Hot Dog (8 page)

“Now, see here,” said Aunt Rose. “I know you think that I'm the villain in this drama of yours, but I'm every bit the innocent bystander this puppy is.”

“I don't think so.” Aunt Peg's shoulders stiffened. “To begin with, you never should have accepted a dog as a donation in the first place. Having done so—once all the reasons why the notion was utter lunacy had been explained to you—you should have wasted no time in giving him back.”

Innocent bystander? Utter lunacy? Even for these two, this was a bit much. I heaved a windy sigh and got out the big guns.

“Did I mention I brought cake?”

Aunt Peg, whose sweet tooth was legendary, stopped mid-snarl and peered at my empty hands. “Where is it?”

“Out in the car. I saw Dox and got distracted . . .”

“You see? That's precisely what's going to happen—”

“Oh please,” Rose snorted. “Give me some credit—”

I held up a hand. To my surprise, it worked. Both women stopped talking.

“Both of you, take a deep breath,” I said. “And try to remember you're adults. I'll be right back.”

Leaving Dox with Rose, I ran back outside and fetched the sacrificial offering. When I returned, Aunt Peg had put the older Poodles out in the backyard. Zeke and Eve, whose coats would suffer in the hair-pulling games that were sure to ensue, remained inside with us.

Peg and Rose had moved into the kitchen, where Dox had joined the big black puppies on the floor. Aunt Peg was brewing tea. Rose and I, who preferred coffee, were, as was usually the case at Peg's house, out of luck.

“I can't imagine what Marian was thinking,” Aunt Peg said, when we'd all gotten settled around the table with a drink and a piece of cake. “I'm certain she knows better than to donate a puppy to a charity auction. What on earth would have made her behave that way?”

“Technically, she didn't,” Rose answered. “After we spoke, I looked it up in Peter's records. The receipt for the tax write-off was made out to George Firth, not Marian. Presumably that would be her husband?”

“Ex-husband.” Aunt Peg was a bottomless well when it came to dog show information of all kinds. “I believe they separated more than a year ago. Marian was the one who showed the Dachshunds, though, not George. They were definitely her dogs. I don't know what he would be doing with one of her puppies now.”

“Giving it away.” I paused to lick a forkful of mocha icing. “Maybe that's the point.”

A
unt Peg stared at me thoughtfully. “You know, that's not the dumbest thing you've ever said.”

“Thank you.” At this point in my life, I take compliments wherever I can find them. “How well do you know Mrs. Firth?”

“Not well,” Peg mused. “But I daresay we've crossed paths often enough that I could probably call her on the phone.”

Translated, that meant that Aunt Peg had watched Marian's Dachshunds win at prestigious shows and Marian had watched Aunt Peg's Poodles do the same. This had happened on enough occasions that both their credentials were established to everyone's satisfaction. The dog show world really is a very small place.

“Excuse me, would you?” Aunt Peg rose. “I think I'll go see what I can find out.”

While she was gone, I cut myself another piece of cake. A sliver, actually, so thin it barely counted at all. Aunt Rose watched me maneuver the skinny slice onto my plate with a benign expression.

“I thought Peg would calm down if she saw for herself that Dox was doing fine,” she said. “It doesn't seem to be working.”

The Dachshund puppy was lying under the table, a rubber chew toy clutched tightly between his short front legs. Perched outside the circle of chairs, both Poodles were keeping an eye on him, trying to figure out how the smallest dog had ended up with the best toy.

“You're not the home she's worried about,” I said. “It's what happens after the auction. Letting a puppy go to the highest bidder is like selling one as a Christmas present. People get so wrapped up in the excitement of the moment that they don't stop to think whether or not what they're doing is a good thing. Bringing a puppy into your house is a major commitment. For some people it involves a whole change of lifestyle.”

“Tell me about it,” Rose muttered.

I started to speak, then decided to keep eating instead. I was trying hard not to lecture, especially since every time I opened my mouth I heard Aunt Peg's words coming out. Rose and Peter had only recently returned to lower Fairfield County; getting on their case over an issue they clearly didn't understand was no way to welcome them back.

“Nobody invited you to finish the cake while I was gone,” Aunt Peg said from the doorway. She eyed our clean plates suspiciously, as if checking for evidence that we'd helped ourselves to seconds. “I've just spoken to Marian, who's apparently been beside herself with worry over little Dox. She was greatly relieved to discover his whereabouts.”

“Does she want him back?” I asked.

“Desperately, but he's not hers to take.” Peg marched over to the table and began to box the cake. “There's a juicy story there, and my guess is, Marian's dying to tell it. You and I—” this, not unexpectedly, was directed at me “—are expected shortly.”

“What about me?” asked Rose.

“What about you?” Peg inquired.

“I hate to bring this up—”

“Then don't.”

Rose sighed and continued. “I have to admit I may have had an ulterior motive in coming here today.”

I paused in the act of piling our dishes in the sink. If I had to jump between them on a moment's notice, I wanted to have my hands free.

“As Melanie has so graciously pointed out, taking care of a puppy is a big job. One that requires time and commitment, neither of which I happen to have in abundance. I know you're not entirely delighted about the circumstances that brought Dox into my life, but seeing as the auction is such a worthy cause, I was hoping you might be willing to overlook your misgivings. . . .”

It didn't take a genius to see where this was going, nor to realize that Aunt Peg was not going to react favorably.

“Don't tell me you expect me to take care of that puppy for you?” she asked incredulously.

“Only until the auction.”

As if that would smooth things over. Rose might as well have poured gasoline directly onto the fire that was smoldering in Aunt Peg's expression.

“You've already got a houseful of dogs. I hardly see how one more would make any difference.”

Standing beside the counter, I braced for the explosion. Aunt Peg's Poodles were all quite a bit older than Dox: housebroken, past the teething stage, beyond the need for a special diet and shots. Dox was a project. He was still enough of a baby to require someone to attend to his needs. In his case, one more would make a big difference.

Then I had a thought. Not necessarily a good one, mind you. But timely enough to keep one small Dachshund puppy from getting caught in the crossfire. I slipped between the two women and scooped Dox up into my arms.

“Why don't I take him home with me?” I suggested.

“What a wonderful idea.” Rose looked relieved.

“Have you lost your mind?” asked Peg.

“No.” I may have sounded a little defensive.

“You'll have to watch him every minute and make sure he doesn't chew on Eve's coat.”

“I can do that.”

“Are you going to take him to school with you, too?”

Good question. I had to admit, I hadn't considered that.

“Sure,” I said blithely. “Why not?”

There were a dozen good reasons, most of which Aunt Peg was intimately acquainted with, especially since when Eve had been this age, she'd been staying with Peg while I was at work.

“Thank you, dear.” Aunt Rose slipped her arms around my shoulders and pulled me into a hug. “You're a lifesaver.”

She picked up her purse and hurried from the room before I could change my mind. A moment later, Peg and I heard the front door slam.

“Lifesaver?” Peg snorted. “I think the word she was looking for was sucker.”

Yeah, probably. Times like this remind me of that biblical story about Moses and the bulrushes. The one where his mother put him in a basket and aimed him downstream toward a new family and a better life. I've often thought it was too bad my mother didn't have the same idea. It certainly would have saved on future complications where my relatives are concerned.

Grumbling the whole way, Aunt Peg trudged downstairs and found me a baby-sized crate in her basement. We tucked Dox inside, loaded my two Poodles in the car, and left to go visiting.

Considering the guest we brought with us, our welcome at Marian Firth's home in Ridgefield was all but assured. She opened her front door with a tentative smile, prepared to be gracious if not effusive. But the moment she caught sight of the little Dachshund, all that changed. Marian's face lit up. As if of their own accord, her hands shot forward to touch him.

“May I?” she asked.

“Of course.” I delivered the puppy into her arms.

Marian was slender and fragile looking, probably a year or two on either side of forty. Her skin was pale; her features, delicate. She looked like a strong wind would blow her over, but she hugged Dox to her fiercely. Her body seemed to fold in around him; her lower lip was quivering.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she crooned. “I'm so glad you're all right.”

“He's been fine,” I assured her. “A very nice woman has been keeping him. She calls him Dox.”

“Dox?” Marian looked up. “I wouldn't say that's terribly dignified.”

“She isn't a dog person,” Aunt Peg said. The explanation seemed to satisfy both of them. Peg performed the introductions, and we followed Marian inside.

Her house was small and obviously not new. Its walls and floors had a shabby, neglected look that provided an incongruous backdrop to the good furniture crammed into every available space. Three Dachshunds—Standards like Dox, two smooth, one wire-haired—came galloping out to say hello. They eddied around our legs like a canine whirlpool.

“Welcome to the dump,” Marian announced. Her body might have looked frail, but her voice was clear and strong. “As you can see, I got the short end of the stick in the divorce. George kept the Mercedes, the IRA, and most of the stock portfolio. I got my mother's furniture, an alimony payment that wouldn't support a gnat, and the dogs.

“Well,” she amended, setting Dox down to play with the other three on the floor, “most of them anyway. Do you mind telling me where the puppy . . . where Dox . . . has been for the last two weeks?”

Aunt Peg and I found seats on a long sofa upholstered in an ornate fabric that would have looked at home in Versailles. The coffee table by our legs was so highly polished I probably could have seen my face in it if it hadn't been piled high with dog books.

“He's been living for part of that time with my Aunt Rose,” I said. “Her husband, Peter, runs an Outreach program at the community center in Stamford. The two of them are putting together a benefit auction, and Peter's been soliciting high-ticket items from donors in the area.” I paused to let her take that in, then added. “Dox was donated to be one of the prizes.”

Aunt Peg harrumphed under her breath. “I'm quite certain you're not the one responsible for turning this lovely puppy into a tax write-off.”

Marian's face had blanched. She was shaking her head slowly from side to side as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. “”No, that would be George's doing. My husband . . . my ex-husband. Though even for him, that sounds rather incredible. But then, as I've discovered, divorce does things to people. It twists them around and turns them into monsters you barely even recognize.”

She paused and swallowed heavily. It took her a moment to get her emotions back in check. She used the time to glance at the Dachshunds, who were now lying on the floor at our feet. Marian smiled slightly; the sight seemed to give her strength.

“I always knew George was a strong, determined man,” she continued. “Tough as nails, you might say. But I never realized how petty, how vindictive, how downright mean he could be until I told him I wanted a separation. We were both adults, of course. And there weren't any children involved. I thought we could manage to keep things civil.

“Imagine, at one point I thought we might even be able to forgo the enormous lawyers' fees and simply go through mediation. Not George.” Marian's laugh was bitter. “He knew right from the start what a slugfest it was going to turn into.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

“For one thing, he immediately booked himself consultations with the dozen best divorce attorneys in Fairfield County. Of course, he never had any intention of hiring more than one. But once he'd spoken to each of them, they were unable to take me on as a client. It would have been a conflict, do you see? That was his way of insuring that he'd get topnotch representation and I wouldn't.”

One of the Dachshunds got up and came over to sniff my leg, checking out the Poodles' scent. I reached down and ran a hand down the long length of his back. The dog's body was sleek and hard-packed with muscle.

“He sounds like a bum,” Aunt Peg said decisively. “I can't say that I remember seeing him at any dog shows. Should I?”

“No, George had no interest in the Dachshunds. If he'd had his way, the Tulip Tree line would have died when my mother did. Weekend dog shows conflicted with his golf game. I don't think he ever came to a single one.”

“How did he end up with one of your puppies?” I asked.

“For that you'll have to blame an attorney with more education than morals, a well-meaning judge, and a judicial system that hasn't a clue what's at stake in disputes that involve animals. George didn't want my dogs. He didn't even
like
my dogs. But what he wanted to do was hurt me. So he went after Primadonna.”

Aunt Peg nodded. Presumably she'd heard of the dog.

Not me. I had a life.

“Who's Primadonna?” I asked.

“That's her right there.” Marian gestured toward the Dachshund who was now sitting beside me. Realizing we were talking about her, the elegant red bitch lifted her head and tipped it to one side. “She's the best dog the Tulip Tree line ever produced, arguably one of the best I've ever seen.”

Aunt Peg nodded again. It was all the encouragement Marian needed.

“I never gave her a big career,” she said. “Point chasing and year-end awards don't impress me much. But Donna finished her championship with four majors, including one at our national specialty where she was Best of Winners over a huge entry. I might have specialed her more, but she came along just as my marriage was falling apart. George made sure I was too preoccupied to go to many shows. Even so, Donna became a group and specialty Best in Show winner.”

“I'm impressed,” I said.

“Yes,” Marian agreed. “George's attorney was, too. Even though he barely had any idea what it all meant. When it came time to divide our assets, he placed an absurdly high value on Donna and her potential progeny. The whole thing was patently ridiculous. Any responsible breeder will tell you that breeding dogs is more likely to make you broke than rich.”