Ruff Way to Go (2 page)

“I’ve heard
only good things about the Loveland animal shelter. They would never put you at
risk. I’ve been thinking of volunteering there myself, in fact. I volunteer at
the Boulder Humane Society whenever I can, to do some initial training on the
dogs.”

She furrowed
her brow. “I thought you were a dog trainer. Isn’t that competing with
yourself?”

“I’m not a
dog
trainer
per se. I work with owners and then dogs to help them
alleviate their pets’ undesirable behavior patterns. I get more work through
shelter referrals as someone to help newly adopted dogs acclimate than I lose
by giving those same dogs at least rudimentary training.”

Suddenly
Suds pricked up her ears and dashed inside the house, barking. The puppies, too
young to bark themselves, followed their mother. Cassandra gave me a
questioning look.

“Maybe
somebody rang the doorbell.”

She rose and
followed the dogs into the mudroom. I got up, too, figuring it was time for me
to leave anyway. “It’s the doorbell, all right,” she called over her shoulder. “Guess
it’s true that dogs’ hearing is better than humans’.”

“Let me
answer!” Melanie cried, brushing past me to gallop through the door.

Melanie
dashed on ahead, but Cassandra was struggling in her attempt to push puppies
and Suds back with her foot. “Allida, can you help me keep the dogs in this
back room?”

“Sure. Suds,
come.”

Suds obeyed,
and enough of the puppies followed suit to allow Cassandra to leave the room.
With the help of a subsequent “sit” command, I managed to escape myself, unaccompanied
by any furry four pawers.

“Edith. This
is a surprise,” Cassandra was saying to the visitor on her front porch as I
entered the living room. Both her voice and her posture were stiff. The name
meant nothing to me, and I had no view out the front door from my angle.
Cassandra made a small motion with her head as if, I thought, to indicate my
presence.

“There’s a
rumor that you’ve got puppies here,” the woman said pleasantly.

“We got
puppies!” Melanie shouted, hopping once again.

All the
enthusiasm with which she’d greeted me earlier today had apparently been due to
the subject matter alone and not to me. That was not surprising. Children don’t
tend to take to me as naturally as dogs do.

“Yes, Edith,
but I can assure you I won’t let them get into your yard or make too much
commotion, so you needn’t worry.”

“Oh,
heavens, Cassie. I’m not worried about that. I merely meant that I’d like to
see them.”

“Well, but
we just...got them settled down and I’m afraid if I open the door, they’ll be
rushing all piggly wiggly through the house, peeing as they go.”

Spoken like
a true dog lover,
I thought.

In spite of
Cassandra’s demurral, Edith stepped into the house. She was attractive, with
chin-length hennaed auburn hair and patrician features. Seeing the two women
side by side, I wondered if this could be Cassandra’s older sister. Cassandra
had mentioned keeping the puppies out of Edith’s yard, although Edith was more
dressed up and made-up than I’d expected a Berthoud homeowner to be. In her
white pants and shoes and captain’s-style navy bluejacket, an ascot carefully
arranged on her thin neck, she looked too cosmopolitan for our little town out
in the sticks.

“This is
Allida Babcock from across the street,” Cassandra said. “Marilyn’s daughter.”

I held out
my hand and said, “Nice to meet you,” just as Edith was saying, “We’ve met.” I
hastily added the word, “again,” but Edith was already furrowing her brow at my
gaffe.

“You do
recognize me, don’t you? I live next door to the Randons.”

“Oh, yes. Of
course. You’re Shogun’s owner. The adorable silky terrier.”

“At least my
dog
made an impression on you.”

“If s just
that I work with dogs, and they seem to naturally capture most of my attention.
Plus you must have gotten a haircut since the last time I saw you. It looks
great, by the way.”

“Thanks, but
my hair is quite unchanged. Actually, I got a nose job.”

“That looks
great, too,” I muttered stupidly. I should just accept the fact that strangers’
dogs do mean more to me than their respective owners, but I was determined to
salvage the conversation. “How is
Trevor
doing these days?” I’d intentionally
accentuated “Trevor,” proud at having remembered her husband’s name. I even
remembered meeting him; when I’d first moved back in with Mom, he and I had
gotten each other’s mail and he’d come over to make the switch.

“Trevor and
I are getting a divorce.”

With our
conversation doomed since minute one, I should have seen that one coming. “I’m
sorry to hear that. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go home now.”

“Thanks for
your help with the puppies, Allida,” Cassandra said, her hand trembling
slightly as she fidgeted with an errant lock of her reddish blond hair.

She seemed
truly uneasy, perhaps at the concept of being left in charge of child and dogs.
“Don’t mention it. Please don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions. This
is what I do, after all, and”—I stopped myself from saying that I was
really quite good at it and amended my statement to—”I really love it.”
Both sentiments were true, but the latter was less egotistical.

I went home
and let our three dogs inside: Pavlov, my beautiful female German shepherd,
followed by Doppler, my equally beautiful—though considerably
smaller—buff-and-white-colored cocker spaniel, and lastly our newest
acquisition to the family, Mom’s recently adopted sable collie, Sage. Though I
also thought of Sage as beautiful, he had a bumpy Roman nose and one ear that
stayed up and the other down.

I silently
nagged myself that I needed to make more of an effort at courting clients for
my fledgling business. There was no good reason for me not to have advertised
my services to Cassandra. She and Paul seemed to be very well off financially
and could have used my help.

Mom still
wasn’t home, so I made and ate my lunch alone. She owns a small plane and gives
flying lessons at the airport in Longmont. My father had also been a pilot, but
died in a car accident when I was young. My brother’s a pilot as well, and Mom
is always holding out hope that someday I’ll be spontaneously cured of my fear
of heights so that I can uphold my end of the family tradition.

The doorbell
rang. I leaned back in my chair in the kitchen to see who was there. On this
warm day, I’d left the front door open and could see Edith through the screen.
The dogs, though trained not to bark at the doorbell, started to come en masse
with me to the door. I instructed them to sit by the entrance to the kitchen,
then invited Edith inside, curious as to why she was here.

I really
should have made up for my earlier transgressions, but try as I might, I barely
said hello before turning my attention to the silky terrier that, unleashed,
sat by her feet. It was a pretty, thin little dog, smaller than most house cats.
He had long black fur with reddish brown highlights, a long sharp nose and
pointed upright ears. He trotted in with complete confidence until he spotted
the two big dogs at the far side of the living room. His hackles rose, but he
made no sound. Pavlov—and Doppler, for that matter—were far too
well trained to pay Shogun any mind, but Sage rose and trotted in our
direction. He merely gave Shogun a dismissive sniff, then walked away and lay
back down by the other dogs, deliberately turning his back on us in the
process.

“Hi, there,
Shogun. That’s a good dog,” I said, and promptly sat down on the floor.

“He’s shy
with strangers,” Edith said, but her dog leapt onto my lap before she could
complete her sentence. She raised her eyebrows, but continued, “While I was
chatting with Cassandra Randon she told me that you’re a dog psychologist. I
want to hire you.”

That was an
unexpected day-brightener. Here I’d been, less than twenty minutes ago,
thinking about cultivating more clients. Maybe next time I should concentrate
on wanting a million dollars. “Oh? What seems to be the problem?”

“Trevor
wants sole custody of Shogun. I’d like to hire you to testify on my behalf.”

“At the
divorce hearing?”

“When it
comes time to settle the estate, yes.” Edith took a seat on the couch,
smoothing the fabric of her white slacks to maintain perfect pleats. She had
completely ignored my dogs thus far, indicating to me that while she may or may
not be deserving of Shogun’s custody, she was not an indiscriminate lover of
all dogs. “You see, Trevor bought Shogun for me, to act as a guard dog when I
was home alone. He was traveling a lot at the time, you see.”

I nodded,
but I could also “see” that most men, when selecting a “guard dog” for their
wives, would opt for one that weighed more than ten pounds.

“Trevor got
close to Shogun, too. Nevertheless, he’s my dog, not Trevor’s. And yet Trevor
is insisting that I’m not good enough to Shogun and that he wants and deserves
total custody.”

“So you want
me to determine which of you should have the dog?”

“No, I want
you to testify that I should have the dog. Period.”

While his
owner was speaking, Shogun lay down and rested his chin on my knee. There is a
feeling I get sometimes when I spend time with a dog, a certain eagerness to
please, that strikes me as beyond the normal bounds of canine behavior. Shogun
had this in his quickness to accept me. This was probably due to his feeling
disoriented from the divorce, not unlike a child who felt the rift between his
parents that he couldn’t comprehend, and so assumed it was his own fault.

“I can’t do
that unless that’s what I decide is truly best for Shogun.”

“I see.
Well, then, what do you need to do to make the decision?”

“To be
honest, I’ve never done this before, but I would imagine all I’d need to do is
witness the dog’s behavior when he’s here with you, do the same when he’s with
your husband, and give my opinion.”

“Fine. Let’s
do it right away. I want this matter resolved
pronto.”
She rose and
quickly checked the alignment of her
ascot and the hang of her jacket. “I
have to get back to my store, but I’ll be back home after five. Let’s set up an
appointment at my house for five-thirty. I’m sure Trevor could meet with you
tomorrow.”

“You’ve
already spoken with him about this?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course
not,” she answered in patronizing tones. “I haven’t had the opportunity to do
so. I’ll call him as soon as I can, though, and have him get back with you to
set up his appointment. I’m sure Trevor will be more than reasonable. Up until
you decide to award custody to me, that is. See you at five-thirty.” She headed
toward the door. Shogun made no move to follow.

Edith was
behaving as if Trevor and I were the sheep and she the border collie. I was sorely
tempted to tell her honestly that this was my day off; the nature of my
business was such that I had to work weekends. Truth be told, I was still too
aware of the precarious status of my newly formed business to give myself even
these Tuesdays—as well as Mondays—off, but rather, tried to keep my
appointments on those days to a minimum.

During our
conversation, her little dog had shut his eyes and completely settled himself
on my lap, and I enjoyed the warm sensation of his slight weight. “I need to tell
you, Edith, that dogs really get quite traumatized by divorces. Has Shogun been
keeping up his regular daily patterns?”

“Yes, he’s...exactly
the same. He doesn’t miss Trevor at all.”

“That would
be unusual.” Especially since the little dog had been trembling as he slept. “Where
is Trevor living now?”

“Northern
Longmont. At a duplex that is totally unsuitable for Shogun, I might add.” She
looked at her dog—who gave every appearance of wanting to stay in my
lap—gave me a sheepish smile, and said, “I really must be going. Shogun,
come.”

Three hours
later, in my currently empty downtown Boulder office—my officemate
currently away for the afternoon— I had completed my one appointment for
the day and was now trying to decide how much money to invest in advertising. I
decided to call my lone media connection—an irascible talk show host who
was between jobs—and see what she would advise. Before I could do so,
Trevor Cunningham burst unannounced into my office.

He was a
small, thin man, but had a booming voice as he shouted, “What’s this about you
deciding who gets to keep my dog?” With his cascade of hair—center-parted
and short on the neck but long on top—and his long, sharp nose, he looked
like a human version of his dog, even though that was a cliche I didn’t put
much stock in. Temperaments were much more likely to be shared between dog and
owner than appearances.

“I take it
you’re referring to Shogun?”

“Yes. I love
Shogun.
She
doesn’t.
She
wouldn’t even have known what a silky
terrier was if it hadn’t been for me. My sister breeds them. That’s where we
got Shogun.”