Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (28 page)

I glanced over to see if Billy was appreciating the full impact of Mrs. Hanratty’s words
about the glories of his dog,
only to discover he wasn’t paying any attention at all. In fa
ct, none of the four men, Billy,
his two war-injured pals and Sam, were paying attention
to the class
. Sam had squatted in front of them, and they all seemed engrossed in a very serious conversation.
Then Billy said something I couldn’t hear from where I stood, and the man who’d lost an arm and an eye shook his head. Billy said something else, and Sam put his hand on one of his arms. Billy appeared frustrated, and the fellow who’d lost both legs
said something
. Billy frowned.

Darn it! What was going on
over t
here?

“Mrs. Majesty? Are you
still
with us?”

Startled, I jerked to attention. Mrs. Hanratty was watching me as if she
were
disappointed that her
favorite
student had allowed her mind to stray from the important stuff. I could feel myself blush, which was embarrassing.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hanratty. Yes indeedy. I’m here and ready to go.” I straightened and decided
to heck with the men
.

I was somewhat
distracted for the duration of the class that day, though, and I can’t deny it.
The one hour of the week
during which I genera
lly relaxed and had a good time
had been spoiled
, and all because of that darned secret male conclave
. It
had
looked to me as though Sam and Billy
, and maybe the other two war relics,
we
re cooking up something. If they were, I knew I wasn’t going to like it,
and that worried me more than Sam finding out about the poisoned-pen letters.

Spike, however, remained blissfully unaware of any undercurrents of tension on my part. Or maybe he was aware
of
my anxiety and didn’t allow it to distract him. I do
recall
that he looked up and frowned at me a couple of times, which he generally didn’t do. I know, I know. Dogs can’t frown. Try telling that to Spike.
He
could frown, and he did it that day. It was as if he were telling me to pay attention to the matter at hand and let things I couldn’t affect one way or another go
chase themselves
for the nonce. Do you think I was, perhaps, projecting?
Or do you believe, as I do, that dogs are superior forms of animal life? I don’t suppose it matters one way or the other.

Whether Spike caught my mood or not, he performed beautifully. When I told him, “Spike, lie down,” he flattened himself out on the grass like nobody’s business. When I dropped the leash and said, “Stay,” then walked away from him, he stayed right where he was
and didn’t move a muscle
. I could feel his beady little doggie eyes on me until Mrs. Hanratty gestured for me t
o stop walking and turn around. Spike was still there, splat
on his tummy, in spite of Fluffy and a cocker spaniel named Buddy frolicking around gaily
nearby
. Not only that, but
Hamlet
, a great Dane,
now stood
over Spike and
sniffed
his butt while his owner tried and tried to drag him away. I
’m
pretty
sure
Hamlet
weighed more than his owner
, who was maybe ten years old
. Talk about concentration! I could have taken lessons from
Spike
.

I have to admit to being a trifle alarmed when I realized how much commotion was going on in the field of action, yet Spike lay there and stared at me, willing to sacrifice not merely play, but even his life—if Hamlet had been an ill-natured great Dane instead of a big baby—rather than move before I gave him the order to move.

Mrs. Hanratty evidently noticed
my
startled expression, because she said, “It’s perfectly all right, Mrs. Majesty. Hamlet
is only a puppy and
won’t harm Spike, and the other dogs are no threat. Spike is doing beautifully. You may call him to you now.”

You can bet I did! And quick. I shouted, “Spike, come!” and Spike shot out from under Hamlet’s nose as if he couldn’t do so fast enough. Unfortunately for Hamlet’s owner, Hamlet took it into his head to lope
off
after Spike, thinking, I presume, that this was some sort of game.
Naturally, his owner came with him, because he wasn’t big enough not to. Hamlet dragged the poor boy on his
stomach
all the way across the grass, haring after Spike as if Spike
was
game and he was a mighty
hunter. As
soon as Spike got within scooping distance, I scooped him up. Not that I believed Hamlet would do anything nasty to my dog
, since he mainly seemed big, clumsy and friendly
, but I didn’t want to take any chances. He was
huge
.
Puppy, my foot.

Mrs. H
anratty walked over to Spike, Hamlet,
Hamlet’s owner and me. “You know, Tommy, it might be better if your father were to stay with you during
these
classes. Old Hamlet here needs a
slightly
firmer hand.”

“I’m really sorry,” said Tommy. He sounded as if he might cry. “I’m practicing with him all the time. Honest, I am.”

“I’m sure that’
s
so, dear,” said Mrs. Hanratty
, oozing sympathy
. “But classes are different.
At home, you’re alone with your dog. In class, t
he dogs can become distracted with so many other canines around. Is your father here?”

“I’m here,” came a grumbly voice from behind Tommy. Mr. Tommy appeared
as
embarrassed
by Hamlet’s unruly behavior as was Tommy
.

Mrs.
Hanratty discussed with him the advisability of him helping Tommy in future classes, and Mr. Tommy said he thought that was a good idea.

“I’m real sorry, Mrs. Majesty,” said Tommy. “I just couldn’t hold him.”

“I understand, Tommy,” I said. “I was
only
a little worried about Spike.” I glanced from the dog in my arms to the great Dane now being held by the leash by Mr. Tommy, and shook my head
.
Hamlet’s gigantic head was about level with Spike’s—and I was holding Spike!
“Boy, you’d never know
the two of them
belonged to the same species, would you?”

“I don’t think they do,” said Mr. Tommy, sounding crabby. “Your dog comes from the species of good dogs, and Hamlet comes from the species of idiots.”

I laughed and said, “I think you’re being too hard on him. Dogs are smart. Hamlet knows he outweighs Tommy. Once you take him firmly in hand, he’ll obey both of you, I’m sure.”

“Precisely,”
hooted
Mrs. Hanratty. “I was just going to say the same thing.”

Mr. Tommy sighed. “All right. I have to be here anyway. Might as well join in the fun.”

“Thanks, Pa,” said Tommy, and I got the feeling his father’s capitulation to Mrs. Hanratty’s suggestion was a relief to him.

At any rate, Spike won top honors
at Pasanita
that day. You’ve got to admire a dachshund who isn’t intimidated by a looming great Dane.

The Hamlet incident
successfully diverted my attention
from whatever my husband and his friends had been plotting,
and that was probably a good thing. When
the class was over, all four men applauded as Spike swaggered over to them. I guess they’d watched the day’s final exam, because Billy was grinning from ear to ear, the other wounded soldiers were smiling, and even Sam had an expression of approval on his face. Boy, I didn’t see that expression aimed at me very often!

But wait. It wasn’t aimed at me. It was fixed firmly on Spike. It figured.

Chapter Fifteen

Sam
stayed
for
dinner that night. No surprise there. What surprised me was that he remained civil to me for the entire rest of the day. My nerves began to skip like Mexican jumping beans by the time we all sat down to Vi’s superb Boston baked beans, which she served with Polish sausages and coleslaw. Pa said the sausages and coleslaw weren’t authentic Massachusetts chow, but I don’t think anyone minded that. I know I’d rather have a Polish sausage than a hunk of brown bread. Not that brown bread is icky or anything, but there’s just something about a good sausage, you know?

Naturally, we talked about Spike’s spectacular behavior during class that day.

“A great Dane, eh?” Pa looked down with wonder upon my precious pooch. Well, technically, Spike was Billy’s precious pooch, but I figured he was what
the lawyers
called community property.
“You’re really something, Spike.”

“He is, isn’t he?” I said, happy to hear praise heaped upon Spike’s head.

“It’s a good thing that other dog didn’t have murder on its mind,” said Sam. “Spike wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

I bridled. I would. “I’m not so sure about that. I’m sure Spike would be good in a fight.”

Sam shrugged. “Wouldn’t matter if he was a dachshund Hercules if he was pitted against a great Dane. The Dane might have lost a kneecap, but I doubt that Spike could triumph in the end.”

“That’s a dismal thing to say,” I told him.

“Sorry.” Sam didn’t sound the least bit sorry.

“Say,” said Billy
.

I was glad he’d interrupted, or Sam and I might have exchanged heated words, and Ma and Aunt Vi would have scolded me. Oh, boy. I, a married woman, still being scolded by my mother and my aunt. I regretted the cozy cottage Billy and I had once intended to live in even more than usual that evening.

“Do dogs have kneecaps?” Billy finished his thought.

There was a lot of looking at each other going on for a minute or so before anyone spoke. “Do dogs have knees?” I asked, curiosity having pushed my annoyance with Sam out of my mind for the moment, even though I still resented him having killed off Spike during the fictitious battle with the fictitious great Dane.

“I don’t know,” said Ma. She appeared quite baffled.

“Perhaps you can ask a veterinarian,” said aunt Vi.

“Is there a veterinarian in Pasadena?” I asked. It would probably be a good idea to find out if there was one, since Spike might get sick one day, God forbid.

“I think so,” said Billy. “Maybe someone at the humane society would know about knees on dogs.”

He and I both looked at Sam,
who
had mentioned the humane society once already that day.

“Don’t ask me,” he said. “The only dealings I ever have with the folks from the humane society is when a dog or a cat is owned by someone affected by a crime. Then they send someone out to pick up the animal. I never thought to ask about dogs having knees or kneecaps.”

“Then why’d you say Spike might deprive a great Dane of a kneecap if they got into a fight?” I challenged him, feeling feisty on Spike’s behalf, although I’m not sure why except that Sam always seemed to get my goat.

He rolled his eyes which, naturally, peeved me. “It was only an example. A stupid one. Spike might be able to bit
e
a great Dane’s foot before the Dane chomped him in half. Is that better?”

“No, it’s not better!” I cried indignantly. “I don’t want anything to happen to Spike. Ever.”

Sam mumbled something
I didn’t catch
into his baked beans.

Ma said, “Daisy, really.” See what I mean?

Pa laughed. “You’ll never get her to admit any dog is better in any way than Spike, Sam, so you might as well give it up. Maybe Spike would turn out to be a David, and the supposed great Dane would be Goliath.” He turned to me. “You like that scenario better, sweetie?”

Now I felt foolish. But I said, “Yes, I do,” because I figured I should.

“I don’t know why we talk about half the things we end up talking about at dinner,” Ma complained. “I should think dog fighting too disgusting
a topic
to discuss at the table.”

“You’re right, Mrs. Gumm,” said Sam. “Sorry I brought it up.”

“You didn’t bring it up,” said Ma,
peering at me. “Daisy did.”

There was no way out. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s a great article about Egypt in this month’s
National Geographic
,
” Billy said hopefully.

You can see why I loved the man. Even though he’d gone through hell and come back singed, he still did his best to protect me. What’s more, his ploy worked, and we all enjoyed a spirited discussion
about
Egyptian exploration
.
M
ost of us said we’d love to go to Egypt one day and see the pyramids and the sphinx and so forth. As if that would ever happen.