by Tracy Weber
By the time my students lit the candles and gathered their seeds, the room seemed lighter somehow. I, more than anyone, understood that yoga wasn’t magic. A single ninety-minute practice hadn’t fundamentally changed anyone’s situation. But I had no doubt: my teaching had made a positive impact.
On nights like tonight, I loved my job.
Nicole smiled and gave me a hug before leaving.
“Thanks, Kate. This class didn’t suck too much.”
Nicole’s smile didn’t last long. Rachel started scolding her the minute the door closed behind them. Filled with a deep sense of foreboding, I watched the two women cross the parking lot. If the earlier scene with Dr. Dick had been any indication, Nicole’s night was about to get significantly worse.
Four
I ushered the final student out the door, locked up the studio, and hustled home to Michael. I needed his help to decide what I should—or more likely, what I shouldn’t—tell Rachel about her husband’s affair. Hopefully he’d come up with a solution that would keep me from practicing my least favorite yoga posture: foot-in-mouth pose.
I arrived home to a dark house and a spotless kitchen. Irrefutable evidence that Michael hadn’t been home since I’d left.
I performed my futile teach-Bella-how-to-use-the-doggie-door ritual, made her dinner, and curled up on the couch with the day’s junk mail and a glass of oaky Chardonnay. The clock read almost ten o’clock when Michael opened the front door. The sweet, spicy scent of General Tso’s tofu wafted in with him. Michael’s curly brown hair was messy—the way it got when he was stressed and ran his hands through it.
“Wow. You had a long day,” I said.
He hadn’t made eye contact, so I couldn’t be sure, but I would have sworn that his blue-green eyes were missing their normal mischievous sparkle.
“You don’t know the half of it.” He stood hesitantly near the door, keys in one hand, white plastic takeout bag from PhinneyWood Mandarin in the other. “I wasn’t sure if you’d already eaten, so I picked up Chinese food. I brought steamed snow peas for Bella.” He handed me the bag, then took off his jacket and hung it in the coat closet.
I sat up straight and set my glass on the end table. Something was wrong. Michael never hung up his jacket. He never hung up anything. I declared victory if he tossed his clean and dirty laundry in separate piles on the floor.
“Michael, what’s wrong?”
He ignored my question and flashed a smile so fake it could have been molded from plastic. “Do you want another glass of wine to go with dinner?”
No doubt about it, the man was up to something. And it couldn’t be good.
“I’m good, thanks.”
Bella sniffed the air and then padded into the kitchen, uncharacteristically ignoring the bag of food in my lap. For several long seconds, Michael’s and my silence was broken only by the sound of German shepherd toenails on stone.
Michael sat next to me on the couch and cleared his throat. “I was thinking on the drive home. You know what they say about making the best of a bad situation?”
Finger-like tendrils of tension knotted my shoulders. “What bad situation?”
“Hear me out. Sometimes what you think is bad actually turns out for the best. Like when Tiffany broke into your car. You wanted to report her to the police, but I talked you out of it. That’s worked out pretty well, don’t you think? You’re getting free help at the studio, and she’s taking the work seriously. I swear she’s getting more mature every day.”
Oh good lord. Tiffany.
Michael had a serious soft spot for that girl. What had she done this time? It couldn’t be that bad. I’d just seen her a few hours ago. All she had to do was walk Bel—
My breath caught. Oh no. Bella.
Visions of dog fights, veterinary hospitals, and future visits from Animal Control officers flashed through my head. I grabbed Michael’s arm. “Bella didn’t get into trouble when Tiffany walked her, did she?”
“No, this has nothing to do with—” Michael stopped, mid-sentence, and gaped at me, his mouth open in a wide O. “Wait a minute. You let Tiffany walk Bella? What were you, stoned?”
I didn’t reply.
He shuddered, as if shaking the image out of a mental Etch-a-Sketch. “This has nothing to do with Bella. I’m just saying, what happened with Tiffany is a good example. Doing the right thing is important, even when it’s difficult.”
Now I was frustrated. “Michael, stop stalling. What’s going on?” With my luck, he wanted Tiffany to move in with us. “Did Tiffany get kicked out of her apartment?” I vigorously shook my head. “Uh uh. No way. Having Tiffany as a minion is bad enough. She is not living with us.”
“Who said anything about—”
A rubbery-sounding thwack came from the kitchen. Michael froze, as if every muscle in his body had spasmed at once. “What was that sound?”
I shrugged. “Bella must have finally figured out how to use the doggie door.”
“The dog door? Oh no, the puppies!” Michael leaped from the couch and tore through the kitchen. The door slammed behind him.
Puppies?
Surely I’d misheard him. Michael would never be stupid enough to bring puppies here. Bella would tear them to shreds.
In an instant of terrifying clarity, I got it.
Bella. The dog door!
Bella had never harmed another dog, but she’d never encountered one on her property, either. I loved my overly territorial German shepherd to a fault, but I held no illusions. If Bella found a strange dog in her yard, she would hurt it.
Or worse.
I jumped up and scrambled after Michael.
What felt like five years later, I skidded to a stop at the edge of the patio and gaped.
How much wine did I drink?
I had to be hallucinating. I turned on the porch light and rubbed my eyes. My alcohol-addled brain still saw them.
Puppies. Two of them.
Tiny, curly-haired fluff balls, one golden, one black, at most six weeks old. The gold one was sucking on Bella’s ear. The black one nuzzled the fur on her belly. My hundred-pound puppy eater was bathing them both with her long, black-spotted tongue.
Michael glanced my direction and gave me a tentative smile. “Kate, meet Mutt and Jeff.”
“Seriously, Michael? What were you thinking?”
He shrugged. “I had to call them something.”
Michael knew I wasn’t referring to his poor choice of names, but I let it go. I was too dumfounded to argue. I sat next to Bella and rubbed the soft spot behind her ears. “Good job, Bella. What a gooooood girl.” Bella ignored me. She was too busy grooming her new charges to bother with anyone else.
I pointed at the black pup, who had evidently found one of Bella’s nipples and was contentedly, although unsuccessfully, nursing. “Why hasn’t Bella eaten these guys yet?”
Michael’s expression was as confused as mine. “I’ve heard of puppy license before, but never like this. Not with a dog as reactive as Bella. I thought we’d have to keep them completely separated.”
“Puppy license?”
“That’s what it’s called. Adult dogs often allow behavior from puppies that they would never tolerate from an adolescent or another adult.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Still, this is amazing. Do you think Bella has had puppies before?”
“I doubt it. She’d already been spayed when George died and I adopted her. George had his faults, but he was a responsible dog owner. He never mentioned puppies.”
Michael shrugged. “Before George, maybe?”
“He stole her from that horrible Trucker Man when she was only six months old. She would have been too young then.” I pointed at the gold-colored pup, which had joined the black one at Bella’s stomach. “Why are they nursing? Bella doesn’t have milk.”
“Th
ey don’t know that yet. Besides, it probably comforts them, poor little guys.”
Bella sighed, rested her head in my lap, and narrowed her eyes in pure German shepherd bliss. “Such a gooooood girl,” I crooned. I shook my finger at Michael in not-quite-mock indignation. “You, on the other hand, have some serious explaining to do.”
A half hour later, Michael and I sat on the couch eating cold Chinese food while Bella stared adoringly at her new best friends. Thus far, the pups seemed completely safe with Bella, but we couldn’t be sure, so Michael put them in an indoor exercise pen (“ex-pen”) that he’d brought home from Pete’s Pets. Michael drank a Guinness while I sipped a second glass of Chardonnay—my new self-imposed limit.
I finished the last bite of tangy, deep-fried tofu and set my plate to the side. “Okay Michael, spill. Where did these little guys come from?”
“Not guys. A girl and a guy.” He pointed at the gold puppy. “Mutt is the girl. The black one, Jeff, is a boy.” I gave him a droll look.
He shrugged. “I don’t know where they came from. I heard whining outside Pete’s Pets earlier this evening, and when I opened the door, that Dollars for Change vendor with the weird hat scurried away. I think she dumped them there.”
“Momma Bird?”
I’d met Momma Bird while I was investigating the murder of Bella’s prior owner, George. She worked for a homeless advocacy newspaper, Dollars for Change. Like most Dollars for Change vendors, Momma Bird was homeless. Although she usually worked in the University District, she occasionally took George’s old spot in front of the PhinneyWood Grocer.
“Where would Momma Bird have gotten puppies?” I asked. “She doesn’t own a dog, at least not one that I’ve seen.”
The lines around Michael’s mouth hardened. “I don’t know, but if they’re hers, she better give us some explanation. What kind of person leaves a box of helpless puppies alone on a doorstep? What if I hadn’t seen them?”
“If it was Momma Bird, she did it because she knew they’d be safe with you.” I smiled at the puppies, who were now wrestling with each other and growling. “Abandoning an animal doesn’t seem like her, though. She’s eccentric, but she’s kind. The homeless people I’ve met take better care of their animals than they do of themselves.”
“These pups were not well cared for. I wanted to make sure they didn’t have any puppy diseases before I brought them home, so I took them to the emergency clinic. The vet says they’re underweight and malnourished. They were so infested with fleas that they’re anemic.”
I cringed. “Fleas?”
“Relax, Kate. The vet bathed and flea-treated them before we left. She gave them a thorough checkup, and except for poor nutrition and anemia, they seem basically healthy. We’ll have to give them special supplements and keep a close eye on them, just in case.” Before I could argue with the word “we,” Michael gathered our dishes and carried them to the kitchen.
The gold puppy toddled to the edge of the ex-pen and whined at me adorably. I could barely resist the urge to pick her up and cuddle her.
Well played, little monster. Well played.
I yelled over my shoulder, toward the kitchen. “What kind of dogs are they?”
Michael emerged, carrying the last two vegan brownies. “The vet isn’t sure, but she thinks they might be labradoodles—young ones, around six weeks old. I wanted to vaccinate them, but the vet wouldn’t do it. She says we need to wait a week or two until they’re healthier. If Momma Bird let them get in this condition, she should be ashamed of herself.”
He handed me the biggest brownie and I took a bite. “Don’t be so quick to judge her, Michael. She might have found the pups somewhere. Just be glad she didn’t leave the mother. Bella would have never … ”
I set my brownie on the coffee table, appetite suddenly gone. “Michael, where is the mother? You don’t think she’s … ” I didn’t want to say the word.
Michael’s expression was grim. “I don’t know what to think, Kate. Wherever she is, I doubt she’s in great shape.” He laced his fingers through mine. “I promise, if I find out who dumped the puppies, I’ll grill them about the mother. Maybe we can help her, too. The immediate question is, what are we going to do with these two?”
I glanced at the two sleeping fur balls, curled together in an almost perfect yin-yang symbol. Bella stared at them through the ex-pen’s wires, as if guarding them from evil puppy-nappers.
“They seem safe enough here for tonight,” I said. “But I don’t fully trust Bella. We should keep them separated unless we’re able to watch them.”
Michael agreed. “You sleep in the bedroom with Bella. I’ll stay down here on the couch tonight with the pups.”
“Good idea. I’ll call Betty at Fido’s Last Chance first thing tomorrow.”
Michael looked horrified. “You want to send Mutt and Jeff to a rescue? Kennels aren’t safe for unvaccinated puppies. What if they get Parvo?”
“Maybe Betty can find a foster home for them.”
“I suppose … ” Michael’s words trailed off. He stared at the floor as if searching for strength in the carpet’s worn fibers.
I knew what Michael was thinking, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit. Taking care of Bella was already a full-time job. Adding two more—likely unhousetrained—dogs to the mix? One of us would have to quit working.
Michael’s eyes implored me. “I feel responsible for them, Kate. Somebody left Mutt and Jeff where they knew I would find them. They must have had a reason. If it wasn’t that Momma Bird character, then who was it? What if they come back to get them?”
“What if they do? You said yourself that the puppies haven’t been well cared for. Would you seriously give them back to a negligent owner?”
“No, of course not. But before we do anything rash, can’t we take a few days to figure out what’s best for them?” I didn’t reply. He continued. “You always say that the universe does things for a reason. Maybe we’re meant to have these dogs.”
I placed my hand on his arm. “Michael, sweetheart, we can’t keep them. We have a hard enough time taking care of Bella. She has to come first.”
Michael pointed at Bella, who was resting her chin on her paws, staring at the sleeping puppies. “I know that, Kate, but look at her. She wants to protect them, too. Besides, there might be a positive side. Having Mutt and Jeff around might reduce Bella’s separation anxiety. Heck, it might teach her how to get along with other dogs.”
I’d already been beaten and I knew it. I shook my head no, anyway. “Puppies are a lot of work, Michael. We don’t have the time. Bella seems happy enough now, but how do we know it will last? What if she hurts one of them?”
“I agree. We’ll have to keep them separated from Bella when we’re not with them, and we probably won’t adopt them.”
Probably?
Michael kneeled in front of me and placed his palms on my knees. “Can’t we at least foster them until they’re healthy enough to rehome? I’ve been with them for almost five hours now, and they’re super mellow. They’ve hardly done anything but sleep. They’ll be no trouble at all. Give me time to find out where they came from. I promise, I’ll do most of the work.”
When Michael flashed those sexy blue-green eyes my direction, I could never refuse him.
So I avoided eye contact.
I stared silently at my lap for several long seconds, trying to dredge up the willpower to say no.
I failed.
“Okay, Michael.”
A grin spread across his entire face. “Thanks. You won’t—”
I held up my index finger. “Don’t get too excited. I’m still only agreeing for tonight. First thing tomorrow I’m calling Betty, and Bella’s trainer, too. If they think it’s safe, the pups can stay here for a couple of weeks. But if either one of them says no, then we have to come up with an alternate solution. Agre
ed?”
He nodded his head yes.
“In the meantime, you need to start looking for their owner.”
“Deal.”
Five
I had to give Michael credit. He was a man of his word. As soon as Betty and Bella’s trainer gave our plan two thumbs up, he conned Tiffany into working overtime while he took the next few days off to work on “Project Puppy.” He bathed; he fed; he made a valiant attempt at potty training. He listed the fur balls’ information on Petfinder and placed a found-dog advertisement on the PhinneyWood blog. He even posted flyers around the Greenwood neighborhood, asking anyone who had lost two dogs to dial his cell number and describe them. Except for a call from a woman searching for two escaped Rottweilers, his phone remained silent.
The puppies—whose names still hadn’t changed from Mutt and Jeff—got significantly more rambunctious; Bella, more exhausted. After losing two pairs of shoes, his favorite Shania Twain CD, and a brand-new pair of reading glasses to two mouthfuls of puppy teeth, Michael was seriously reconsidering my positive-reinforcement-only training philosophy. Betty at Fido’s Last Chance was on standby in case we needed help, but so far, there hadn’t been any signs of aggression toward the pups—from either man or beast.
Two days after the puppies mysteriously appeared, I escaped to the relative calm of Rene’s house to join her and her husband Sam for the grand opening party of Lake Washington Medical Center’s new birthing facility. Rene would have preferred to give birth at ABBA, but her two-baby pregnancy didn’t qualify for a low-risk birthing center not associated with a full-service hospital. We hoped that the fancy new facility at Lake Washington, which was scheduled to open next week, would be the next-best thing.
Rene opened the door before my first knock. She glanced surreptitiously left and right, tucked a strand of shoulder-length, dark brown hair behind her ear, and gesticulated vigorously for me to come inside. “Quick! Get in here before he sees you.” She peeked over her shoulder to make sure we were alone, then leaned toward me and whispered, “Did you bring it?”