Mad Dog Page 7
A woman rolls her wheelchair into the hall, then back, disappearing through a dark doorway.
“What was that?” Dakota whispers.
I shrug. The bulldog growls.
A hand appears through the doorway, a lone finger crooked and motioning us into the dark room.
I glance at Dakota. She stays where she is, the Blab’s leash in one hand, the terrier’s in the other.
“Well?” comes a scratchy voice. “Don’t just stand there. Get in here!”
Dakota and I herd the dogs into the room. The second we’re in, the old woman wheels over and rams her wheelchair into the door, forcing it shut. A T-shirt has been duct-taped to the door, covering the window and blocking all views from the hall.
“Lights, girlie.” The woman points to a switch too high for her to reach from her wheelchair.
“Sorry,” Dakota says, scurrying to turn on the light.
“Why?” the woman demands. “Are you the one who put that switch up so high?”
The overhead light gives me my first good look at the woman in the wheelchair. She’s short and wide. Her body overflows the wheelchair seat. Wisps of gray hair spring out from under her Chicago Cubs cap, which is on sideways. Spindly legs stick out from a gray skirt. She’s wearing a Chicago White Sox sweatshirt and high-top tennis shoes. Her face and neck aren’t so much wrinkled as they are baggy, like maybe a long time ago her face was twice this big, and when it shrank, her skin didn’t.
“Buddy?” Dakota asks.
The woman’s pudgy face lights up. “So my reputation precedes me.” She winks at us. “How is the old Coolidge busybody these days?”
“She’s okay,” Dakota answers. “I guess.”
Buddy eyes Dakota, then me, then the dogs scrambling at our feet, trying to get out of here. “Are you fans?” she asks, looking skeptical.
“I like baseball,” Dakota volunteers.
“But who do you root for?” Buddy demands.
Dakota grins. “The underdog.”
Buddy breaks into a gap-toothed smile, until she turns to me. “How about you? We have to get these important matters settled first. Cubs? White Sox? Which is it?”
She’s making me nervous. “Both,” I answer. “Especially the Sox.”
Buddy claps her hands, sending the terrier to hide behind Dakota. “All right, then! Let’s roll!” She puts two fingers to her lips and lets out a piercing whistle.
A closet door flings open in the back of the room. People hobble out. It’s a parade of old people. Two are pushing walkers as they all shuffle to a row of folding chairs.
Buddy whistles again. The bulldog jerks away, yanking the leash out of my hands.
“Come back here!” I call. But I haven’t worked on the “come” command.
The dog dashes toward Buddy and slides halfway across the freckled linoleum floor, not stopping until she slams into Buddy’s wheelchair.
“Sorry!” I run up and grab the bulldog’s leash. “I haven’t trained the dogs yet.”
“Obviously,” Buddy observes.
“This wouldn’t have happened if I’d had more time to work with them.” I can see the whole project slipping away, the dogs going back to the pound.
Suddenly, the bulldog lunges at the wheelchair and jumps up, planting her front paws on Buddy’s knees.
“No!” I cry.
Buddy waves me off. “I reckon this one likes me.” She scratches the ugly dog on her chest.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I think you’re right.” Maybe Buddy and the rest of them will give our dogs a chance after all.
Buddy stares into the bulldog’s face. The dog stares back. Their heads are inches apart. It’s eerie how much they look alike with saggy faces, pug noses, and deep brown eyes.
“Ugly ol’ girl, isn’t she?” Buddy comments.
As if in reply, the dog’s mouth opens in a big smile.
Dakota gasps.
Someone behind me says, “EEEeeeyew!”
And out of the dog’s mouth comes a giant glob of slobber—right onto Buddy’s lap.
Thirteen
“Gross!”
“Oh my.”
“Now that’s what I call disgusting.”
The old folks circle Buddy and the bulldog.
I tug at the dog’s collar, but she doesn’t want to leave her new friend.
Dakota rushes off somewhere and comes back with a handful of paper towels. I have no idea where she found them. She wipes up the ball of slobber from Buddy’s lap and drops the towels into the wastebasket.
I’m not sure what to do now. Buddy was our inside man, the one person Mrs. Coolidge said was on our side. Now we’ve probably lost her.
“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” I say, reaching for friendly Wes. I yank the dog away from her, but she pops back up. “The dog’s never acted like this before. If you’ll give me a chance, I can train her not to—”
Buddy holds up her hand for me to stop. She frowns and moves her face closer to the bulldog’s. “This mutt reminds me of a fella I used to know. Pitched for the Giants. Chewed tobacco. Ugly habit, chewing that stuff. Bad for the breath too.”
Nobody argues.
“Well, what are you all standing around me for?” Buddy demands. “Sit down.”
I get the bulldog back under control while Dakota helps the old people to their seats. There are six of them, counting Buddy.
I hand the bulldog’s leash to Dakota so she has three leashes. I’m only holding the Pomeranian. When I face our audience, I’m not sure what to say. One-on-one I’m okay with wannabe pet owners, but this is different.
Buddy breaks the silence. “Go! Go! Whaddya say? Give us all a show today! Go! Go! Whaddya say? Give us all a show today! Go, fight, win!” From under her wheelchair, she pulls out two blue and white pom-poms and waves them above her head. “Go, dogs!”
A few of the others join in clapping or venturing a weak “hurray” or “yea.”
Dakota comes up next to me and takes the Pom from my hands. “Wes, what do we do now?”
I swallow hard and let a prayer slip out from somewhere inside me, a place I don’t seem to have control over. When I tell Popeye I don’t pray, he usually smiles and says, “Sure you do, Wes.” And I guess he’s right. I don’t pray like he does. Or Annie, or Kat. Or even Dakota lately. I don’t know how. Still, it’s like something inside of me knows more than I do about praying. And I know enough to admit I could use all the help I can get about now.
“Thanks for coming,” I begin, relaxing a little. Maybe that prayer is working. “I’m Wes Williams. I’ve already met the charming Miss Buddy, and I intend to get to know the rest of you. But first, I’d like you to meet your new best friends: a three-legged Pomeranian, an extremely shy terrier mix, a beagle-Lab mix, a bulldog mix, and Dakota Brown. I’ll let you guess which one is Dakota.”
I get the laughs I deserve, along with an elbow in my chest from Dakota, which I guess I deserve too. But she’s grinning and whispers, “Way to go, Wes.”
The old folks introduce themselves. To remember their names I use association, the memory trick my grandma taught me not long before she died. Rose has pink cheeks and is frail as a rose. April and June are sitting together, and I try to picture April’s long, stringy hair out in April showers and June’s round nose with a fat june bug on it. Sitting as far away from the dogs as possible is Velva, dressed up like she’s headed to church. So I picture Velva in velvet on a velvet church pew.
There’s only one man in the group. He’s kind of short and skinny as a dog’s tail.
“My name is Leon,” he says. I’m trying to come up with a way to remember his name when he adds, “If you forget my name, think of Christmas, the first Noel! Leon is Noel backwards.”
“Cool. Thanks, guys.” I walk down the row of spectators and repeat their names, getting them all right. “Names are important. Your dogs know that. That’s why we haven’t named these dogs yet.”
“They don’
t got names?” Buddy says. “Boo!” She turns to the others. “Give ’em the Bronx cheer for that one,” she urges.
A few of her friends join her in booing me for not naming the dogs.
“Take it easy,” I plead. “I couldn’t name the dogs. Not without you guys. An important part of the basic training for these dogs is language. They’re going to learn your language, including what you call them. In fact, a dog’s name is the most important word you’ll teach him. Now do you see why I couldn’t name the dogs without you?”
“Let’s call this one Buddy,” Leon suggests, pointing to the ugly bulldog.
Buddy leans forward in her wheelchair and throws a paper wad at Leon. “Strike one for you, Noel!” she hollers. “Maybe we ought to name this scared terrier here Noel.”
I figure I better break this up before they really go at each other. “Hold on a minute, okay? Before we name the dogs, before we teach the dogs our language, we need to learn theirs.”
While I’ve been working the people crowd, Dakota’s been working the dogs. She’s managed to get all four dogs to either lie down or sit close to her.
“Take a look at these dogs.” I point to them, and everybody gets quiet. “They’re talking to us right now,” I explain. “Can you tell what they’re saying?”
Nobody answers. Rose taps her hearing aid, as if that’s the problem.
I kneel next to the Blab. “See this guy’s ears? They’re pricked up toward us. He’s asking, ‘What do you want?’” I stroke the Blab’s chest. “Look at this mouth. He’s got a lopsided grin that’s saying, ‘Hey! Come closer, will you?’ And this tail, straight up like that, says, ‘I’m paying attention. I’m not going to miss a trick, man.’”
I move to the terrier, who’s lying on the floor, ears back, tail clamped. “These ears are begging me not to hurt her. She’s saying, ‘I’m sorry. Don’t punish me.’”
Several aws travel the row of spectators.
“I would never punish this dog, but somebody has,” I explain. “We need to learn her language and help her learn ours so she won’t be afraid of us any longer.” When I stroke the terrier’s side, she rolls over on her back. “Now she’s saying, ‘Please don’t hurt me. I give.’” I scratch her stomach and move to the next dog.
“I think this beautiful girl is a cross between a boxer and a bulldog,” I say.
“Buddy all over again!” Leon shouts.
Buddy shouts back, “Strike two, Noel.”
I laugh. “These big eyes, wide open like this, are saying, ‘Just so you know, I’m the boss around here.’ I’ve never seen this dog pull her lips back and show her teeth. But if she does, I’ll be careful because she’ll be telling me, ‘Watch out! I don’t want you around here.’”
“What about the poor little crippled dog?” Velva asks. She puts one hand on her walker, as if letting me know she understands the Pomeranian’s problem. “What’s that little dog trying to tell us?”
I get down on all fours until I’m eye-to-eye with the Pomeranian. He hops around, then gives me a soft-eyed sideways glance.
“There,” I say. “Did you hear that?”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Buddy answers.
Rose taps her hearing aid again.
“That sideways glance,” I explain. “He’s saying, ‘Wes, you’re cool. You know that?’”
They laugh.
I’m still on my hands and knees, so I smile up at the audience. The Pom moves in and licks my face as I’m getting to my feet.
“Excuse me?” June asks, raising her hand like she’s in elementary school. “I’ve always wanted to know something. When a dog licks your face, is it akin to a kiss?”
I don’t answer right away because it’s not an easy question. I’ve always thought that when a dog licked me, it was kind of a thank-you. Like, “Thanks for making me happy.” But I’m not sure what people’s kisses mean. No experience there.
Dakota speaks up. “I heard that hungry pups in the wild lick their mothers’ and fathers’ mouths. Usually they do that because the adult dogs eat first, chew the food, and then let their kids lick the mushy, chewed-up food gunk from their mouths. Sounds pretty gross, but it works. When the food’s gone, most pups still lick their parents’ mouths, kind of like a thank-you kiss. So I vote yes. A lick is a kiss.”
“The lady is as smart as she is beautiful!” Leon exclaims.
It’s a great answer, and I’m guessing she got it from Barker.
That question leads to more questions about dogs.
June raises her hand again, and I nod for her to go ahead. “Why do dogs wag their tails?”
I motion for Dakota to take over.
“Well,” she begins, “I think it could mean one of two things: ‘Great to see you, June,’ or ‘Hey, June, you wanna fight?’”
Dakota gets some decent laughs on that one, then goes on to explain what to look for when a dog’s tail is wagging. “If the tail is straight and stiff, like a metronome or a pendulum, you might be in for trouble. Otherwise, if it’s a fast, loose wag, think of it as a friendly wave.”
“Look at that little three-legged sweetheart,” April says. “Is he crying?”
The dog is whimpering, and it does kinda sound like a cry. I pick him up and search for a favorite spot he likes scratched. I think I find it on his left side, but he’s still stiff and wary.
“Dogs don’t cry with tears,” Dakota explains, reaching over to stroke the Pom too. “But they do cry. Look at his tail. It’s down, and his head is hanging low like that.”
We’re quiet for a second, and I think we’re all rooting for the Pom.
Then Buddy bellows out, “Now why do they do that?” She points to the bulldog, who’s scratching up a storm.
“Ah,” Dakota says, sounding mysterious and wise, “now that’s one of deepest, darkest secrets of a dog whisperer.” She glances around the room. Every eye is on her. The crowd grows totally quiet, waiting for her answer. “Dogs scratch—” she pauses dramatically—“because they have an itch.”
Buddy bursts out laughing.
When the laughter dies down, I forge ahead. “Okay. Now it’s time to teach the dogs a little people language. As promised, we’re going to start with the most important word of all, the name.”
Before I can stop them, everybody’s shouting out names.
“I had a Pomeranian just like that one when I was a girl,” Rose says, her voice dreamy. “We should call him Pom-Pom.”
“What kind of name is that for a boy dog?” Buddy demands. “Let’s call him ‘the Babe’ or ‘Shoeless Joe.’” She wheels her chair out of line. “I got it. Tinker. Who remembers the famous Cubs slogan: ‘Tinker to Evers to Chance’?”
“Wait a minute!” I wave my arms like a major league ump until Buddy settles down again. “Let me tell you what goes into a good name besides baseball history, okay? First, choose a short name that won’t be shortened. If you end up calling the dog Westmoreland and Westie and West, the poor dog won’t know what his real name is.”
“I never thought of that,” Dakota admits. “Makes sense. What else?”
“Use the name once you’ve given it to your dog. Don’t call him Baby or Sweetie Pie or Puppy Wuppy.”
Dakota grins. “Only if you promise to say Puppy Wuppy again.”
I keep going. “Always say the dog’s name first, before the command. Like, ‘Moxie, here!’”
The crouching terrier perks up, gets to her feet, and walks over to me.
“Looks like that one’s got a name,” April comments. “I like that name. Moxie. Nice ring to it, don’t you think, June?”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard the name before, and I have no idea where it came from. I pet the terrier. “Moxie,” I tell her, “if that’s the name you want, that’s the name you’ll get. And nobody here will call you Mox or Moxerama or the Moxster, right?”
Without too many arguments, we finally agree on names for all four dogs:
Moxie, the terrier
Bag, the beagle-Lab mix, so Buddy can make her “doggie Bag” jokes
Munch, the bulldog, also thanks to Buddy
We practice calling the dogs by their new names. Then I start to wind us down. “Thanks, everybody. You’ve been great.”
“Nope,” Buddy says. “You’ve been great.” She turns to her friends. “Right, fans? Let’s do it!” She raises her arms, then lowers them.
The others fall in and move their arms like Buddy. They look like geese after a really hard winter.
“Wes,” Dakota whispers, laughing and leaning into me, “don’t you get it? They’re doing the wave.”
I watch for a full minute while Buddy leads the “crowd” in the oldest wave in the history of the world.
When the waves finally die down, I thank them again. Then I turn to the dogs and thank them, too. “If we can learn dog language the way these dogs are starting to learn ours, we’ll have it made.”
“Are you kidding?” Buddy asks. “Why, we know their language. Arf!” She barks again. “Arf! Arf!”
June barks next. April joins in with several small-dog yaps. Even Rose and Velva get in the act.
Leon lets loose with an all-out wolf howl: “Ah-ah-oooo! Ah-ah-oooo!”
They’re barking and howling. The dogs get caught up in the commotion. Munch and Bag bark and yap at the old folks. It’s about the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.
The door bursts open. In walks a woman who looks about Mrs. Coolidge’s age, only bouncy. If she were one of the dogs, she’d be Bag, the hyper beagle-Lab.
“Stop this riot at once!” she screams. She turns to Dakota and me. “What do you people think you’re doing here?”
“I . . . we . . .” I can’t get words out fast enough.
The bulldog charges the door and jumps on the woman, knocking her back a step. She shoves the dog with one hand and points to the door with the other. “Get out of here right this minute, or I’m calling the cops!”
Fourteen
Dakota and I are ushered out of the room, along with all the dogs. We’re both sputtering explanations and excuses.