Hound Dog & Bean (14 page)

H.D.
FLEW
in the front door of Four-Footed Friends like he was being chased, and Elaine pulled off her glasses and stepped around the front counter. “You okay?” she asked.

“Huh? What?” he asked, the weirdest look on his face.

“What’s wrong?” She tilted her head and examined him closer. She was a little unprepared for what she saw. He was wearing a pair of jeans that were so worn they were practically tissue paper, and while they weren’t any of his low riders (for once), his shirt was so short she could see a thin line of tummy. She could also see something else. Something that left nothing to the imagination. She was a woman who was ready for almost anything life decided to present. Seeing the clear impression of her gay friend’s erection was something she wasn’t prepared for.

No wonder he’s so popular with the boys
.

H.D.’s brows came together for an instant, then relaxed. “Nothing!” He waved his hands through the air. “Not a thing. What could be wrong?”

Elaine wasn’t buying it, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good to say anything more. H.D. would talk if and when he was ready.

She nodded once and returned to her desk, which was really not much more than a drafting stool pulled up to a larger section of counter. The storefront wasn’t huge, and they had both decided to forego offices so they could make better use of the small rooms that led off the hall, which ran straight to the back door. There was a socializer room, where they could find out if a potential adopter and adoptee were compatible. It was furnished comfortably, to give the feel of a room in someone’s home. It helped to see what a dog thought of such a setting as well.

Across from that was the dog counseling room (although it served for any animal). They thought of it as the “good-bye room.” It was where they would sit with someone who brought in an animal they couldn’t keep anymore. It was a cheery room, painted bright yellow with pictures of people with huge smiles holding their new dogs and cats. Anything to help because the room saw a lot of tears.

There was the room where their part-time and mostly volunteer vet came in to see animals. With only the two of them working full time and Elaine having the vehicle—a van for when she actually went to pick up an animal herself—they often couldn’t get a dog or cat to a vet on their own. She and H.D. had a love/hate relationship with the room. Yes, it was a place where many an animal had been helped. A place where they could give vaccinations and do chipping, as well as treat less serious injuries. But it was also a room where life ended. They were a no-kill animal shelter, but in some ways that was a misnomer. Sometimes there was no other choice. Just last week a woman had brought in a small dog she had clipped with her car. She was near hysterical, asking them to save the dog, but it was only holding on by the proverbial thread and was in horrible pain. They had all been crying when that last breath came. The needle had at least made it happen fast.

Most of the rest of the building was for supplies and the few kennels they had. It was rare for them to have even ten dogs or cats. Most of those were animals recovering from spaying and neutering—Four-Footed Friends wouldn’t adopt out a cat or dog who wasn’t ready to go out into the world. Luckily, they had lots of volunteer foster homes, and better, Missouri didn’t require foster “parents” to have a license like Kansas. It was their philosophy that animals should be kept with real people in real homes whenever possible rather than be locked in pens or cages, especially alone and overnight.

H.D. was pacing the small area in front of the counter. Elaine tried to keep her eyes on her paperwork, pretending she didn’t see his agitation. “Sarah Jane with Mrs. Rosenberg again?” Changing the subject was the best way to see if her friend wanted to talk.

“Uh, yeah,” he answered, then came around the counter himself and sat down at the student’s desk he’d found on a curb after a neighborhood-wide garage sale. It wasn’t pretty, but it had all its drawers.

“Don’t let Mrs. Rosenberg fall too deeply in love, H.D. She just doesn’t have the resources to take care of a dog, especially one as frisky as Sarah Jane.”

“You mean one as opinionated as our little woman?”

“That too,” she said, and put her glasses back on. Little woman? It sounded like H.D. was the one getting attached. She shrugged inwardly. Why not? H.D. would be a perfect match for the little mixed dog. Right now, though, she had other concerns. She had some paperwork from Symmetry Innovations to examine. Four-Footed Friends made barely enough money to keep afloat, and she was hoping they’d come through the next year. Four-Footed Friends had somehow always managed before, she and H.D. figuring out ways to get the capital they needed. Hell, the owner of the Symmetry, Wagner Enterprises—along with an angel appropriately named Gabriel Richards—gave them money with the promise that should Four-Footed Friends ever get out of the red, they would give a percentage of their earnings back. But by the time expenses were paid—and they could be exorbitant when a sick animal was brought in—and salaries paid (that almost made Elaine laugh), there was little to no money left.

She didn’t know why the mysterious and enigmatic Peter Wagner kept helping them, but she was glad he did. No. She was ecstatic—with a heaping helping of grateful. So few people really cared about animals. They figured in a world with war and disease and who knows what else, the life of a poor dog or cat (or rabbit or a tortoise) meant little or nothing. She’d been laughed out of places where she’d gone asking for funding.

So many people couldn’t understand the plight of an animal. They didn’t see them as real true living
beings
. People would rush out and buy a dog because they saw a movie like
Beverly Hills Chihuahua
, and the Chihuahuas looked so cute. But when it came to really taking care of them—holding them in their hearts, loving them—the owner was often unprepared for the responsibility. They might not be the kind of scum that abused a cat or dog—and there were plenty of people out there who were—but there was still the very real abuse of neglect. It was quite common that soon after adopting one, people would get bored with a pet and get rid of it. Cute was one thing, taking care of an animal was another.

“Dogs and cats were deliberately domesticated by humans and thereby made dependent on us,” she had been known to say on more than one occasion (perhaps a few thousand?). “How can we possibly justify not exercising a full measure of responsibility toward creatures we essentially created?”

Animals needed love as much as people did. Animals
were
people. Why wasn’t it obvious considering the amount of unconditional love they gave back?

Make fun of Sarah McLachlan or Phil Collins or Cyan Carrington all you want for doing those ASPCA commercials, but every time Elaine heard that song, “Angel,” she was reduced to tears and reaching for the phone. Then she would be forced to remind herself that the money was better spent, in her case, on Four-Footed Friends. And yet… for as little as eighteen dollars a month….

“Hey, Elaine?”

“Hmmm?” She turned the paperwork over to the next page. Then without looking up said, “Oh, are you done with that list for licenses for our foster homes?” The state line was mere miles away, and some of their foster homes were in Kansas. That meant each and every one had to be licensed individually. It was ridiculous. Probably also the reason why they didn’t have nearly as many fosters on the Kansas side.

“I’m on it.”

“We don’t want to get in trouble and have a pet pulled away from anyone.”

“I’m on it!”

Elaine looked at him over the top of her glasses. “Boy, you’re grumpy this morning.”

He grimaced at her. “As a matter of fact, I was having a nice morning until….” His voice petered out.

She continued to look at him, but again, H.D. said nothing. It was like fishing. Wait. Wait for them to bite.

“It’s this Bean guy from next door….”

Well… not
quite
next door. “The one you got punched out?” Tug on the line the tiniest little bit and…

H.D. jumped to his feet. “It wasn’t my fault. It was the fucktard Brubaker.”

She made a face. Keep fishing. Tug on the line a little bit more. Divert his attention a bit. “H.D. You know I hate it when you use that word. Not only is it politically incorrect, it is also insensitive to people with—”

“Elaine! I… I kissed him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Brubaker?”

“Of course not! Bean! I… I made a
date
with him! I
think
it was a date.”

Bingo!
She tried not to smile. Hound Dog made a date? He never went on a date. She wasn’t sure she had
ever
even once known him to go on a date. Picked up men at bars, yes. At convenience stores. Ducked into the bushes with them at Liberty Memorial. He had picked up a man at a funeral they’d both gone to lately. Not just any man either. The minister.

But a date?

She pulled off her glasses and sat back on her stool. Waited.

H.D. gulped visibly. “I don’t know how it happened. I just offered to make him dinner, you know?
Make
him dinner. Not drop by with Chinese takeout and for a fuck. What the hell am I supposed to do? I didn’t even realize what I’d done until I kissed him.”

H.D. grabbed his dreadlocks and pulled until he scowled.

“Those don’t come out, you know,” she said impassively.

He gave a grunt and plopped back into his seat.

“Honey, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“What you always say.” He sighed. “The right thing. You always say the right thing.”

“No pressure, huh?” she asked.

“You thrive under pressure.” He moaned and then looked at her through a fall of those dreadlocks. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, and then they both burst into laughter.

“So you kissed him?” She propped an elbow on the counter and rested her chin in her upturned hand.

The look on his face was one of total bewilderment. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t even know why.”

“I thought you
liked
kissing.”

“I do.” He sat up straight. “When I’m fucking. But not just… to kiss someone. I hardly kiss
you
.”

“And that’s pretty platonic. Was this platonic?”

He rolled his eyes with great exaggeration. “I don’t know. It wasn’t a big kiss. Hardly even a peck.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

He shrugged. “I… I’m worried that he wants something more than I do.”

“Why? What makes you say that? Has he said something?”

H.D. groaned. “He doesn’t seem like a one-night stand kind of guy, you know? He seems like the kind that wants to get to
know
me.”

Hmmmmm
… she thought. H.D. didn’t like people to know him. It was a sign of the Apocalypse that he had let
her
in.

“I mean, I don’t
know
him….” H.D. said without waiting for a reply. “Dammit! Was I high?”

“I don’t know. Were you?” She wouldn’t put it past him. He’d come in to FFF on more than once occasion smelling of pot. He wasn’t a constant user, but he didn’t say no if it was offered.

“Elaine. I met him yesterday, and last night I was taking care of him.”

She nodded solemnly. Didn’t say anything.
Let him talk
.

“And I just now stopped by his shop and wound up helping carry these friggin’ heavy bags of coffee beans. And then I kissed him. I don’t even know what came over me.”

Curiouser and curiouser. But hardly something to call the
Kansas City Chronicle
about. Or even Dan Savage.
“Okay. First. Take a breath.” Out of all the things they had ever talked about, dating wasn’t one of them. Men were a mere convenience to H.D. A means to a goal, which usually was getting off.

He nodded.

“I said take a breath.”

“Okay! Jeez!” He took a breath.

“A deep one.”

He rolled his eyes again but did as bid.

“So you say it wasn’t a big kiss?” Now efficient Elaine was kicking in. She could do this.

H.D. shook his head quickly. “No. Like I said. Just a peck.”

Now she nearly rolled
her
eyes, but fought the urge.
Don’t diminish this or he’ll never open up again
.

They looked into each other’s eyes. And she saw something else she wasn’t ready for. This kiss—peck though it may only have been—had clearly disturbed her friend. If the kiss were innocent, why was he so worked up?

“I don’t know,” he replied. Because didn’t he always know what she was thinking?

“Okay,” she said. “Hormones. That’s what it is. And it’s spring. Who isn’t horny in the spring?”

He opened his mouth, and she held up a hand.

“You haven’t been laid in at least a week—”

He opened his mouth once again, and she shushed him once more with a slash of her hand.

“You’re going to go on that date. Then you’re going to jump his bones. And then you’re going to forget all about him. Right?”

For the third time he opened his mouth and before he could say anything she barked, “Right?”

He gave a single nod. For a moment she thought he’d salute.

H.D. smiled. “Thanks, Elaine. I knew I could count on you.”

“Stiff upper lip,” she said.

“Stiff something!” His smile broadened into a grin.

Elaine turned back to her work, keeping her smile hidden. Because of course she hadn’t meant a word of her advice.

B
EAN
HAD
picked up a bag of charcoal that already had the lighter fluid in it on the way home, along with a couple of bottles of wine. The guy at the liquor store had suggested a Castle Rock Pinot Noir, which surprised him because it was a red. But the seller was sure of himself. Told him it was a very flexible wine and went incredibly well with salmon. Then to make Bean feel better, he recommended a viognier. “This one,” he was told, “is a heady wine with a slightly high alcohol content. And that can’t hurt with a first date.”