What a Dog Knows

by Susan Wilson

  “What is this place? You aren’t going to leave me, are you?”

  “Whatever would give you that idea?”

  “It happens.”

  Satisfied that the psychic vibe is there and assuring her buddy that she is safe from abandonment, Ruby gets out of the Westie and greets the client.

  Prudence is the client’s name and she sticks out a firm hand for shaking. “Carrie thinks very highly of you.”

  “I think the world of her.” Through the proffered hand, Ruby picks up a quick suggestion of competitiveness, and a little dash of nerves. She also gets the vibe that Prudence is a woman betting the proverbial farm on the outcome of Ruby’s visit today. She gets a real sense of someone in the background, perhaps a husband, and the aura of a last chance.

  Prudence leads Ruby to the big horse in the small paddock. She sees that the horse has a choice, in or out, which seems like a good idea except that the “out” area seems nearly as small as the “in” area. And this is the biggest horse she’s ever seen. Every muscle ripples beneath a bronze coat, ears at attention. He is still for only a heartbeat then goes back to circling the twenty-by-twenty pen clockwise, pawing and snorting, shaking his head before trotting off counterclockwise. He is absolutely gorgeous, like an Elgin marble crossed with a dragon and come to life.

  “He seems agitated. Is he usually kept in this small space?”

  “He doesn’t play well with others.” Prudence inclines her head toward the pasture where the other two decidedly less spectacular horses are dozing on their feet. She puts a hand in a pocket and pulls out carrot chunks, which she shares with Ruby. “Besides, at the price I paid for him, I can’t afford a self-inflicted injury. He may look big and strong, but he’s as fragile as porcelain. You probably know that horses are about as accident prone as any of God’s creatures.”

  Ruby decides that acting like she has horse experience is better than not. “Yes.”

  The horse doesn’t approach the two women standing at his fence; he doesn’t want their puny offerings. Ruby doesn’t need to lay hands on him to know that he is claustrophobic and holds humanity in utter disdain. Carrot bites aren’t going to make him docile. “What do you do with him? Carrie said he was a performance horse.”

  “Eventing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Cross country, stadium jumping, and dressage.”

  “And cross country is…”

  “Big fixed jumps, water jumps, ditches, et cetera. It’s meant to suggest what you’d find in the hunting field, only bigger.”

  “Sounds a bit daunting.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  “So, you need a big, brave horse.”

  “Yes. And that’s what he’s supposed to be. He’s been bred to do it.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “We haven’t discussed it.” Prudence shakes her head. “The thing is, if I’m not brave, he’s not. And, frankly, between you and me and don’t you say anything to Carrie, he fucking scares me.”

  That doesn’t come as a surprise. “So, what do you want me to help with?”

  “Look, this is nonsense, no offence, but if you can let him know that I’m on his side…”

  “Can you get him to stand over here?”

  “I’ll get him.” Prudence goes through the little barn and comes back out in the paddock with a halter and a lead line with a long chain attached. The horse doesn’t resist being haltered, but the cast of his eye suggests that he’s already anticipating unpleasantness, exacerbated by the fact his owner has laced the chain around the nose band of the halter, effectively putting the brakes on his ability to resist. “Come on through. He won’t hurt you.”

  Indeed, the horse is standing stock still. There is nothing relaxed in his immobility. He looks like a powder keg about to go off. Ruby mentally girds her loins and walks toward the horse, neither slowly, like a predator, nor quickly like a jerk. “Hey, big guy.” She offers one of the carrot chunks, balancing it on the flattened palm of her left hand. The gelding doesn’t even lower his nose to where he could sniff it. Everything about him suggests distrust.

  “What’s his name?”

  “He has a long complicated registered name, but we call him Brando.”

  This animal is so tall that Ruby could fit beneath his chin and he wouldn’t even notice she was there. With her right hand, Ruby carefully reaches up to touch the horse’s shoulder. Unlike Carrie’s troubled mare, she’s not about to put her face close to this one. “Okay, Brando. Will you talk to me?” She lightly glides her hand from his shoulder to his neck, which is nearly rigid beneath her fingers. She wonders if she would hear a heartbeat should she rest her ear against his chest, which is just about level with her ear. Some instinct keeps Ruby moving her hand gently up and down his neck, over his withers, which she scratches. Suddenly she is rewarded with a heavy sigh, a puttering of his nostrils. Prudence looks surprised. Ruby keeps scratching.

  Images begin to flood into Ruby from the animal, memories of mutual grooming with another horse, playfully rearing, bucking, running side by side with a pal. The taste of grass. The images are so strong that Ruby falls into something like a trance, a state of mind she rarely experiences. Eyes closed, she presses her forehead against the horse, breathes in his rich scent. She lets the images and equine thoughts float until she understands what this beast needs to tell her. Finally, Ruby feels something soft and moist against her cheek and then the touch of the cold metal chain. In a split second, Ruby is shaken out of the trance-state.

  “He’s never done that with me,” Prudence says. “I’ve been waiting for six months for him to acknowledge me like that.”

  In the distance, the other two horses have roused themselves and moved under the shade of a tree. Ruby says nothing, watching the pair scratch each other’s backs in the same way she had “seen” it in her trance with Brando.

  “You need to start over with him. He needs to be a horse first, a competitor second.”

  “I don’t have the time. I mean, we’ve got to be competing this year. I bought him for that purpose, not to be a lawn ornament.”

  Ruby pats the horse, whispers to him, “I’ll do what I can.”

  She places her hands over Prudence’s. “He’s told me that he is claustrophobic in this little barn all by himself. He needs companionship. He is happy to jump big things, but he doesn’t like his saddle. He doesn’t like the bit. He is fighting both. He doesn’t like that you are afraid of him. He needs you to spend more time just being with him with no saddle, no bit. He is willing, but he needs some accommodation, especially time to run around and, yes, he might hurt himself, but he craves it. He calls it free run. To run around without weight, bit, saddle, or human direction.” She lets go of Prudence’s hands.

  Prudence reaches up and pulls the halter off the horse. Brando shakes his head, relieved of the restraint. He doesn’t immediately move away. Prudence strokes his neck. “Okay, let’s see what we can do to make your life better.”

  Back on the road, Ruby pulls off at a farm stand. She takes the dog out for a quick break, then treats herself to a cup of coffee and a freshly baked muffin. Sitting on a redwood bench, Ruby reflects over the events of the last hour. The Hitchhiker is doing her best I’m-not-really-begging-but-if-something-fell-from-your-lips-I’d-clean-it-up act. Ruby finds a carrot chunk in her pocket and drops that. Always game, the Hitchhiker snaps it up, mouthing it in a sportsmanlike way.

  Free run. The horse had been filled with a desire Ruby herself has known. The need to be unrestricted. Unencumbered. To get back into the Westfalia and spin the metaphorical compass to see what direction she should take. Put some distance between herself and Harmony Farms and regain that wind in her hair feeling of life on the road. There is nothing and no one holding her back from doing that. Everything she owns is with her.

  The dog spits out remnants of the carrot. Stands, shakes, bows, and points her nose at the van. “Time to go home.”

  “That is home.” Ruby point
s her own nose at the Westfalia.

  Yet, at the end of the day, the horse expressed a willingness to work, to, in effect, be fettered if only with the right equipment and with the right attitude from his owner.

  “We aren’t done yet,” says the dog.

  28

  There is one good reason to stay put, if only for another few days. Ruby ordered her DNA kit and had it sent to Bull’s address. Once she’s got the kit and has sent off her sample, then she’ll get back on the road. She’ll give Joe Benini a call and see where they’re headed, hook up with the carnival for a few weekends. The Farmers’ Market and Makers Faire continues into early October, but she has no intention of sticking it out that long. By September she wants to be gone. She’s always had itchy feet, always obeyed an instinctual call to migration, and fall has always been the hardest season to be still.

  Doug called last night. Ruby filled him in on the DNA ordering, emphasizing that she’ll send in the sample and be gone; as the results will be emailed, there is no need to sit tight to wait for an envelope to arrive. The conveniences of modern life. He countered by asking if she’d like to go on a picnic. She said yes.

  Doug is still on summer break from the high school, so they choose Wednesday afternoon for their picnic. The day is, as promised, clear, less humid, and not as hot as it’s been over the past couple of weeks. The little beach at the lake is packed so they venture farther on to a grove with an available table. The Hitchhiker approves and scampers about as if they have planned this day for her.

  Without benefit of a kitchen, Ruby’s contribution to the meal is from the Country Market, a selection of deli salads and cold cuts. Doug has made fried chicken and potato salad. Fresh lemonade. Ruby thinks, but doesn’t say, he’d make some woman a great husband. Probably has. There is a suggestion that Doug is one of those divorced men who married too young, or to the wrong woman, or both. He doesn’t mention kids.

  Plates filled, Ruby and Doug settle on opposite benches of the picnic table. The Hitchhiker stations herself under it, ready and willing to clean up should something edible fall to the ground. Conversation is easy and they bat opinions and observations around for a bit, mostly touching upon favorite television programs and bands. They laugh a bit about eighties styles, high-waist jeans and high hair, boxy jackets and mullets. Grunge bands and Star Wars.

  “It really doesn’t seem that long ago.” Doug snaps a lid on the container of potato salad.

  “I know. And yet it seems a lifetime ago. My daughter’s first decade of life. I was eking out a living and then I kind of hit my stride, figured it out and made it work.” Ruby slides the ham back into its deli bag, reaches for the roast beef and “accidentally” lets a slice drop toward the ground. It is gone before it hits the dirt.

  “How did you do it?”

  “Most people ask me why I did it. Short answer is because that’s all I knew. I was given a gift, of sorts, and I exploited it.”

  “So, and don’t think I’m trying to be insulting, you really are a psychic?”

  “Most of the time. It comes and goes.”

  “And the animal thing?”

  “I’m hoping that it’s here to stay.” Ruby reaches down and the Hitchhiker licks her hand. The vibe of connection is pure and quick. “You taste like meat,” says the dog.

  “Do you think your mother was a psychic?”

  Ruby doesn’t remember mentioning this to Doug, only the fact of wanting to find her, or find out what happened to her. “I don’t know. I want to assume she was. I am, and my daughter is, and it’s beginning to look like my granddaughter has some ability. That’s something I would really love to know.”

  “That and why she left you?”

  Ruby reaches across the table and takes Doug’s hand in hers. Not as a psychic, but as someone who is growing fond of him. “Absolutely. I’ve lived with this mystery all my life and I’d like to solve it.”

  “When you get the results back from the DNA company, you should let them post them. There’s a whole world of people trying to find their relatives out there. Who knows, maybe she’s looking for you.”

  Isn’t that exactly what she has been hoping? “I’ve been hiding in plain sight, Doug. I can’t imagine that she couldn’t find me if she had wanted to.”

  Doug comes around to Ruby’s side of the picnic table. He sits beside her so that they are both facing the lake. The Hitchhiker takes stock of them and then wanders down to the water’s edge. Ruby waits for him to tell her that she was a runaway, with an assumed name and no permanent address—how could she be found when she worked so hard not to be? He doesn’t. They sit quietly like that for a moment until Doug slaps his knees, pushes to his feet. “Let’s take a walk.”

  There is a lot of food left and, as Doug is heading to his mother’s in Stockbridge for the rest of the week, Ruby has the leftovers. It’s too much for her tiny cooler fridge, so she thinks that maybe Bull would like a nice dinner of leftovers and she’ll keep what she can fit. She’s on her way to his back door when the mail truck shows up. She pauses. Watches as the lady mail carrier pulls down the door of the dented mailbox, leans through the mail truck window, and slides in a day’s worth of junk mail, bills, and, lordy, could it be? A white box.

  It’s not her mailbox. Ruby feels a bit sketchy to just help herself to Bull’s mail even if there is something in there for her. She’s always been a stickler for obeying the law, parking tickets, theft of personal property, and begging on the streets notwithstanding. It’s not the eighties anymore. She has scruples. She turns her back away from the mailbox and marches up Bull’s back steps. His bike is gone, as is Boy, so she braces herself and opens his unlocked back door.

  As unkempt as the outside of the house is, the inside is no surprise. A short hallway is more coat closet than passageway, coats of the Army/Navy variety hang from pegs. Boots and sneakers are kicked to the wall in a mismatched helter-skelter fashion. Entering the kitchen, she notes a massive old wood-fired range takes up most of one wall. It is piled high with all manner of things, papers, pots, a mitten. Ruby makes her way across to the yellow-hued fridge, not certain if it’s vintage seventies yellow, or just yellow from decades of Bull’s cigarette smoke. She hesitates before opening it, imagining all kinds of science experiments that lie behind that rusted door. Surprisingly, it is nearly empty. Cans of Mountain Dew and a single plastic container. She has plenty of room to insert her contribution to Bull’s nutrition.

  Ruby goes back outside to wait for Bull, sitting on the top step of his sagging back porch. The Hitchhiker joins her, staring off into space as if she is thinking deep thoughts. For fun, Ruby lays hands on the dog and listens to what’s going on in her head.

  “I could have enjoyed more meat.”

  “Maybe for dinner.”

  “Is there a cat nearby?”

  “Why do you ask?” This is interesting. Ruby looks around to see if there is a feline stalking the sparrows pecking at the leaf mold beneath the bushes.

  “You are quivering inside, like you want to chase something.”

  “Anticipation. That’s what that is called.”

  “Like hoping for a treat?”

  Ruby runs her hand down the length of the dog’s back, marveling at its softness. Marveling at the perceptive nature of this little beast. Marveling, most of all, at this gift of canine interpretation. That the concatenation of scent and sound and senses form such clear thoughts in her own mind and in that of the dog. “Yes, like hoping for a treat.” Ruby digs into her pocket and pulls out a Milk-Bone, fingers it into the dog’s mouth, and is rewarded by a wagging tail. Is there anything more gratifying?

  It is only a few minutes later when Bull pedals into the yard, his faithful yellow dog at his side. Ruby notes that the dog isn’t even panting, but his owner is. Ruby stands up. She holds back from running up to Bull, urging him to quick! quick! open his mailbox, extract that white box that she is certain will contain the DNA kit. Ruby makes herself calm down. In her whole life, t
his is as close as she has come to being a kid on Christmas morning. And this is only the first step, it’s going to be waiting for the results that will truly test her patience. The Hitchhiker knows that something is afoot, and she leaps and cavorts and yips as if she’s the one encouraging Bull to mosey over to the mailbox, never mind lighting up that cigarette, and pull out the mail.

  Bull finally notices Ruby standing there, eager-eyed. “Oh, hey, you check the mail?”

  “No. It’s not my box.”

  “So? You’re the only one around here expecting anything.”

  So much for scruples. Ruby dashes to the box, yanks open the dented door and pulls out the mail. Nestled in the valley of a folded grocery store flyer, there it is. Family History Labs.

  “That it?”

  “It is. Now what do I do?” Ruby surprises herself by saying that out loud.

  “Go stick a Q-tip in your mouth, I guess.” Bull does that coughing/laughing thing.

  Ruby studies the directions, pulls out the swab kit but doesn’t open the package. She holds the swab kit in her hand and wonders if it behaves like a crystal ball or more like tarot cards that look backward instead of forward. Is she falling for a different kind of fortune-telling than that which she has practiced for forty years or more? Will this little object give her any answers at all to her questions? Should she ask it not only what it sees in her past, but in her future? She shakes off the thought as a bit of a stretch. Focus. A good cheek scrub and a run to the post office and she’s done. Gone. Free to hit the road. Goodbye, Harmony Farms, hello … where? Ruby sets the kit down, pulls out her phone. Scrolls through her contacts looking for Joe Benini’s number and can’t find it. She could have sworn she’d saved it, but maybe not. She’ll have to hunt the carnival down online and hope that Joe meant it when he said she could set up with them. And if it doesn’t work out, then maybe she’ll do something else.

  * * *