Atticus

by S. Bennett

  Instead, it’s being filmed outdoors on the back end of the production lot. Wilmington has been a micro movie and TV film hub for years, most notably filming the TV series Dawson’s Creek and One Tree Hill, as well as the movie Iron Man 3.

  The show that invited Atticus on as an audience extra is actually about dog behavior, and it consists of a panel of experts ranging from veterinarians to trainers to dog psychics who help with problem animals.

  They are working in an outdoor set today to show how occupying dogs with interesting activity can help to curb bad behavior. They have a huge agility course set up, which I imagine will be used with the guest animals.

  I wonder, compared to Atticus, how bad are the guest animals going to be? Sometimes it’s impossible for me to imagine there’s another dog in the entire universe that’s as obstinate and free spirited—translation really, really bad—as mine, although strangely, I wouldn’t want him any other way.

  Which is why I’m glad Atticus is just an audience extra rather than one of the actual guests who will be given some training. It’s not that my dog can’t learn. I’d stack him up against any dog here for brains.

  It’s more along the lines he only wants to learn what interests him. He only wants to exercise his knowledge when he feels like it.

  Atticus and I mill about while they finish preparations for filming. There are several other people here with dogs of all varieties. So far, I’ve seen a Doberman, dachshund, Shar-Pei, lab, Rottweiler, German Shepherd, Newfoundland, Beagle, Shih Tzu, Pomeranian, and the list goes on and on…

  I’ve never had any big aspirations that my dog was the most special, beautiful, and talented dog in the world. It’s enough for me that he’s the most special dog to me.

  But I do get a kick out of people’s reactions to Atticus, and he’s garnering a lot of attention here. When he reached about two years old, he had finally and fully grown into his body as well as his fur. He’s topped out at ninety-three pounds with a thick straight coat with long feathers at his haunches and forearms. His raven-colored tail is lustrously full and perfectly tipped white on the end. As always, his most interesting feature, that by far draws the most compliments, are his eyes and his eyebrows, which lend a human-like character to his face. With just one short glance at him, it’s obvious he is one smartly mischievous dog that walks to the beat of his own drum.

  “Hazel Roundtree…” I hear my name being called, so I go up to my tiptoes to try to see over the crowd to who it is. Unable to see anything because I’m not the tallest person, I make my way through the throng of animals and their owners, making sure to keep a short lead on Atticus.

  “Hazel Roundtree,” I hear again. I finally break through a group of people to see a beautiful blonde woman with a clipboard in her hand. She’s looking around expectantly.

  Right here,” I call as I trot up to her, Atticus high stepping right beside me.

  She gives me a wide smile, but then her eyes drop to my dog and it goes even bigger. “Oh, he is absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Thank you,” I say as her gaze comes back up to mine.

  “I bet you get that a lot.”

  I laugh. “All the time.”

  She holds her hand out for me to shake. “I’m Aubrey Stewart. I run the media division of LWW Enterprises.”

  Trying not to blink in surprise, I give her hand a firm shake. She’s not who I spoke to on the phone when they first called. “Pleased to meet you. And thank you for inviting us here.”

  When we release hands, Aubrey drops down into a squat to get face to face with Atticus. She puts her hand under his chin, starting to scratch before turning to look up at me. “I’m a big fan of your dog. I follow him on Instagram, and I put one of my producers on the hunt to contact you.”

  My eyebrows shoot upward in surprise. I knew someone from this company had spotted Atticus on Instagram, but I had no idea it was actually the head of their media department. “He could be a superstar, you know?” she adds.

  He is a superstar. To me. Still, I always downplay my dog’s greatness. “Oh, don’t let him hear you say that. His head will get bigger than it already is.”

  Aubrey tips her head back, spilling blonde hair down her back as she laughs. She stands straight again and places a hand on my shoulder, still chuckling. “I bet for every bad story you posted about Atticus on Instagram, you probably have ten more, don’t you?”

  “Guilty,” I admit to her. Just this morning he grabbed a jar of peanut butter off my counter. It’s not something I bothered to put away because it had a lid on it I had secured tightly.

  Turns out, that’s not a barrier. He just chewed the damn plastic top off to get to the peanut butter, which was not amusing because he also cut his gums on it.

  Someone calls out to take places on the set, and Aubrey’s head turns to look that way for a moment. When she looks back to me she says, “If you have a few minutes after filming, I would actually like to chat about an opportunity we’d like to present to you.”

  My heart skips a beat at this unexpected surprise. “Okay. Sure.”

  She beams another wide smile at me, inclining her head almost regally. Then she’s turning away and melting into the crowd. Someone is calling out once again for everyone to take their positions on set and for the extras—dogs and humans—to line the edge of the agility area.

  I follow the crowd, and we manage to form a fairly straight perimeter. Production assistants walk around, moving some of us here and there.

  The experts—four in all—take their spots and are checked to make sure they’re wired up correctly. Someone from makeup comes in and dusts a few of the faces. Cameras on rolling platforms move in and everything gets quiet as a man—presumably the director—starts barking orders.

  They start rolling the film, and the panel experts do an introduction that’s light and funny and clearly well scripted. I can tell the star of the show—if the show is actually going to be successful—is the dog psychic. The woman has a beehive hairdo, dramatically artistic makeup in bold colors, and she’s wearing a flowing caftan dress I personally think isn’t very conducive to training dogs. But she’s definitely the one who has the magnetism and charm out of the group.

  We basically sit there and watch as they bring on bad dog after bad dog to receive training. The owners are showed how to take their dogs through the agility course with the emphasis on making it fun for their dogs. They analyze how the dogs do, then give advice and training to the owners as well.

  Honestly, it’s a little boring, but I think that might just have to do with the fact these dogs all seem pretty well behaved compared to Atticus.

  The last dog to come on is a beautiful male golden retriever that is tall and lanky. My eyes only touch on the animal a moment before going to its owner. I know because my dog is ornery, mischievous, and the biggest troublemaker ever, people judge me—wondering why I can’t control my dog.

  Today, I’m prepared to look down my nose at the poor schmucks who can’t control their dogs but in reality, I’m not judging them at all. I’m actually relieved there are owners out there who might have less control of their dogs than I do.

  All thoughts of judgment fly out of my head though when I see the golden retriever’s owner. He’s one of those men who make girls go silly in the head. Tall and well-built to almost a cliché, he’s dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Currently, he’s spending a great deal of effort trying to get his dog to sit, which I’m not ashamed to say makes me notice the way his biceps bulge slightly as he does so. I’d like to be all judgey about the way he’s pushing on his dog’s butt to make him sit down, but I admittedly get sidetracked by how handsome he is with shaggy brown hair and bright blue eyes.

  I give a hard shake to my head. I tell myself, Hazel Roundtree does not go gaga over hot men.

  Cute dogs? Of course.

  Production assistants filter back in and powder faces. The panel of experts willfully ignore the man trying to get his golden retriever
to sit, I’m assuming not giving a damn about training him until the cameras are rolling. The more the poor man tries to control his wily golden retriever, the spunkier the dog seems to get with him.

  He thinks it’s a game, and I know this because he’s wearing that same naughty grin Atticus wears when he’s being playful and stubbornly refusing to listen to me.

  The golden retriever jumps away from his owner and stretches his forearms out on the ground, while raising his butt into the air with tail wagging furiously. It’s a playful pose I’ve seen dogs employ—my own included—where they beckon others to join them in their frivolity. I can’t help but chuckle over the dog’s antics and over the fact the owner himself is amused, as evidenced by the way his lips are curved into a slight smile.

  I can’t help but laugh when the retriever springs up on his hind feet—barking exuberantly and really, really loudly—and launches himself at his owner. His paws go to the man’s chest, and he starts jumping with wild and joyful abandon as if he wants to leap right into his arms.

  Rather than get pissed off at his dog, he throws his head back and laughs, wrapping his arms around his furry friend’s torso to give him a hug. I don’t know how many times over Atticus’ life I’ve done the same thing to him. It makes my respect for the man increase tenfold.

  I’m startled when Atticus gives an excited yip beside me, and I barely have time to look down at him. He’s watching the golden retriever with a dopey grin on his face, hell-raising fire in his eyes and a tail that’s wagging furiously. I’m totally caught off guard when Atticus bolts forward, his leash pulling straight out of my hand to leave a slight rope burn behind.

  “Shit,” I exclaim.

  He jets toward the retriever at a full-on run I’m terrified is going to result in a collision that could do some damage to the dogs.

  “Atticus,” I scream, but as is par for the course… he ignores me.

  CHAPTER 43

  Atticus

  Many may not know this, but animals can throw off emotions just as clearly, if not more so, than humans do. Whereas the tone of human words can tell me a lot, I have to rely more on pure actions and scent when it comes to my canine compadres.

  This golden retriever, for example, is insanely happy to be with his human today. I get the sense that perhaps they don’t get to spend a lot of time together, and it’s incredibly special for them to be out and about today. While the yellow dog is more than aware his human wants him to do something very specific—that distasteful notion of being good and obedient—I can tell he’s just as wily and stubborn as I am when Hazel tries to control me.

  Furthermore, this furry yellow creature—who is actually a little bit bigger than I am in height but not as stocky through the chest—wants to cause some havoc. I got that the minute he started barking. While the other dogs are standing by idly dumb and with little intuition for the adventure presenting itself, I answer the call of the retriever.

  For a fleeting moment, I consider Hazel’s wrath, but let’s be honest. I’ll get a stern lecture from her, and that’s not so bad.

  Decision made, I bolt. Hazel makes no move to hold me back, and I take that as tacit permission to go forward. I stretch my legs and fly toward the yellow dog, giving him a barking reply of acceptance as to his offer to cause mayhem.

  He turns his big shaggy head my way, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. His tail wags hard, and he’s pushing himself away from his human.

  I vaguely hear Hazel call my name but choose to ignore it, harsh lecture be damned.

  The retriever has just enough time to turn my way, coil his body tightly before he’s launching himself at me. His human says a bad word, followed by what I think might be the retriever’s name. “Scout.”

  None of it matters.

  Scout and I collide, rearing to our back legs with front paws scrabbling at each other. We drop to the ground, and I take a playful grab at his neck. He spins so fast his butt slams into my shoulder and knocks me sideways. I lose my balance for but a moment before I’m springing back at him where we once again go to our hindlegs to wrestle while standing tall.

  “Atticus,” Hazel yells, and then I’m being jerked backward by my harness.

  The golden dog, Scout, is also being pulled back by his owner, who looks somewhat mad, but like Hazel, I can see a tiny twinkle in his eyes. Besides, the crowd around us is laughing enthusiastically so I know what we did wasn’t all that bad.

  “I am so sorry,” Hazel says to Scout’s human dad. I’m in an obedient sit, and I throw my head back to look at her. Her face is flushed red, which often happens when she gets mad at me, but she’s got a weird smile on her face as she talks to the man.

  The man laughs in response. I have to admit it’s a good laugh. Easygoing and genuine. I don’t sense any yucky vibes from this dude.

  “Don’t apologize,” he tells Hazel. “Looks like our dogs might be twins separated at birth, I’m thinking. Figuratively, of course.”

  “There’s no way your dog could be worse than mine,” Hazel says with a coy laugh. She tucks her hair behind her ears, which is not something I’ve ever seen her do before.

  That man just smiles back at her, as if he really didn’t hear what she just said.

  She keeps smiling, not seeming to care he doesn’t bother saying anything.

  I shoot a glance at Scout. He’s watching this play out, and I sense confusion from him as well.

  “I’m Jack,” the man finally says, sticking his hand out.

  Hazel takes it, and they shake. Which is cool, I guess. “Hazel. And this is Atticus.”

  I make sure to grin as I look up to Jack. He gives me a pat on the head and points at his dog. “Scout.”

  “Oh my God,” Hazel exclaims.

  At the same exact time, Jack says with a laugh, “You got to be kidding me.”

  My head swings back and forth between the two of them as I have no clue what’s so interesting.

  They both start talking about a book called To Kill A Mockingbird, and I tune out.

  Bored now.

  I take a tentative step toward Scout, and his head turns to me with a mischievous sparkle to his eye. Round two of wrestling ready to commence.

  “Okay, take your places on the set, everyone,” someone yells out.

  Hazel and Jack go quiet. He seems disappointed. Hazel looks flustered.

  None of it matters as someone is now pulling Jack and Scout away from us. Hazel watches them for a moment, but then that blonde woman named Aubrey she was talking to a bit ago comes up.

  “That was hilarious,” she tells Hazel, to which Hazel gives one last, longing look at Jack and Scout.

  She turns to the woman and shrugs. “Such is my life with this dog.”

  “Which is what I want to talk to you about,” she says as she hooks her arm through Hazel’s.

  CHAPTER 44

  Hazel

  “Did you not like the pot roast?” I ask Oley as I watch him push food around on his plate. I personally think it turned out fine, and Bernard’s had two helpings so far.

  “It’s good, Hazel,” Oley says. He gives me a reassuring smile. “Just not overly hungry tonight, I guess.”

  My eyes narrow at him. “You haven’t been eating much the last few days now that I think about it. Are you feeling okay?”

  As has become the routine, I cook all meals for Oley. It’s not because he can’t, but why shouldn’t I? I’ve got to eat, and it’s hard as hell to cook for one person. It only makes sense we eat dinner together each night. It only makes sense when I pack my lunch for work the next day, I do the same for Oley. Neither of us are big breakfast eaters, so it’s usually a small bowl of cereal or some fruit before we head out for the day.

  I’m not sure when we morphed into an old married couple who share meals and have separate sleeping arrangements, but it works out wonderfully for both of us.

  “I’m fine,” Oley says, and his voice sure seems confident. He’s got great energy during the day an
d his color looks good.

  But I have noticed he seems to be napping a lot lately. Not that that means anything, because at his age, he deserves to nap whenever he wants.

  What’s probably going on is I just don’t want to face the truth. Oley’s getting older and just like Atticus, I don’t want to think about inevitable ends.

  “So how did it go down in Wilmington today?” Bernard asks.

  I’d already filled Oley in when I returned, but I don’t mind repeating the story to Bernard. He laughs and shakes his head when I tell him about Atticus charging after Scout just before they started filming.

  I do not, however, tell him anything about Scout’s owner, Jack.

  That’s for my private memory vault. Besides, I’ve never much liked talking about men with Bernard and Oley. They’re like my surrogate dads and grandpa’s all rolled into one, and it’s just icky to talk about men with them.

  I did, however, call Charmin on the way back to Jacksonville today after I left the film lot and told her all about that handsome man and how our dogs brought us together if only for a few flirty seconds.

  Charmin, of course, made the leap that we were going to go out on a date, but I had to tell her that after I finished talking to Aubrey Stewart, Jack and Scout were sadly done filming and had apparently already left.

  It was a total bummer because I don’t quite remember meeting someone so spontaneously who I felt an intense attraction and connection to. We spoke barely a handful of words to each other but for those few moments, there was no hesitation. No fumbling words. No talking over each other. Just an easy, funny back and forth I wish could have gone on a lot longer.

  Oh, well.

  Got all I need right here.

  As if he could read my mind and was given a cue, Atticus pushes from the floor beside my chair and tries to stick his head under my arm which would put him within licking distance of my plate. I know without a doubt if Oley, Bernard, and I were to turn our heads away from the table for just a nanosecond, he’d be at that pot roast and have it downed before we could turn back.