Crazy For You

Her destiny was a small black dog with desperate eyes, so she missed the significance at first.

She didn’t miss anything else. The dog that her favorite art student held out to her was the canine equivalent of an exposed nerve: wiry black body, skinny white legs, narrow black head, all of it held together with so much tension that the poor baby shuddered with it. It looked cold and scared and hungry and anxious as it struggled in Thea’s arms, and Quinn’s heart broke. No animal should ever look like that.

“Oh.”
Quinn rose on the word and went toward Thea while Bill groaned and said, “Not another one.”

“I found it in the parking lot.” Thea put the dog down on the floor in front of Quinn. “I knew you’d know what to do.”

“Come on, baby.” Quinn crouched in front of it, not too near, not too far, and patted the floor. “Come here, sweetie. Don’t be scared. It’s all right now. I’ll take care of you.”

The dog trembled even harder, jerking its head from side to side. Then it made a dash for the nearest door, which, unfortunately for it, was the storeroom.

“Well, that’ll make it easier to trap and catch,” Bill said, his tone as cheerful and sure as always. It was always a beautiful day in the neighborhood for Bill, a man who’d taken the Tibbett High football team to five consecutive championships and the baseball team to four—fifth one coming right up—almost solely, Quinn believed, by never considering the possibility of defeat. “Know where you want to be and go there,” he’d tell the boys, and they would.

Quinn decided she wanted to be someplace else, with a pizza, but she had to comfort this dog and get rid of Bill before she could go there. She crawled on her hands and knees to the door, trying to look nonthreatening. “Now look, dogs like me,” she said in her best come-to-mama voice as the dog cowered against a carton of oaktag at the back of the narrow storeroom. “You’re missing a good deal here. Really, I’m famous for this. Come on.” She moved a little closer, still on her hands and knees, and the dog peeled its eyes back.

“I suppose you had to do this,” Bill said to Thea good-naturedly, and Quinn felt equally annoyed with him and guilty about misleading him. “No more dogs,” he’d said the last time she’d rescued a stray. “You don’t have to save them all.” And she’d nodded at him to acknowledge that she’d heard him, and he’d taken it as agreement, and she’d let him take it that way because it was easier, no point in creating a problem she’d just have to turn around and fix.

And now here she was, cheating on him with a mixed breed.

She looked into the dog’s eyes again.
It’s going to be all right. Ignore what the big blond guy says.
The dog relaxed away from the box a little and looked at her with caution instead of terror in its worried little eyes. Progress. If she had another ten hours and a ham sandwich, it might even come to her on its own.

“You’re not bringing it home with you, right?” Bill loomed behind her, cutting off the afternoon light that came dimly through the wall of windows and casting a shadow over her so that the dog shrank back again, anxious at the darkness. It wasn’t Bill’s fault that he was huge, but he could at least notice that he cast considerable shade wherever he went.

“Because we’re not allowed to have dogs in our apartment.” Bill’s voice was patient as he went on, a teacher’s voice, telling her what she already knew, guiding her to form the correct conclusion.

My conclusion is that you‘re patronizing me.
“Somebody has to rescue strays and find them homes,” Quinn said without looking behind her.

“Exactly,” Bill said. “Which is why we pay taxes to support Animal Control. Why don’t I go call them—”

“
The pound
?” Thea’s voice was full of horror.

“They don’t kill them all,” Bill said. “Just the sick ones.”

Quinn looked behind her and met Thea’s disbelieving eyes.
Yep,
Quinn wanted to tell her,
he really believes that.
Instead, she patted the floor again. “Come here, baby. Come on.”

“Honey.” Bill put his hand on her shoulder. “Come on, get up.”

If she shrugged his hand off her shoulder, he’d be hurt, and that wasn’t fair. “I’m okay,” Quinn said.

Bill moved his hand, and Quinn let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

“I’ll just call—”

“Bill.” Quinn kept her voice as friendly as she could. “Go finish in the weight room so I can do this. I’ll be home at six.”

Bill nodded, radiating tolerance and support in spite of her illogical resistance to Animal Control. “Sure. I’ll go warm up the car for you and bring it to the door first.” He patted her shoulder and said, “You stay here,” as if she’d been planning to follow him, and after he left, she could picture him crunching his way across the icy parking lot toward her CRX as if slipping weren’t a possibility. It probably wasn’t for him; Vikings loved ice, and at six foot five, two hundred and forty-three healthy blond pounds, Bill was a Viking’s Viking. All of Tibbett adored Bill, a coach in a million, but Quinn was beginning to have doubts.

And it was so unfair of her to have doubts. She knew he’d warm the car for her, first opening the door with his key instead of hers, which was another thing about him that bothered her, that he’d had that key cut without her permission two years ago when they’d first begun to date. But since he’d had the key cut so he could keep her gas tank filled, it was completely illogical that she should be annoyed. It was wrong to complain about a man who was unfailingly clean, generous, considerate, protective, understanding, and successful, and who’d shelled out hundreds of dollars in fossil fuel for her since 1997. Really, the dumbass was the perfect man.

Quinn looked at the dog again and said, “As soon as I get you out of this storeroom, I’m taking a serious look at my love life.”

Thea said, “What?” but even before she finished the word, Quinn was shaking her head.

“Never mind. You don’t have any food in that bag, do you? I know I could just go in and grab it, but it’s so scared, I’d rather it came to me on its own.”

“Wait.” Thea fished around in the huge leather bag she carried everywhere and came up with half a granola bar.

“Granola,” Quinn said. “What the hell.” She unwrapped it and broke off a piece and slid it across the floor to the dog. It shrank back and then edged forward, its little black nose quivering. “It’s good,” Quinn whispered, and the dog took it delicately.

“What a nice little dog,” Thea whispered beside her, and Quinn nodded and put another piece on the floor, this one closer to them. The dog edged forward to take it, keeping its eyes on them just in case they did anything anti-dog, big dark liquid eyes that said to Quinn,
Help me, save me, fix my life.

“Come on, sweetie,” Quinn whispered, and the dog came closer for the next piece.

“Almost,” Thea breathed, and the dog sat down in front of them, still wary but calmer as it chewed the granola.

“Hi,” Quinn said. “Welcome to my world.”

The dog tilted its head, and its little black whip of a tail began to dust the floor. It had one white eyebrow, Quinn noticed, and four white socks, and the tip of its tail was white, too, as if it had been dipped in paint.

“I’m going to pick you up,” Quinn told it. “No fast moves.” She reached out and picked it up gently as it cowered back a little, and then she sat down so she could hold it in her lap. She gave it the last of the granola, and it relaxed and chewed again as she stroked its back. “Really a sweet little dog,” she told Thea and smiled for the first time since Bill had walked in the room. Another problem solved.

“Car’s here,” Bill said from the doorway, making the dog jump. “Now you can take it to Animal Control on your way to pizza.”

Quinn patted the dog and counted her blessings. She was
lucky
to have Bill; after all, she could have ended up with somebody difficult to live with, somebody like her father, who lived for ESPN, or her ex-brother-in-law, who was con-genitally incapable of commitment. Nick would have dumped her after a year and moved on from boredom, which was a lousy reason to dump anybody. If it hadn’t been, she would have left Bill long ago.

“It’s out on the old highway,” Bill said. “Past the old drive-in.”

Quinn smiled at Thea. “You did good, thanks for the granola.” She stood up, still cuddling the dog, and Bill picked up her coat.

“Put that thing down,” he said and held her coat for her.

Quinn passed the dog over to Thea and let Bill help her shrug into her coat.

“Don’t stay too long with Darla,” he said and kissed her cheek again, and she moved past him to take the dog back, wanting the warmth of its wiry little body in her arms. It looked up at her anxiously, and she said, “We’re fine, don’t worry.”

Bill walked them to the door and then outside into the cold March wind, holding Quinn’s car door open for her while she asked Thea, “You need a ride?”

Thea said, “Nope. See you tomorrow.” She hesitated, casting a wary eye at Bill and added, “Thanks, McKenzie.”

“My pleasure,” Quinn said, and Thea started off across the ice to the student lot as Quinn slid into the driver’s seat.

“You are going to take it to Animal Control, right?” Bill said as he held her door open.

Quinn turned away. “I’ll see you later.” She pulled the door shut and Bill sighed as if his worst suspicions had been confirmed. She looked down at the dog now standing tensely on her lap, and said, “You know, you’re messing up my day,” in her most friendly voice.
Nothing wrong here, nothing at all, everything’s fine in this car, especially if you’re a dog.
“I was supposed to meet Darla for pizza at three-thirty, and now I’m late. You weren’t part of my plan.”

The dog’s eyes were bright, almost interested, and Quinn smiled because it looked so smart. “I bet you are smart,” she said. “I bet you’re the smartest dog around.”

The dog folded its bony little butt onto her lap, wrapping its white-tipped tail around it as it cocked its head at her.

“Very cute.” She stroked its shiny smooth coat, feeling how cold it was, no insulation to keep a body warm, and the dog shuddered under her hand, all sinew and muscle and tension. Quinn unbuttoned her coat and wrapped it around the trembling little body until only its head poked out, and it sighed against her and snuggled into her heat. The snuggle was immensely gratifying—a solid, simple, physical
thank you,
no strings attached—and Quinn let herself enjoy the pleasure of the moment even though she knew it wasn’t hers to have. Bill would be upset if he saw her, telling her she could get bit or fleas or God knew what, but Quinn knew this dog wouldn’t bite, and it was too cold for fleas. Probably.

“It’s okay,” she said, looking down into the dog’s dark, grateful eyes. It pushed its head under her coat, looking for more warmth and safety, and Quinn felt herself relax completely for the first time that day. Teaching art was never easy—-days full of X-Acto knife cuts and spilled paint and officious principals and artistic despair—and lately she’d been tenser than usual, a little depressed, as if something was
wrong
and she wasn’t fixing it. But now as she cuddled the dog closer and it dug one of its bony little knees into her stomach, she felt better.

“What a sweetie you are,” she whispered into her coat.

Bill rapped on the window, making the dog jerk its head out, and Quinn exhaled through her teeth before she rolled it down. “What?”

“I was just thinking,” Bill said, and then he looked down and saw the dog inside her coat. “Is that a good idea?”

“Yes,” Quinn said. “What were you just thinking?”

“You’re going to be late for pizza with Darla anyway,” Bill said, “so it makes sense to take it to Animal Control now so that a lot of people will see it sooner. It’ll find a home faster that way.”

Quinn imagined the little dog shivering on a cold concrete floor, trapped and alone and afraid behind thick steel bars, doubly betrayed because she’d promised it warmth. She looked down into its dark, dark eyes again. Somebody had thrown this darling little dog away. It wasn’t going to happen again.
I will not betray you.

“Be practical, Quinn.” Bill sounded sympathetic but firm. “Animal Control is a clean, warm place.”

Her coat was a clean, warm place, too, but that would be a childish thing to say. Okay, she couldn’t keep the dog, that wouldn’t be practical, she had to give it to somebody, but there was no way in hell it was going to Animal Control. So who?

The dog looked at her with trusting eyes. Almost adoring eyes, really. Quinn smiled down at it. She needed to find somebody kind, somebody calm, somebody she trusted absolutely. “I’ll give it to Nick,” she told Bill.

“Nick does not want a dog,” Bill said. “Animal Control—”

“We don’t know that.” Quinn cuddled the dog closer. “He owns his apartment over the service station so he won’t have a landlord problem. I bet he’d like this dog.”

“Nick is not going to take this dog,” Bill said firmly, and Quinn knew he was right. As Darla had once pointed out, the best way to describe Nick was tall, dark, and detached from humanity. She was grasping at a particularly weak straw if she thought Nick was going to put himself out for a dog.