Hair of the Dog (15 page)

“Not exactly.”

“Too bad,” said Davey. “Then I could have two pets.”

I nodded absently.

“Miss Grace has a guinea pig.” He patted his lap, and Faith turned around and lay down, resting her long front legs crosswise over his. Davey had to crane his neck to see over her topknot. “It lives at camp during the summer.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I slowed to look for the turnoff. There are only a few roads that cut from back-country Stamford to back-country Greenwich. Miss them, and you can wander around for hours.

“In the winter Horace lives in one of the classrooms at Graceland school.”

“Who's Horace?” I asked.

“The guinea pig!” His tone was filled with enough disgust to make me realize that his teenage years, while not exactly imminent, were definitely out there on the horizon.

“Miss Grace was looking for someone to bring Horace home at the end of camp, and keep him until school begins. I told her I could do it.”

“You ...
what?”

“I told her Horace could stay with us.”

“No,” I said firmly, then repeated the word for good measure. “No. You can tell Miss Grace tomorrow that she has to find somebody else.”

“But I already told her I could!” Davey wailed. Faith flattened her ears against her head, a pained expression on her face. “She's going to lend us a cage and some food and everything!”

I turned and looked back at him over my shoulder. “Do we have to discuss this while I'm driving?”

“Yes.” Davey sniffled loudly.

For her part, Faith looked ready to lick any tears away, should they appear. What a pair.

“Didn't it occur to you to ask me first?”

“Miss Grace said that if anyone had a nice mother, she'd be happy to help out. So I raised my hand.”

“You raised your hand to say you had a nice mother?”

“Yes,” Davey confirmed, all innocence.

One thing I've learned about parenting. Sometimes you believe what's true, and sometimes you just suspend disbelief and go with the moment.

That's how we got temporary custody of a guinea pig.

We found Aunt Peg at home, clipping faces and feet on her litter of six. Usually she did her grooming out in the kennel, but young puppies got special treatment. Peg had set up a portable grooming table in the middle of the kitchen floor and had her clipper plugged in to the outlet beside the sink.

“You could have called first,” she said, disgruntled at the interruption. “What if I'd had guests?”

“You do,” I said, ignoring her scowl. “Us.”

As we'd walked in through the living room, I'd noticed a remote control sitting on top of the television. That was new. Peg didn't watch much TV herself. Now in the kitchen, there was a loaf of whole wheat bread on the counter. Since Peg preferred Twinkies with her morning coffee, I figured I could pretty much assume that someone else was responsible for the changes.

I boosted Davey over the gate and he sat down on the floor. To his delight, puppies immediately swarmed all over him. “We're going to have a guest,” he announced. “He's a guinea pig named Horace.”

Aunt Peg reached down and plucked up one of the puppies. Its face and the base of its tail were freshly clipped, but all four feet were still fuzzy. She placed the puppy in the middle of the rubber-matted table and reached for her clipper. “Why on earth would you want to get a guinea pig?”

“It's only temporary. Davey volunteered us to pig-sit for a few weeks at the end of the summer.”

Aunt Peg didn't look appeased. When it comes to pets, she's totally chauvinistic about dogs. The frog we'd had the summer before had earned nothing but her contempt. She turned on the clipper and went to work. To my amazement, the puppy didn't seem to mind when she shaved the hair off its paws.

Faith, who'd been left outside the kitchen with the rest of Peg's house Poodles, leaned her head over the baby gate and whined softly under her breath. I reached over and scratched beneath her chin. “We'll be out in a few minutes,” I told her. “Go play.”

Before Davey and I got Faith, I'd thought it was funny the way people talked to their dogs, holding entire conversations as if they thought the dog might actually understand. Now I was guilty of the same thing myself. Of course the difference was, Faith
did
understand.

She cast a glance back over her shoulder at Simba and Chloe and Beau. Simba dropped her front end on the ground, which left her hindquarter up in the air, tail whipping back and forth like mad. Even I could figure out what that invitation meant. Eagerly Faith wagged her own tail in reply.

“Don't you pull her hair,” Peg warned as the four Poodles went romping away.

I sank down on the floor beside Davey One puppy began to chew on my shoelaces. Another braced its front paws on my arm and batted at my hair.

“I guess you and Douglas must be getting along pretty well,” I said.

Aunt Peg mumbled something under her breath. With the buzz of the clipper behind it, I couldn't quite catch the words, but her tone did its best to imply that the topic was none of my business.

Blithely, I ignored it. We'd covered similar ground many times in the past over my relationship with Sam. The way I saw things, it was Aunt Peg's turn to squirm.

“He seems like a nice man,” I ventured.

“Of course he's a nice man,” she snapped. “That's not the problem.”

Problem? Had anyone mentioned there was a problem?

I gathered a puppy into my arms and prepared to enjoy myself. “What is?”

“What's what?” She'd finished clipping her puppy's feet. Now Peg was plucking hair from inside its ear canal—and being deliberately obtuse.

“The problem with Douglas.”

“He's not a dog person.” A real condemnation in Aunt Peg's book.

“You knew that when you met him.”

“When I met Douglas, dogs were the farthest thing from my mind.”

“So? Keep it that way. You two don't have to do everything together.” I was thinking about the shows, but a loud bark and the rumble of running feet in the next room brought up another issue. “Or does he object to you having all these dogs in the house?”

“No, he's been very patient about that. They're Poodles, after all. Who could help but get along with them?”

Assuming that was a rhetorical question, I wisely kept my mouth shut.

“The problem is that Douglas thinks I'm too involved with the dogs. He says they take up too much of my time. What he doesn't understand is that before he came along, I liked having my time accounted for. Not only that, but I enjoy what I'm doing.”

“So tell him.”

“I did. At least I tried. But then he does things like make plans for Saturday afternoon when he knows perfectly well that I have a dog entered. Douglas said he had Jets tickets. As if I'd pass up a good judge to watch some silly baseball game.”

“Mets,” I mentioned.

“You see? How important can the team be if nobody even knows their name?” Peg finished the puppy she was working on and returned him to the floor. “Who's next?”

Not surprisingly, none of the puppies stepped forward to volunteer. She looked around and zeroed in on her next victim, a refined girl who was examining her reflection in the oven door.

“That always bothers them,” said Peg. “They don't understand they're seeing their own reflection. They think I've got extra puppies stashed away in there.”

“I think you're being too hard on Douglas,” I said, unwilling to let her change the subject.

“That's easy for you to say. Sam's a Poodle breeder.”

“Every relationship involves compromise.”

“Pish,” said Peg. The puppy she was working on was too young to know how to sit quietly on a grooming table. Instead, it wiggled like Jell-O. I'd have found all the movement distracting, but Peg just worked around it. “I didn't have to rearrange my life for Max. What gives Douglas the right to make demands?”

“Is that what he's doing? Demanding that you give up dogs?”

“Well ... no.” The admission was dragged from her unwillingly.

“I think he just wishes that the two of you could explore some other interests together.”

“I don't have any other interests,” Peg said stubbornly. “I never needed any.”

“Well, now you do.”

“Maybe not. What if this thing with Douglas is meant only to be short-term? After all, he's the first man I've dated since Max. Maybe he's my transitional man.”

Aunt Peg had a TV in her grooming room in the kennel. Sometimes while she was blow-drying a dog, she'd been known to watch Oprah.

“Then again,” I said just to be bratty, “maybe he's the man you're destined to spend the rest of your life with.”

Peg frowned. “If he is, he'd better shape up.”

I recognized that tone. It meant case closed. End of discussion.

On the floor around us, the action had quieted. Puppies' lives are simple at that age: eat, sleep, play. They have frenetic bursts of energy followed by sleep so deep that they drop where they're standing. Now Peg's litter was sacked out around the kitchen like mounds of boneless black fluff. Sam's boy—the one with the red shoelace around his neck—was snoring softly under his breath.

Davey stood up and walked to the gate. “Lift me over. I want to go play with Faith.”

“Please lift me over?”

“That's what I said,” Davey confirmed. I was never quite sure whether he was missing the point or pulling my leg.

I swung him up and over and he dashed away.

“I saw Ralphie Otterbach this morning,” I told Peg.

She looked up with interest. “What did he have to say?”

“He wasn't happy about the fact that his girlfriend worked for Barry Turk.”

“Did he know what Beth and Barry were up to?”

“I wondered that myself. I hate to say it, but I'm not sure.”

“Maybe he bears watching,” Peg mused.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

Davey and I stopped and picked up a couple of videos and a pizza on the way home. All winter long, I'm in my work mode. Get up, go to school; come home, be a mother. Go to bed. Now, after four weeks off, I was really getting used to being on vacation. That didn't bode well for September, but in the meantime I was determined to make the most of my time off.

We sat on the living room couch, ate pepperoni-and-onion pizza, and watched a movie about a trio of lost pets finding their way home against incredible odds. Davey smirked while I blubbered shamelessly, but when I put him to bed later, I noticed he checked three times to make sure Faith was at the end of his bed, where she was supposed to be.

After he was asleep, I called Ann Leeds, one of the women whose name Bertie had given me. She was skeptical about her ability to be helpful but happy to try. We agreed on a time the next morning and she gave me directions to her house in Bethel. At the rate I was going, I'd be needing another oil change in no time.

I went up and checked on Davey, then came back down and finished off the last piece of pizza while watching Arnold Schwarzenegger bust a few heads. Action flicks are my secret vice. I got all pumped up, then went to bed alone. Sometimes being a woman of the nineties just isn't all it's cracked up to be.

 

Bethel is a small New England town in upper Fairfield County that has retained the quaint appeal of its early Connecticut roots. Traffic was light, and I enjoyed the early morning drive.

Since I was by myself, I opened the sunroof and turned the radio up until the speakers pulsated. Davey was at camp, and I'd left Faith at home, not wanting her to wait in the car while I was with Ann. This time of year, it was simply too hot to take a chance. I'd take a disgruntled Poodle over one with heatstroke any day.

The directions I'd gotten led me to a compact ranch-style house set at the end of a quiet residential street. Careful landscaping and four-foot fences concealed most of the backyard from view, and as I climbed out of the car, all was quiet.

Like many of the dog show exhibitors I'd met so far, Ann was a hobby breeder with one breed she cared about passionately and a need to keep the number of dogs she housed to a minimum. Judging by what I could see, she was trying to keep a low profile. Few breeders are as lucky as Aunt Peg, with acres of land and neighbors that are hidden from view. Bertie had told me that Ann Leeds had French Bulldogs, but I wouldn't have guessed there were dogs around from what I could see out front.

Of course all that changed the minute Ann opened the door and three Frenchies scrambled out onto the steps. To the uninitiated eye (mine) they looked like little barrels on roller blades as they shot past me and down the stairs.

“Manny! Ginger! Fleur!” Ann called after them. She was small in stature, but a mass of blond hair pulled up into a ponytail on the top of her head added some height. She wore a loose T-shirt over snug leggings and had dimples in either cheek when she smiled, which she did as she held out her hand. “Don't worry about the dogs. They'll come back in a minute.”

The Frenchies had to have heard her call—as far as I could see, the biggest thing about them was their ears. Instead of responding, however, they were busy sniffing the tires on my car.

“Come on in,” said Ann. “They love to investigate, but as soon as they see us leaving, they'll come right along.”

She was right, and in no time we were settled in a sunroom in the back of the house with Manny, Ginger, and Fleur draped on the floor around us. Ann offered coffee, which I accepted, and then we got right down to business.

“I thought Barry Turk was pond scum,” said Ann. “But I imagine that's not an uncommon opinion.”

I nodded, sipped my coffee, and she continued.

“He never showed any Frenchies, thank God, so the only time I ever met up with him was in the group ring. While the judge was looking at somebody else, he'd kind of sidle over . . .” She stood up to demonstrate. “Maybe nudge you with his elbow, you know? Next thing, he's standing way too close. The first time I thought he was trying to get past me, so I tried to move out of the way.”

“What did he do?”

“He whispered in
my ear
! I don't care to repeat the actual words. Let's just say the suggestion was pornographic. I was so surprised, I nearly dropped my leash. I was showing Fleur at the time.”

Ann nodded toward a fawn bitch who'd fallen asleep with her head on my foot. “We'd had a group third under that judge the last time out, and it wasn't a strong group, so I was hopeful. But Barry got me so flustered that I totally blew it.”

“Did he win?”

“Second,” Ann said grimly. “With a class Bichon that was lucky to have won the breed. Fleur didn't place. At the time I was horribly upset. I felt as though it was my fault, that I should have been able to ignore him.”

“Easier said than done, I'd imagine. Did it ever happen again?”

“Two more times. That's when I decided I was going to file a complaint.”

“But you didn't.”

“No.” Ann sighed. “I started talking to other women who'd shown against Barry. He made me feel so dirty. I hated it. And I couldn't figure out why he'd singled me out. Then, of course, I found out that he hadn't.”

“Bertie mentioned that she'd had the same kind of experience.”

Ann nodded. “There were others too. I thought maybe there might be safety in numbers, that if we all signed the complaint together, something would get done. But it turned out I was the only one who was willing to go on record, and in the end I wound up convinced that the process would do more damage to me than him.”