The Dog Who Saved Me, page 12
Now it’s more than I can bear, the idea of coping with things of this nature. There is no sense to the cruelty that put this dog into this situation. The idea of one abused dog’s life ending under the wheels of a car eats at me and I no longer have the comfort of my old dispassion. Nonetheless, in front of my fellow officer and this lady, I must put on a mask of occupational indifference. But inside, I wonder, can I ever protect myself again with the armor of true bravery, of stoicism? My professional reserve has become jellied.
If a dog’s endangerment affects me this way, how can I ever return to a profession where I encounter human suffering on a regular basis? This is why I can never have another dog, K-9 partner or otherwise. I can never put myself in this vulnerable position ever again.
I keep walking, swiping away tall grass and sweetbriar until my hands are dotted with spots of blood. I call for him. Ludicrous, I know, a nameless dog that has never but that once—this morning—come close to me is hardly likely to respond. He’ll be in shock. Dragging himself off to his death.
I’ve been stupid, listening to Max’s Buddhist idea of seducing a dog. I should have been out hunting him like I might a deer, a felon. Getting a dose of tranquilizer into him three weeks ago instead of believing that this Zen approach would somehow work. I’m a marksman. Shooting him outright rather than prolonging his suffering would have been the kinder thing. But I’m not that brave.
* * *
Cooper holds his weapon in both hands as he has been taught, as he has practiced for years. Safety off. Finger on the trigger. He has only to squeeze the round off and put an end to this. But he doesn’t. He hesitates. In all the years he’s been a cop, Cooper has never fired a weapon at a human target before. Has never had to. Argos has always sufficed. But this time, it’s different.
* * *
There is no sign of the wounded dog. I’ve circled back to my truck. The Forester, the cruiser, and the tow truck are all gone. Only a streak of tire marks on the state road suggests that anything untoward has happened here. And then I see it, hidden in plain sight. There’s a rocky apron around a storm drain at the foot of the sloping verge. The car strike sent the dog into the rocks and its coat color has camouflaged it. I unfold my black plastic bag and carefully retrieve the body of a speckled spaniel I’m pretty sure belongs to Cynthia Mann.
* * *
She’s waiting for me as I pull around the circular drive fronting her Georgian-style home. I’ve called, so she knows why I’m here. For all her lofty position and relevance to the life of the village, Cynthia is still a grief-stricken pet owner, and I feel for her. I know what it’s like to lose a beloved animal to violence.
I take up my burden and present the bagged body of her beloved pet to Cynthia with the same heartfelt words of condolence I all too often had to use in my former life when speaking to parents of lost children, to the grandmother of a murdered drug dealer who had raised him, to the wives of men lost in the line of duty. I tell Cynthia, “I am so sorry for your loss.” The adverb is my own, and off-script: So sorry.
Donald Boykin brings his Land Rover to a halt behind the Suburban, rushes over to his wife, who is still cradling the black-shrouded body of their dog. “Honey, how did this happen?” He looks at me with a look of puzzled contempt. As if I’m the one who hit the dog that shouldn’t have been loose in the first place. “Who did this?”
That’s the question I was pretty certain he’d want an answer to. Donald Boykin doesn’t strike me as a man who thinks unanswered questions are acceptable.
“I’m not at liberty to say.” I actually don’t know and I’m leaving any repercussions regarding that poor woman to the discretion of the local police. “Purely an accident; your dog ran out in front of the car No way to avoid it.”
Boykin wraps an arm around his wife, who is obviously suppressing tears while I’m still there. “I want the name. I want it now.”
“Why don’t you contact Chief Parker.” I’m not getting any vibe of grief from this man, only anger that something of his has been devalued. Maybe I’m being unfair, but that’s what I think.
“What’s your name?”
I know this tack. The “I’ll put you in your place” tack beloved of the powerful, of those who seldom don’t get their way.
“Harrison.” I don’t touch my forelock, shuffle my feet. I pull my shoulders back. “Once again, my condolences.”
“Officer Harrison.” Cynthia adjusts the inert bundle in her arms. “Thank you. It’s been a bad year for dogs for us.”
* * *
As the first heavy drops of rain begin to fall, I sit at the drop-leaf kitchen table, the radio on but not much company, the newspaper spread out in front of me, although I’m not reading it. The woodstove pops as the heat builds up; a slightly damp log sizzles. The rain spits against the skylight with a cold sound, and I am glad that I’m inside, a proper bed waiting for me, for the moment when I think that I might be able to fall asleep.
I’m glad I’m inside, but I can’t help but think of the feral dog. I’m a little ashamed by the relief I felt in discovering that the victim of the car strike wasn’t the yellow dog. But maybe it would have been better. This dog, this ghost of a dog, cannot survive a night like this, when the rain beats down and the temperature drops. I get up and pace around the living area of the cabin, straightening a faded photograph on the wall depicting long-ago hunters with their old-fashioned rifles against their shoulders and their game bags full, dogs sitting patiently at their sides.
* * *
“Cooper, there’s plenty of time to make that decision. You get better, then come talk to me.” Lieutenant Carter hands Cooper back the resignation letter he’s carefully written, printed out on smooth ecru stationery.
The gathering has been as close to a funeral as possible without disrespecting the memory of fallen humans. Cooper’s brothers in arms, his fellow K-9 officers and their dogs, have shown the fallen K-9 Argos every honor due his name. Glasses have been raised and toasts made. Moments of silence. Inclusion in newspaper reports and Facebook postings and Web-site memorials. Hero. Brave.
It’s almost impossible for Cooper to look at the other dogs, the way they keep to their handlers’ sides, the way they look at their human partners, the way it’s assumed that he’s going to partner with another K-9 just as soon as his hearing is better, when his back heals. He keeps his mouth tightly clamped, gritting his teeth.
Lieutenant Carter is correct. It is too soon to make a career-altering decision, life-altering. But that doesn’t stop Cooper. There’s no way he can ever endure this kind of pain again. It’s like a sickness, a cancer growing in his psyche.
* * *
The rain is coming from the southwest, smacking against the windows on the unprotected side of the cabin. I flip on the porch light. The rain drips in attenuated lines from the overhang like a beaded curtain, but the porch itself is bone-dry. I empty the large wicker basket filled with split logs. I stack the logs and then get my sleeping bag. Out on the porch, I set the basket against the wall of the cabin, slide the sleeping bag out of its nylon carry bag, unfurl it, and layer it carefully inside the concavity of the basket. I go back in and bring out a bowl of dog meat and a water bowl. Something will find this and eat it; something might even poke a hole in the sleeping bag and take out the lovely goose down for its own nest. But maybe, just maybe, the dog will accept this humble offer of shelter for the night. As I always do when dropping the meat as I run, or leaving the bowl filled with dog food, I whistle, two notes, sharp and consistent. Then call, “Come on, boy. Come on get your dinner.” I whistle again. I can hear nothing except the sound of the rain beating down on the porch roof.
16
The ambulance blows past Bull as he pedals his bike to work, rocking him in the backwash. Seems like there’s an ambulance roaring down the main street or Route 114 every fifteen minutes lately. Just another symptom of an expanding population in a small town. Jimmy keeps talking about it, how all these rich people living here in those big houses just means more money being spent on infrastructure. You’d think he paid the property taxes. Funny the stuff he takes issue with. Still, he’s good for a meal now and then, like the other night at the tavern. Funny, too, seeing Cooper there with that little horse lady who comes into Crane’s for stuff. Weird having both boys back in town after so many years. Bull knows that he should feel lucky; lots of parents never see their kids. Polly Schaeffer is always moaning about the fact her kids won’t visit her. But when you think of it, the Harrisons don’t really enjoy a warm and fuzzy Hallmark card kind of relationship. Any family gathering is a contest with those boys.
Jimmy was in a good mood that night, flashing a wad of cash, telling Bull to order anything he wanted off the menu. Just seeing that much cash fanned out in Jimmy’s well-manicured hand put Bull off of mentioning Tommy’s offer of a desk job for Jimmy. Clearly, Jimmy wasn’t in need of an eighteen-dollar-an-hour handout.
Jimmy flirted aggressively with their waitress, a cute kid Bull remembers used to work in the Cumberland Farms store. Way too young for the likes of Jimmy, but that didn’t stop Jimmy from hitting on her. Bull admits that it was a little uncomfortable when Jimmy wouldn’t stop flirting. When his hand grabbed hers as she reached for the check holder, stuffed as it was with more than the cost of the meal and a huge tip, it made Bull feel more than a little awkward. “Come on, Jimmy, let the girl do her job.” The look Jimmy gave him could have frozen water, but Bull laughed, wanting the girl to understand that Jimmy was only kidding. That Bull was in her corner, that Jimmy really meant no harm. That Jimmy would never do her harm.
Guy, the bartender, had his eye on them. Bull waved, a careless, “Everything’s fine” kind of wave, and then put his hand on Jimmy’s arm. A silent caution: Don’t make an issue of this. You don’t want trouble.
“Next time, sweetheart.” Jimmy shoved his chair back, nearly toppling it against the people behind them. “I’ll see you around.”
The waitress had the cojones to snark back at him as she marched back to the kitchen, “Not if I see you first.”
“I won’t overtip her again.”
“Come on, Jimmy. She’s too young for you.”
“Can’t fault a man for wanting to get laid.”
There was an ugliness to Jimmy’s turn of phrase. That girl was only a couple of years away from being jailbait.
As they worked their way around the collection of tables to the exit, Guy kept his eye on them, and the look on his meaty face was clear: They would not be welcomed back. Which kind of sucks, as Bull really enjoys the Lakeside. It’s the one place he was welcomed back into once he was firmly established in the program. The other bars still won’t let him in, even if his drink these days is only seltzer and lemon.
But that’s Jimmy for you. Tough guy, full of himself. Doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what other people think. Never did, even as a kid. Bull can’t think of one person Jimmy ever deferred to. Not a teacher, a parent, or even a cop. He would stand there, that flinty look in his eye, just daring whoever it was to carry out their threatened punishment. Wouldn’t even plea-bargain for a reduced sentence. Took the whole stretch—less a few months for good behavior, what a joke—keeping his mouth shut and his loyalties solid. Now he’s reaping the benefit of that sacrifice. “It’s only time,” he’d said. “Just time.”
Jimmy is still young enough to believe that he has unlimited time.
17
Waking up on this rainy Sunday, I think first of the dog, surely dead by now, my impulsive gesture of last night a pretty foolish one. I’m so convinced that this quest is over that I don’t even take a peek out the window to see if he has actually taken me up on my offer of a warm bed. The one thing I’ve never done is allow myself foolish hope. Not now. Not ever. Not even when I regained consciousness after the blast; I knew even before I opened my eyes that Argos was dead. So there is no subterfuge in my clumping around the cabin, adding wood to the fire and getting the coffeemaker going.
The coffee is ready, the fire cheerfully crackling in the Jøtul; my bed, in military fashion, is made up tight. Unlike what I do on a workday, I’m letting myself enjoy a first cup of coffee while still in my pajama bottoms and T-shirt. Maybe I’ll get really lax and skip shaving. Except for Elvin at the market, where I’ll pick up a paper and possibly one of those lemon squares that sit temptingly in a clear case above the paper rack, it’s unlikely that there will be anyone today who will see my unshaven face. The Patriots are on this afternoon, and I don’t know if I’ll listen to the game on the radio or if Max will invite me over to watch the game at his house. The truth is, I’d really rather stay put and listen to the game by myself. I’m not in the mood for company.
Thinking that I’ve got another chance to have a quiet day at home, I duck outside to the porch to bring in more split quarters to dry by the fire.
Because I have no expectation that the dog took advantage of my hospitality, I am completely shocked to see him curled up in the basket. Shocked and then alarmed as the dog, doesn’t even raise his head. It’s only the slow rise and fall of the animal’s emaciated rib cage that tells me he is still alive. As if I’ve cornered a wanted man, I take my time assessing the situation. The first thing that I see is the festering wound on the dog’s hip. I can see it, and can smell the putrefaction oozing out of it. Gunshot, I’m pretty sure. It bears the hallmarks of an old unhealed wound. What looks like dark fur is actually filth scored into the yellow. What toenails I get a glimpse of are broken off, shattered into frayed remnants. But mostly what I see are ribs, and a spine with each and every vertebrae detailed beneath the loose skin. With no muscle, the skin looks like it belongs to a larger dog. There is nothing to this animal but skin and bones and patchy, filthy fur.
The animal is so still that at first I think the dog has come up onto my porch and died. But with each slight rise and fall of his rib cage, I understand that, in his weakened condition, the comfort of the goose-down sleeping bag has lured the dog into a deep sleep. Every instinct that has helped this dog survive in the wild has been subverted by the simple warmth of a sleeping bag.
I don’t move. I deliberately soften my muscles, relax my breathing, as if I’m meditating or practicing that yoga my first shrink recommended I do to try to alleviate my “tension,” as he called it. The ringing in my left ear increases, as if my blood is gushing into it with every pumping heartbeat. What I hear is my uncertainty, the chiming of indecision. I simply don’t know what to do with this turn of events. I need my catch pole, or another handful of meat to keep the dog’s attention when he comes awake and realizes he’s compromised his freedom. And then it hits me: Maybe the dog has volunteered his freedom. Maybe that’s why he’s so sound asleep. I’ve seen this in captured fugitives, this sudden exhaustion, as if capture has broken the strain of trying to stay free. They take to the narrow mattress of the holding cell and sleep the sleep of the dead.
The water bowl is empty, the dog dish licked clean, so at least I’m confident that dog is hydrated and his hunger assuaged for the moment. In a very literal sense, I’m getting cold feet. I stepped out here barefoot and this wet October Sunday morning feels more like a November day. The rain has finally let up and the sun is breaking without warmth through the sooty cloud bank malingering over Bartlett’s Pond. A duck calls to a mate, twice, and I think that it’s a man-made duck call, that there must be hunters out on the pond this morning. It always strikes me as funny: If I’m not fooled, why are the ducks? I turn my good ear toward the pond, and when I turn back, the dog is sitting up, looking at me.
“Hey, fella,” I whisper, trying to find the right pitch. “Hey, boy. Good boy. You want some breakfast? I’ve got some in the cabin. I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help.” As long as the dog doesn’t move, I natter on like a nervous suitor, hoping that the sound of my voice is soothing, not frightening; cajoling and harmless. “Good boy. I can help you. You just gotta trust me.” I take a step closer. This dog is so weak, I know that if I can just grab the loose skin around his neck, I’ll be able to hang on to him.
The dog pushes himself more upright, cocks his head, listening to my voice, deciding. His eyes are runny; mucus whitens the lids. Fully engorged deer ticks cling to his ears, his cheeks, little pale brown dollops of disease. I wonder if the dog is so weakened that he actually can’t stand up. I move about a foot closer. Now the dog does get to his feet, if only three of them. The right hind leg dangles, as if he’s lost the use of it. I take another cautious step, putting myself close enough that if he will simply step out of the basket, I can maybe grab the skin around his neck. First one front leg, then the other, and the working hind leg hops over the edge of the shallow sleeping bag–filled nest. Close enough. I take a step backward. The first sign of a good negotiator is to know when to step back. Let the opposition relax a little. The dog lowers his head, sniffs the air, taking in my scent. I’m hoping he reads that I mean him no harm. I’m hoping that he associates me with the food I’ve left him, the nest I built for him. I whisper reassurances: “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
I kneel on the decking, bringing my eyes down to the dog’s eye level. He looks left and right, as if assessing an escape route. I make a kissy noise and the dog cocks his head again, interested. He’s got wrinkles above his eyes, and I think that this wreck of a dog could actually be a Labrador. Slowly, very slowly, the dog takes a step closer, his eyes on mine, begging for kindness.
Just as the dog finally, cautiously, comes close enough that I should be able to put a hand on him, a shotgun blast rends the quiet, followed by a second blast and then another. He yelps as he scrambles to jump off the porch, landing in a three-legged heap. He yelps again as a second volley brings him to his feet, and in seconds the terrified dog is gone. For such a physically compromised animal, he moves incredibly fast in his panic. Although I leap, I have no chance of grabbing him. I end up on all fours, staring at the porch floor. “Shit.” Freakin’ hunters have chosen this delicate moment to fire. I jump to my feet and off the porch, stupidly chasing after the animal in bare feet, a clumsy predator after a terrified dog.
