around the dog. “Bran son took him away, about a month ago. He said—he told me he'd had him destroyed. Said it was … punishment. I've been so lonely ever since. I don't know what to do. I've been sick; I can hardly get out of bed. Branson's the only family I have left, and I need him. But oh, my, I've missed this dog.”

  “Mr. Atkins, I … I don't know how to ask this.” I stared at the bruises on his arms. Blood thinners and various diseases caused people to bruise easily. Was I jumping to the wrong conclusions? But these were so symmetrical. I decided to just get it over with. “Does Branson … hit you?”

  The devastation that crossed his face told me I shouldn't have been so blunt. But it also answered my question. I stammered an apology, torn between dropping the subject and wanting to help.

  Then Marie stepped in. “Excuse me, Dr. Andi,” she said gently. I gladly yielded.

  “Do you have other family?” she asked Mr. Atkins.

  He shook his head desolately. I felt his humiliation. I looked away. In the other room I could hear the angry sounds of Branson trying to throw us out and Trinka blocking his way.

  “Is this your home?” A nod. “Not Branson's?” Another nod.

  Marie and I exchanged glances. How had the younger man taken over?

  “He moved in about two years ago,” the old man said, as if reading my thoughts. “He's my sister Jo's boy. She died not long before that. Branson was … between jobs. I'm the only family he has left, so he said. It seemed only right that I take him in. Till he got back on his feet …” He trailed off, apparently lost in memories.

  “He's had enough time for that, don't you think?” I said more harshly than I'd intended. It earned a reproachful glare from Marie.

  “Then I … my health … First I couldn't keep anything down. My skin turned bad. Just look.” He held up a gnarled hand. The fingernails curled inward, with lines of discoloration across them. His skin had a waxen cast and hung from his arm loosely. “I needed him, to take care of me.”

  “And so he stayed,” Marie concluded. “It must have seemed fortuitous that he was here.”

  Mr. Atkins nodded absently. “Yes. Yes, at first. But now … now, I just wait here to die. If I'm good, he'll let me have some TV. If I'm bad …” A feeble shrug. His hand caressed the dog's ears almost convulsively. “I don't suppose he'll let me keep old Willie-Boy here. Will you see that he's cared for?”

  This last was directed at Marie. A strange connection had formed almost instantly between the two of them. He seemed to have forgotten me altogether.

  But something was nagging at me. Something about the list of symptoms. Risking stepping on my own tongue yet again, I said, “How did your sister Jo die?”

  His eyes shifted to me. “Same thing that's got me, seems like. Same symptoms. No one ever did figure it all out.”

  “And what do the doctors think is wrong with you?”

  “I haven't been seeing doctors. Branson … It's no use anyway. They ran all their tests on Jo, there at the end. Never did figure it out, and she died just the same.”

  Marie stared at me. I waved a hand, not ready to tell her what I was thinking. It was too weird.

  Mr. Atkins's voice sank to a whisper. “The only consolation is that he won't get anything when I'm gone. I'm leaving it all to the Humane Society.”

  I smiled involuntarily. Not only did I applaud his bequest, but I was relieved to see that he still had some fight left.

  “We're going to make sure you get some medical attention,” I said firmly. “And then we'll talk about Willie-Boy.”

  I was dialing 911 on Marie's cell phone when Branson returned. He actually reached to try to take the phone away from me but froze when I spoke into it. “I want to report a possible attempted murder,” I said. “And the victim needs help. Please send an ambulance.” And I stared into Branson's eyes as I gave the address.

  I was watching him closely. His eyes grew enormous, and as I hung up, his shoulders slumped. Then he turned and quickly left the room.

  On Christmas Eve, Marie and I picked Mr. Atkins up at the hospital. We took Marie's big, boxy Cadillac. Willie-Boy, his ribs already less prominent, lounged in the backseat.

  “I'm already feeling better,” Tom said as an orderly wheeled him out. And his eyes held a shine that had been missing earlier. To me he said, “Marie's been filling me in. I know Branson's in jail. How did you know to ask them to test for arsenic?”

  I glanced at the floor, embarrassed to admit the truth. “It reminded me of a case I'd read about.”

  “Another case? Someone … someone poisoned a dog?”

  “No, not that kind of case. It was, well …”

  Marie laughed. “Oh, dear! It was one of those mystery books you're always reading, wasn't it?”

  I smiled ruefully and admitted that it was. “The symptoms are classic, but only if you have reason to suspect it. The police found the ant spikes under the kitchen counter. Branson might have convinced them he was really trying to kill ants, but he'd pried several open and hadn't gotten around to emptying the trash containing the evidence. And they'll probably find traces of it in the powdered sugar they took away.”

  “Of course. I wondered why he was so fond of French toast. All the trouble it took. The sweet taste hides the bitter poison.”

  Tom chose to sit in the backseat, with his dog. “Willie-Boy,” he kept muttering. “The real hero of the day. How did he know to find you?”

  Marie and I exchanged smiles. She dropped me off at the clinic. Tom would be recuperating at her house. I would drop by the next day with a few gifts.

  I'd lost a volunteer, but gained a Christmas.

  Good Dog Wenceslas

  Melissa Cleary

  MELISSA CLEARY writes about Jake, a German shepherd and former police dog with a flair for crimesolving. The latest novels in this series are And Your
Little Dog, Too and Old Dogs. Ms. Cleary also contributed a story to the first Canine Crimes anthology: “You'll Never Bark in This Town Again.”

  Jackie Walsh decided that if she never saw another packaged turkey again, it would be years too soon. She picked up a plump twelve-pound bird from a box of dozens, set it into a cardboard box labeled with the recipient's name, checked the name off the list on her clipboard, then repeated the procedure for at least the hundredth time tonight.

  It should be no problem keeping the birds cold, she supposed. Every time someone opened up the big doors of the parish hall to take filled boxes out to the waiting vans and trucks lined up along the curb on Michigan Avenue, blasts of icy air blew in accompanied by flakes of snow. The flakes had been getting bigger and thicker for the last hour.

  Jackie's teenage son, Peter, was visiting his father this Christmas vacation, which didn't exactly thrill her— she'd never spent a Christmas without Peter in fourteen years. Jackie would ordinarily have distracted herself with work, but she couldn't go back to her job teaching film classes at Rodgers University until after the new year. Her mother's attempt to get her out of her slump and into the proper holiday spirit by volunteering her for the St. Wenceslas Parish Holiday Dinner Drive had only succeeded in making Jackie sadder.

  Jackie's mother was a feisty Irish American woman named Frances Cooley Costello, and when Frances Costello said you were going to come to church on Christmas Eve and pack boxes, you went and you packed. Frances meant well, but her plan had backfired through no fault of her own. The sheer number of people being provided a box of holiday groceries by St. Wenceslas volunteers alone made Jackie realize how many people in Palmer, Ohio, could not afford to buy a Christmas dinner for themselves and their families. She looked around at the parish hall floor, nearly wall-to-wall with cardboard containers of food, and realized that she could stuff dead turkeys into boxes for the rest of her life and not ever make a real difference in the life of a single person who needed it.