What a Dog Knows

by Susan Wilson

  The second memory/image that is provoked out of my mind as Ruby holds me is the old woman, but her body is down where it shouldn’t be. We are there together for enough time to pass that I am pretty sure I will also die. My water bowl is empty. My food behind a door I cannot scratch open as hard as I try. I am humiliated in having to relieve myself on the rug in front of the back door. Moment by moment the air around me thickens with decay. The sounds that signal the passing of the days continue: the sound of the bus that takes the children from the neighborhood. The sound of it returning them. The sound of the mail dropping through the slot once a day. I bark, hoping that the mail carrier will understand that I’m not defending the house, which is what I was usually doing, but asking for help. The voices from the television endlessly repeating words I do not understand.

  The third memory/image is of the front door opening, a voice calling, a shriek, and so much confusion that I don’t even greet these people. I stand aside until someone notices me. I can feel the rush of air behind me as my tail takes on a life of its own. But they don’t speak to me, shove me aside. In all my life I’ve never been ignored so thoroughly. I did the only thing I could do: I ran. I went in search of you.

  * * *

  If the story lacks clarity, which being constructed of the gossamer threads of senses and instincts, it does, it is still clear enough in Ruby’s mind that she weeps into the soft fur. She is filled with the illusion that she herself had been in that house, knew that woman, couldn’t comprehend her death and was trapped until unthinking, grieving children arrived and she made her escape. Ruby pulls her cheek away from the dog, wipes her eyes. The images shimmer and fade. The dog shifts on her lap and jumps across to the other seat. Shakes, sneezes.

  It is a little after two o’clock. Ruby knows that Polly will text her in five minutes if she doesn’t show up at the vet’s office, which is less than half a mile away. Even taking her time packing up she would still have to work hard at being late. She wonders a little that Polly hadn’t specifically sought her out with this information, that it had been a—presumably—chance encounter at the Faire. Or maybe Ruby’s just reading a little too much into Polly wanting to have lunch before dropping a bomb on her friend. Friend. Okay, those have been few and far between in her life. It’s been one of the high points of this unscheduled sojourn in Harmony Farms. Not quite on the same scale as suddenly being able to read the minds of animals, but pretty nice.

  “Okay. No sense running off if this is a false alarm.” But Ruby is certain that it is not.

  The office of Amanda Davios, DVM, is an unassuming clapboard-sided one-story building painted white. Green shutters flank the picture window and a green and white-striped awning hangs over the double front door stenciled with the business name, Harmony Farms Veterinary Clinic. Polly’s truck is parked in the first space by the walkway and Ruby pulls her Westfalia alongside it. There are no other cars in the parking lot. There will be no wait. The Hitchhiker noses the ground, darts for the shrubbery planted alongside the pavement and adds her signature to the invisible collection there. She’s willing enough to go through the door, no hesitation; apparently she is not a dog who’s afraid of the vet. No cowering here, no anticipatory dread. It’s Ruby who has the heebie-jeebies, a dread of outcome.

  “Ruby.” Polly sounds just a touch surprised to see Ruby walk through the door.

  “Let’s get this over with.” Ruby has never been a crier. A weeper. But right now she feels on the verge of bursting into tears. She pushes the urge down, hands the leash to Polly because she doesn’t want to telegraph to the dog how upset she is. She needn’t have bothered. The dog plants her feet and Polly has to pick her up rather than drag her into the examination room. The Hitchhiker throws Ruby a baleful glance, her confusion writ large upon her face.

  Dr. Davios takes the Hitchhiker from Polly. “What a pretty little girl you are.” She makes friends with the dog, all the while giving her a quick exam. “Spayed?”

  Polly answers, “Don’t know for sure, but if she was a retired show dog, most likely.”

  “So you really don’t know anything about her?”

  Ruby thinks but doesn’t say, Enough. I know enough.

  “I’m going on a tip that this might be a missing dog. We’re really only here to see if she’s got a chip. If the town would ever spring for a reader, I wouldn’t have to be a bother.”

  “Oh, Polly, you’re no bother.” Dr. Davios grins. “The town would be wise to get a reader for you. I bill them. It adds up.”

  Ruby wishes they’d stop talking. Get on with it. Is this how death row prisoners feel while the executioner chats up the warden?

  The vet picks up the microchip reader and points it between the dog’s shoulders. The Hitchhiker and Ruby lock eyes. Ruby suddenly gets a whiff of roast beef, of cheese. The dog is imagining a reward at the end of this examination. A prize for being a good girl. And then the Hitchhiker reacts to Ruby’s own thinking. She begins to scramble on the slippery surface of the exam table, nearly launches herself off except that Dr. Davios is an experienced hand at keeping little dogs on the table. “Easy there, little one.” She nods. “Yep. Got a number.”

  Ruby thinks she’s going to be sick.

  19

  Polly hands Ruby a cup of water. Rests her other hand on Ruby’s back, rubs it a little, like a mother might rub the back of a heartbroken child. “I wish it hadn’t been so.”

  Ruby nods. She’s got the Hitchhiker, whose name is actually Cross Cut Roundelay, on her lap and the dog is pressing herself into Ruby as if she is trying to hide. Ruby is getting no vibes from her, no thoughts, no scents or images. It’s as if hearing her real name has broken the spell. She’d cocked her head when Polly said her name, Roundelay. Daughter of Champion Cross Cut Roundabout by Champion Cross Cut Round Robin out of Champion Delta Dickens. The Hitchhiker, as Ruby will continue to call her until the moment the dog is wrested from her care, is not a champion. All of this Polly has gotten from the dog’s breeder in a six-minute phone call. Polly had made the call immediately, and Ruby knew that it was the old rip-the-band-aid method of getting it over with rather than anything more protracted. In a less than charitable notion, she wondered briefly if Polly was throwing up a deterrent against Ruby running off with the dog. Now the breeder knows who has her.

  “What happens next?” Ruby crumples the paper cup. Tells herself to pull herself together and does.

  “I don’t have the budget to drive all the way across the state to deliver the dog so I’m not sure.”

  “Across the state? I thought someone local had her.”

  “Yes, she was here in Harmony Farms, but the breeder…” Polly checks the note in her hand. “Mrs. Cross.” She pauses. “Huh, hence the Cross Cut kennel name. The breeder is in Stockbridge. Well, Mrs. Cross will have to arrange something.”

  This gives Ruby a flicker of something that’s not quite hope. “But she will stay with me until such time. Right.” Not a question.

  Polly nods. “I don’t see why not.” But even as she says it, Polly grasps Ruby by the wrist. “And you’ll be staying in Harmony Farms until such time. Right.”

  Ruby has been a professional liar for so many years she knows that she can lie, even to this friend of hers, and not only be believed, but not even feel badly about it. But there is something else that keeps her from lying to Polly and bolting for parts unknown. Her FedEx package. “I will.”

  If the package with her file arrives before the breeder can arrange for the Hitchhiker to be picked up, well then, all promises are null and void.

  The Hitchhiker is as subdued as Ruby and doesn’t even sniff at the shrubbery as they head to the van. She hops in, jumps onto the bench seat, circles three times and tucks her nose under her tail as if exhausted by far more than a visit to the vet. Ruby wishes she could curl up beside her there. Instead she grinds the gearshift into reverse and pulls away without saying anything more to Polly.

  Ruby holes up for the rest of the day in h
er van, now back in its spot in Bull’s side yard. Despite the warmth, she keeps the door shut and puts the screens in the sliding windows to catch the breeze. She shuffles and reshuffles her second-best set of tarot cards but doesn’t lay them out. She googles Cross Cut Cavaliers. The Hitchhiker leans over her shoulder as she studies the charming images of adult dogs and the adorable ones of puppies. The dog woofs softly, acknowledging the photographs in the same way she identifies dogs in television programs. Ruby doesn’t for a single moment entertain the notion that the dog is recognizing individuals as her littermates or her parents. She always barks at pictures of animals. Ruby clicks on the contact button, pulls down the email address, a phone number. Polly didn’t say anything about not talking to Mrs. Cross. In her role as dog officer, of course Polly would assume that she would be the contact person. What if? Ruby sits back and the Hitchhiker climbs onto her lap. What if she pleads her case to the breeder directly? Would a woman with a name like Cross be receptive to Ruby’s heartwarming tale of falling in love with this dog? For, Ruby realizes, that is exactly what has happened. With the exception of her family, this is the only sentient being Ruby can honestly say she loves.

  Ruby’s cell phone chimes, pulling her away from her thoughts. Sabine calling a day earlier than usual. Their conversations tend to occur on Sunday nights, just before the kids are bustled off to bed. What Sabine calls that golden hour between intensive weekend activity and starting to think about what needs to happen in the upcoming week. She never sounds exasperated.

  Sabine, never one for prevarication, jumps right in. “I’m getting a pretty strong sense that all is not well. Are you okay?”

  “I love it when you think of me.”

  “Mom, what’s going on? I keep getting vibes about discovery. But today I’m hit with a sense of loss.” Sabine must be really concerned; she almost never addresses Ruby as “Mom.”

  “You are very good at what you are. How’s Molly coping with her new skills?”

  “Stop. Talk.”

  The Hitchhiker shoves her head under Ruby’s chin, kisses her cheek. “Something wonderful and something not so much. There is a file with my name, well, my old name, on it winging its way to me here from Sacred Heart, and Polly Schaeffer, my friend the dog officer, has discovered that my dog…”—yes, the Hitchhiker is her dog—“is supposed to go back to her breeder because the person who had her died.” Ruby feels herself choke on the words and isn’t sure she’s actually gotten them out of her mouth.

  There is a pause, a breath. “Okay, first things first. What’s in the file?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I’m hoping to find, except that it might bring me a little closer to understanding how it is that we all have this, for lack of a better word, talent.”

  “Okay. Second thing. Can’t you just keep the dog? I know how much she means to you.”

  Over the weeks the dog has been in her life, Ruby has sent Sabine and the kids pictures of her posing in front of the van, or in the van, curled up. Sitting in the passenger seat like she’s giving directions. Bright eyed and photogenic. Sabine once remarked, a little acerbically, that she could never recall Ruby ever having taken so many candids of her. Ruby reminded Sabine that cameras weren’t quite as handy in those days, and film was expensive. “You’re right. I’m going to talk to the breeder myself. It’s just that I’m afraid that my lifestyle might not work for her.”

  Another pause, another beat. Ruby knows where this will go. Any time that Ruby encounters a difficulty, or makes a complaint about something, Sabine’s default is to say Stop. Stop traveling; stop being the roaming fortune-teller. Stay put. Stay here. Maybe this time she’ll say yes.

  Indeed, Sabine does say, “You know the answer to that problem. Listen, I don’t have any advice, but I’m here if you want to talk. Well, actually we’re heading out to dinner with friends, but you know what I mean.”

  “I do. And, Beenie, thank you for calling. For knowing that something was off kilter. You really don’t have to worry about me, but I’m glad you do.”

  “Let me know what you actually find out from the file. After all, whoever she was, your mother was my grandmother.”

  “Did I say that’s what I was hoping for?”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  It is so warm that Ruby just throws a light sheet over herself and settles on the bench seat without unfolding it into a proper bed. She’s short enough that she can stretch out. Despite the heat, the dog is beside her and Ruby falls asleep stroking her soft fur.

  In the dream Ruby is waiting for the arrival of a Greyhound bus. She is in a cavernous space, and she needs to find the right dock. She is walking down the middle of a ramp. She is a young girl and is wearing tattered Keds on her feet. Bus after bus pass her by, stopping and disgorging its passengers. Ruby doesn’t know who she’s meeting but knows that none of these people, all of whom are dressed in business attire, is the one. Finally a bus moves past her, close enough she feels a draft of air. Suddenly she has to run, desperate to catch the fast-moving vehicle. She knows that this is the right bus. That whoever gets off of it will be the one she is looking for. She is out of breath, running with arms flailing, Keds falling off her feet. The bus comes to a stop. Masses of people debark, more than any real bus could ever hold. Ruby approaches the door and it closes with a snap. The dream Ruby bangs on it and it creaks open. Standing on the stairs is a woman’s shape. Faceless, it drifts toward Ruby, glides over her. Vanishes.

  Ruby wakes in a sweat. Gathers herself, grabs the glass of water she’s set on the table. Says out loud, “If I were an interpreter of dreams, I’d have to say that one was pretty significant. Although…” She strokes the dog, who is clearly puzzled at this midnight wakefulness. “It was a pretty trite one.” She slips back under the sheet, closes her eyes, and hopes that her mother will begin to take a more substantial shape once that file arrives.

  It had been such a good day yesterday, at least until Polly showed up with her disheartening news, that Ruby decides she’ll spend the next couple of days at the Dew Drop. She can use a shower and a change of scenery. She knocks on Bull’s back door to thank him and let him know where she will be and asks if she can come back on Tuesday just to wait for her package. Tuesday being optimistic, she knows.

  Boy pushes past Bull’s legs to get outside to greet the Hitchhiker. Noses meet, tails swish, the little dog practically crawls under the big one to gain the best sniffing advantage. Greetings accomplished, they bound off to where the edge of Bull’s property meets the scrubby woods.

  “Yeah, that’s fine. Great,” Bull says, scrapes his Red Wing boot against the step trying to dislodge something. “I heard what happened, what Polly did.”

  “She’s only doing her job, Bull. I don’t blame her.”

  “She’s pretty upset by all of it.”

  Ruby shrugs. “Yeah. Me too.”

  With an awkward but gentle pat on her shoulder, Bull conveys his sympathy and Ruby finds herself comforted by his shy gesture. “When I was going through a rough patch, back when the boys were little, Polly was very good to them, to me.” Bull coughs, reaches for a cigarette, and then thinks better of it.

  “I’m not mad at Polly. She’s still my friend.” Ruby is just going to try to avoid her for as long as possible, but she doesn’t say that.

  Ravi was thrilled to see her back, and also offered his thoughts on Polly’s actions.

  “How did you know?” Is Ravi a psychic as well as a concierge?

  He gives her one of his sweet smiles and laughs. “Polly has been talking to anyone and everyone. I heard it at the coffee shop from Carrie Farr.”

  Ravi bends over to give the Hitchhiker a pat. “You should see if you can keep her. She belongs to you.”

  “She does.” As if they have agreed to a pact, Ruby sticks out her hand to shake on it. Ravi takes hers and then covers it with his other hand. “Go for it.”

  If everyone seems to think this will work, who is she to belie
ve otherwise? Even if her own psychic senses are telling quite another story.

  A long shower beforehand soothes away the tension from Ruby’s shoulders. When she comes out of the tiny bathroom, the dog is ensconced on the bed, always happy to be at the Dew Drop. “Okay, no more waiting. Let’s make a call.” The dog’s feathery tail beats an encouraging tattoo on the coverlet.

  The kennel may be located in the last town in Massachusetts, but it is not all that far if she thinks about it. Sixty, seventy-five miles, if that, from where she is now. A couple hours’ drive. What if, instead of making her case over the phone, Ruby just showed up? Presented herself as the dog’s best option. There’s no way that file folder with her history is going to show up before Tuesday, at best. If she started now, she could be there and back by dinner tonight. Assuming the Westie holds together.

  A dark vision clouds her mind. A long drive home without the dog.

  20

  The carnival moved one more time before packing in the season and everyone heading to Florida to their winter homes. At the last location, Madame Celestine had Buck pull the RV a little ways away from the rest of the carny trailers. She’d had a tiff with two of the midway vendors, complaining that they were encroaching on her space with their noisy games of chance. “How am I supposed to give a discreet reading when all anyone can hear is their bells and whistles?” Management, as she always referred to the Carerra brothers, was of no help. It was bad enough to hear all that ruckus in the midway, but she was damned if she was going to suffer with their rowdy after-hours noises too.

  On her way back to the RV after her own session in the tent, Ruby was stopped by one of the girls she had shared a trailer with back before Madame Celestine’s arrival. Judy, fair-haired, a few years past youthful beauty, was a freelance shill, attracting passersby to any ride or game of chance whose operator was buying her beer. “Ruby, just a word to the wise.” Judy took Ruby’s elbow in a hand slightly sticky with the filth of working in a carnival.