Fear on Four Paws

by Clea Simon

  Tracy Horlick was uncharacteristically silent when I arrived, which I took as the calm before the storm.

  “I’m sorry for the delay.” I jumped right in. “There was a situation with a missing animal, and that counts as an emergency.”

  “I hope Orzo is all right.” Her eyebrows rose in what I could only interpret as alarm. “Such a handsome dog.”

  “Urso?” I pieced together her silence and her sudden appreciation for an animal—an animal belonging to a wealthy, apparently single man. “No, Mr. Walz’s dog wasn’t the one gone missing.”

  “Oh.” Those brows came down in disappointment. But before she could rally, I saw my chance.

  “He was very understanding about my morning appointments being delayed by the emergency.” I didn’t know how the old witch got her news, but she clearly knew he was a client. “In fact, I’ll be seeing him later. And, so…if Growl—Bitsy is ready?”

  The crayon of her brows converged, as if pouncing on my mistake. But the luster of the rich man’s name—and the appeal, I had no doubt, of future gossip—got the better of her, and soon she was shuffling off in her worn carpet slippers to free the large soul in the small body she called Bitsy.

  “You’ve been busy!” We were barely at the end of the block before the bichon turned those black button eyes—and, more crucially, that wet leather nose—toward me.

  “A poodle went missing.” With other animals, I didn’t bother with the names given by humans. Nor was I going to get into the question of what had happened. Growler could pick up the relevant details from my scent, I had no doubt. The fact that there had been some urgency involved he must have already discerned—at this point in our walks, he’d usually still be catching up on the neighborhood canine news.

  “Missing, huh...” The soft chuff was a dismissal, I thought. It was hard, at times, to tell exactly what Growler thought of me and my world. Tracy Horlick hadn’t left him with a great impression of people. Besides, I had some idea from Wallis what most domestic animals would think of the term “missing.” They might be in danger, but they always knew where they were. We were the ones who panicked.

  With that, the white fluffball had gone back to sniffing a fence post that served as a cross between a meeting place and community newspaper. I watched, trying not to eavesdrop as he catalogued the comings and goings of the various neighborhood animals. Carson and Squeeks had been by again, Carson with his stuffed bunny, taking as good care of it as he did his brindled “sister.” Only after Growler had finished his assessment —“what’s with the stuffed animal, man?”—and left his own liquid update did I voice the question that had been preying on me since earlier that morning.

  “Growler, am I losing my hearing?” He stopped and turned to look up at me, and I realized that I was phrasing my query poorly. “Am I getting something wrong?” That was closer. “I mean, I really thought I heard something grab that poodle. I was sure she was in trouble, that something had taken her...”

  His dark eyes stared into mine, but I was back on that street. Staring into that remaining strip of forest. What had I heard? I had never met the poodle Susan Felicidad had called Coco. Was it possible that I’d been mistaken and picked up on the final struggles of some other poor creature?

  He chuffed again, a soft woof more grunt than bark, and walked on. Animals don’t rework the past the way we humans do. While they experience longing and grief and sadness, they understand, better than we do, that time doesn’t go backward, for all our wishing. And since the present was all Growler had, I did my best to shut up and let him enjoy it, after that, wandering behind him as he made his way down the development streets toward the river.

  The sun was playing through the leaves, by then. Although we were only a little later than usual, the sky was brighter. The air warmer. In the shifting shadows, I saw a robin hop. Somewhere nearby, her mate began his distinctive song. It was all so peaceful. As quiet as a woodland could be, and yet, I found myself stuck to the street, unable to proceed.

  Growler, therefore, had to stop too. He was still wearing his lead—after that morning’s adventure, I wasn’t going to let even the most reasonable dog off leash. Even before he reached the end of its length, though, he would have felt me pause. Caught the hesitation that drew me up at the edge of the pavement—the edge of civilization. Growler, for all his oversized spirit, was still a very small animal, and I couldn’t watch over him every moment.

  He turned, then, and stared, more in accusation than in a question. In his light, I was doing what every other human was guilty of—seeing him as some kind of toy, a possession to be coddled at times, but not given freedom of choice, or even any kind of real agency.

  “It’s—” I bit my lip, searching for the words. “There are scary things out there, Growler.” I pictured the bear. A wild cat I had once encountered not far from here. The hawk I had seen flying overhead. All of those animals had to eat, as well. All of them hunted for small, sentient prey.

  As Growler glared up at me, fury making his compact body tremble, I tried once more to explain my fear. Only, when I tried to put my anxiety into thought, I found myself going back to that more basic question.

  “Is my hearing—my perception—off, Growler?” Anxiety wouldn’t let me avoid my real concern. “Could I have heard some other animal and not understood correctly?”

  A louder chuff, this time. Almost a bark, and Growler turned back toward the woods. “Predators…” As I heard his voice in my head, I could feel him looking longingly into the shadows, where the deep leaf mold hid small burrowing creatures. I got an image of that robin, eyes bright as she pounced on an earthworm. “Predators come in all sizes.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Those words stayed with me even after I returned the bichon to the harridan who paid me. The idea of different predators—of all the creatures that would make a meal of a small dog—ran through my mind as I drove to Jack Walz’s place, once again navigating the cobble and that swath of woods. Had I let my own viewpoint—my own size—cloud my thinking? Even before Growler’s disgruntled pronouncement, I’d been considering smaller beasts of prey—the fishers and martens that could easily take down a small dog. But maybe I’d been totally off base about what animal had been calling out in fear.

  Maybe Wallis was right, and we humans simply had no clue about the reality of the world outside.

  Jack Walz was a walking example of how lopsided our species was. The man who came to the door didn’t look like an alpha male by any real measure. Short—barely as tall as I was—and wiry, the strongest thing about him was his nose. That and the deep grooves that accentuated the perpetual scowl on his face.

  “Come in, come in.” He ushered me into a foyer made frigid with climate control. “Please, have a seat.”

  I followed him into a living room done in modern male: leather and wood that both gleamed from polish. “Please, I’ve been hoping we could talk.”

  I opened my mouth, and realized I had nothing to say. Usually, I’m the one to suggest a conversation. Most of what I do is actually training people, rather than their animals, and that starts by getting a sense of who they are and how they view the beasts they’ve taken into their homes. This man had gotten the jump on me, in a manner I hadn’t expected.

  “Good idea,” I said at last. I looked around for the husky even as I settled into a butter-soft sofa.

  “I was thinking it would be useful to learn more about your process,” said Walz, settling himself into a chocolate leather chair opposite me as if he were preparing for a long talk. “I bet there’s a lot I could learn.”

  That shut me up again. From my brief experience with Walz, I’d pegged him as one of those Wall Street-shark types—men who act like they know it all, even when they don’t. I had thought I’d be lucky to get a word in edgewise, especially after he’d dominated our first conversation on the street. But the man sitting opposite
me could have been a different person. With his questions and his patience, he didn’t seem very much like an alpha male, or even a typical New Yorker, to be honest.

  “I thought you could watch me with Urso.” He’d kept talking, even as I mused the apparent change, but from his tone—more questions than statements and with an edge that I could only attribute to nerves—he was simply waiting for me to step in. For me to take the lead. Could I have been so off, once again? “Go around the block with us, and point out what signals I’m giving.” He was saying. “Or tell me what I should be doing or saying. You know, to make him less likely to run off.”

  Then again, maybe this behavior wasn’t that odd. Maybe there was a reason this man had retired rich. What he was suggesting was exactly what I’d want to do. He either did his research ahead of time, or he was simply smarter than I’d given him credit for.

  “I think that’s a good idea.” I struggled a bit to catch up. Intentionally or not, this client had taken my thunder, and in this situation I wasn’t used to ceding dominance. “And, yes, I would like to explain what I do.”

  “Good, good!” With that he jumped up, as if I’d given him a treat. “I’m sorry! Would you like something to drink? Or should I go get Urso now?”

  “Why don’t you get Urso.” I rose, too, somewhat relieved. “It will be easier to explain if the three of us are together.”

  He returned moments later with the blue-eyed husky, and we went out to the front lawn. He tried to hand me the leash, then, but I refused.

  “No, this is about your relationship.” I went on to explain how dogs respond to our body language as well as our voice commands. “What you do travels down the leash to him. Now, let’s go through some basic commands.”

  Twenty minutes later, I was rethinking my entire approach. Urso didn’t need me. The husky, who maintained a quiet concentration, waiting for my cues, was already fully trained. From the history I gleaned from Walz, he had arrived that way, purchased from a reputable breeder, who had overseen his education at one of the best training facilities in the city. He heeled and came when called, and despite the inattention of his person—Walz seemed more interested in talking to me and to the occasional neighbor who passed by—he never took advantage. This was not a leash-puller or nipper. If anything, I thought he was too patient. I’d have lost interest in waiting for a signal from a man who spent a solid five minutes discussing the weather with a beleaguered postal worker.

  “So, what do you think?” The poor civil servant had finally extricated himself when Walz paused to take a phone call. Humping his mail sack onto his shoulder, the carrier gave me a sympathetic nod. I smiled and did my best to pass it along to the husky, who sat staring up at his person as he spoke on the phone. In all fairness, Walz kept the call short, and in under a minute, he’d turned back to me. “It’s good that Urso doesn’t try to run or anything, when I’m talking to someone, right?”

  I glanced down at the dog. He had eyes only for Walz.

  “Yes, it’s good.” I replied aloud, resisting the urge to engage in a private conversation with the husky. What I’d said about Walz holding the lead was true. What mattered here was the relationship between these two, and any private dialogue I had with the dog could undermine it. “Urso is very well trained, but you need to give him your attention, too.”

  “Oh, yes.” He actually stood up straighter at that. “Yes, sorry. Come on, Urso. Come on. Let’s go.” The verbal command wasn’t necessary. As soon as he began to walk, the husky rose from his haunches and took his place by the man.

  “Good.” I followed at a distance. Partly to observe, but partly to keep Walz from getting into any more meandering conversations. I had no problem spending time with these two—I was going to bill Walz, after all—but I’d begun to pity the poor husky.

  “So you really think that?” Walz stopped on the sidewalk and turned to face me. “You think we’ve got it down?”

  “Really,” I replied in my most conciliatory tone.

  That’s when it hit me. For a supposedly powerful man, Walz was acting like a little dog. That air of entitlement was just so much yapping and jumping around, trying to get my attention. Because of Urso—I liked to think it was the majestic animal, rather than his owner’s perpetual scowl—I hadn’t expected such behavior. But maybe what Growler had been trying to tell me had some relevance here as well. Outward appearances didn’t always matter. Besides, hadn’t I had enough experience back in the city, if not in Beauville, with such types? These so-called masters of the universe were as likely driven by their own insecurity as any raging need to conquer. What I’d finally seen was the needy little boy in the man. Or, in his case, the needy little puppy.

  Just what made the big man feel so small was a question for later. And after a few more rounds of basic commands—all of which Urso aced, despite his person’s distraction—I called the session to an end. The morning’s false alarm had put me behind, and I did have other clients.

  “Please feel free to call me if you’d like me to come by for a refresher.” I handed Walz a quickly scrawled invoice. “Though, honestly, I would be surprised if you need it.”

  “I will certainly keep you on speed dial.” Walz tucked the invoice in his pocket without looking at it. A good sign, I hoped. “The last—what has it been?—ninety minutes have just flown by. An hour and a half, just like that!”

  I smiled and kept quiet. Had it really been that long? I checked my watch and kicked myself for not billing for more.

  As it was, I spent the rest of the morning apologizing—or trying to.

  “You’re a heroine!” Celine Lim declared, when I showed up to clip her schnauzer’s claws. “Was it a hawk that had that poor woman’s dog—or a wolf?”

  “Neither, Ms. Lim.” I focused on the task. Randolph didn’t like his paws being handled, and he certainly didn’t appreciate me not giving him my full attention. “Just doing my job.”

  I had no more role in Coco’s return than Randolph here. Then again, a little luster couldn’t hurt. And as the day progressed, my reputation grew shinier and shinier. I had no idea how news spread so quickly, but everyone I spoke with seemed to have heard—either that I rescued “poor Coco” or been involved in guiding her back to safety. Somehow, I couldn’t see Coco’s owner, Merilee, being the source. As I’d gone about my day, I’d garnered an earful about her deafness and her mobility issues. For a Pine Hills resident, the housebound senior was already well known, and I figured Susan Felicidad was more likely the one to have shared the news.

  Once again, I found myself wondering about the glossy brunette. Only this time, what I was hearing made sense. She was new to town and seeking to connect. What better way to insert herself into the social fabric of a town than to praise a native? If she could pump the story up with some drama and a happy ending, well, so much the better. While I didn’t like the idea of my life becoming social currency, I could understand it. If she boosted my reputation in ways that promoted my business, well, then, maybe we came out even. And if she helped me build up my clientele among the monied new residents of Beauville, well, that would give me some options.

  Which reminded me: I needed to get back to Greg. He’d called again while I was with Randolph, and I’d been happy to let that go to voicemail along with two calls from Creighton. Jim sounded businesslike—never a good sign—and both messages simply told me that I should get in touch at my earliest opportunity.

  Greg wasn’t much better, although he sounded a little more polite—asking me to call back, rather than commanding. “Not about the cage,” he’d said, which piqued my curiosity. Still, I could hear the impatience beneath his voice. Impatience, rather than irritation, I thought, though my ears aren’t as good for the human male as they are for so many other species. Which could mean that he was wondering where our flirtation was headed. Or it could mean that he had a position to fill, and he needed to know if I was a
serious candidate.

  “Big-game hunting, are we?” Wallis twined around my ankles when I got home. Not out of affection, I could tell, but to catch up on my day through the various scents that had accrued on my boots and jeans.

  “I need to do some more research.” I answered reflexively, before realizing that to the tabby at my feet the terms were one and the same. “I want to know what I’m getting into before I get into it.”

  “Like you don’t already know…” Her mocking rebuttal had the weight of truth. I might not know Greg well, but I knew enough. He’d be straightforward—as a boyfriend as in business. Honest, as far as he was able. And I knew he respected me. In bed? Well, that was another question, and one that I would only find the answer to through direct experience. But maybe that was the problem. Physically, Greg hit the right buttons. After several months of Creighton’s lean muscle, I was ready for a man with a bit more meat on him. And predictable would be good, especially as Jim and I veered into dangerous territory. Only… predictable wasn’t exciting.

  “Not so domesticated after all…” Another pass by Wallis, and another purr. I’d opened my laptop by then and begun looking at pay grades for various positions in fish and wildlife.

  “Will you cut it out?” I resisted the urge to shove her away, but she either read the thought as it formed or felt the tension in my leg, retreating beneath the table. “I thought you were complaining that I was domesticated.” I heard the pout in my own voice, as sulky as a teen. “Spending all my time with Creighton.”

  Wallis didn’t respond, and, under the guise of scrubbing her ear, pretended not to hear. In fact, the tuneless humming I got back—part growl, part the kind of murmured purr that functions as an interior dialogue—let me know she considered her point made.

  There was little sense in continuing my search after that. Pay grades for state wildlife officers weren’t going to sway me one way or another. And so I found myself typing in Jack Walz’s info—or John R. Walz, as I soon discovered. Working backward from his Beauville address—he’d bought the house outright—I traced a career in the city that made such purchases possible. Walz wasn’t a household name, but from what I could see he had the kind of clients who would prefer discretion. The man I knew only through his dog was a trustee of several major charities and had been a boldface caption at a city gala as recently as last winter.