Ruff Way to Go Read online

  RUFF WAY TO GO

  by

  Leslie O’Kane

  Copyright © 2000 by Leslie Caine

  In memory of my father, Stephan P. Mitoff, 1924-1998

  The author wishes to acknowledge the considerable efforts and contributions of the following wonderful individuals: First and foremost always, Mike, Carol, and Andrew O’Kane; Robin L. Lovelock, D.V.M.; Meredith Hutmacher; the members of Lee Karr’s critique group and especially Christine Jorgensen; and last but never least, the Boulder critique group, especially Claudia Mills, Phyllis Perry, and Ina Robbins. Thanks, guys!

  Chapter 1

  “Look, Allie, we got puppies!” my neighbor shouted across the street to me. The words sounded more like “‘Ook, Owie, ‘ee ‘ot ‘uppies!” because she’s only five and has a tendency to drop opening consonants.

  Melanie was gesturing emphatically with her little hands for me to cross the road. If she knew me better, she would realize that I’d jump through flaming hoops to pet a dog, let alone cross our quiet street in Berthoud, Colorado, to see puppies. What made me especially curious now was that I’d gotten the distinct impression that Melanie’s mother would jump through those exact same hoops to avoid seeing a dog. Perhaps I’d misinterpreted and was about to be introduced to guppies.

  I deserted my task of fetching the mail, which was almost always for my mother anyway—my having temporarily moved back home less than a month earlier—and trotted across the street, saying, “You got puppies? Where?”

  “At my house! Come on!” Melanie was jumping up and down, her dark hair bobbing with the motion. She grabbed my hand, her fingers warm and sticky. It was a bit depressing that she didn’t have to reach all that high in the process. With my free hand, I fluffed up my sandy-colored hair a bit, grasping for the extra quarter inch of height that drew me closer to the five-foot mark.

  “Up there!” She pointed at the Randons’ front porch, where Cassandra, Melanie’s mother, sat on their redwood porch swing, enjoying this warm late May afternoon. My eyes were immediately drawn to what looked to be a purebred Siberian husky. Even from this distance, she appeared to be underweight and was nursing what looked like an indistinguishable mass of dark fur balls.

  We trotted up the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath our feet. The husky and I locked eyes. Hers were the palest of blue, and she watched me warily from her vulnerable position. If this dog and her owners had been my clients, I would have immediately launched into a lecture about the importance of establishing a quiet, warm, sheltered place for the dog to nurse. As it was, I would have to be tactful. Not my strong suit. At least the dogs were on a throw rug, as opposed to the hard porch floor.

  “Hello, Allida.” Cassandra Randon gave me a big smile, which was unusual. In her mid-thirties, she was only a couple of years older than I, but she’d given me the impression that she’d decided the two of us couldn’t possibly relate to each other. She seemed to think my being single and working with dogs for a living made me a female Mowgli, if not a Tarzan-ette. “Melanie couldn’t wait to tell you about our temporary acquisition.”

  “Temporary?”

  “Yes, we’re fostering a female dog and her litter for a couple of weeks, until the puppies are old enough to be weaned.”

  “That’s nice of you,” I said slowly, trying not to make it obvious how surprising it was to me that she, of all people, would volunteer to house homeless dogs.

  “It was Paul’s idea. He’s a real dog lover. He wanted me to see what having a dog would be like, kind of wend our way gradually into pet ownership, you know? He swears he’ll do all the work.”

  This was the most she’d ever said to me at one time. Her having a dog must have made her feel that we had something in common. “That’s really a good—”

  While I was speaking, Melanie released my hand and reached down for one of the puppies. I grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her back just as the husky started to growl at her. Cassandra, meanwhile, gasped and leapt to her feet.

  “Never try to pick up a puppy while he’s nursing, Melanie!” I scolded, putting myself squarely between the girl and the dogs. “The mother dog will—”

  “I knew she’d be vicious!” Cassandra interrupted.

  “Are you referring to me or the dog?” I asked.

  “Come here, baby,” she said, holding out her arms. This time the intended target for her words was obvious, and Melanie, both hands pressed fearfully to her mouth, raced to her mother and all but disappeared into her mother’s broomstick-style skirt.

  “There, there,” Cassandra said, patting her daughter’s back. Then Cassandra clicked her tongue and focused her pretty blue eyes on me. “I meant the dog, of course. Her owner is a convicted felon. I should have known I couldn’t safely bring the dog here with my small child.”

  “Was this through the Humane Society?”

  “No, through that new privately funded animal shelter up in Loveland.” Her attention once again focused on her child, she cooed, “Are you all right, sweetie?”

  No good could come of making such a fuss out of the child’s having received one very justifiable warning from a dog. Melanie was either going to develop a trepidation around dogs matching her mother’s or learn to play the dog’s every action for Mom’s attention.

  “Weren’t you able to attend the training sessions for their dog foster program?” I asked.

  “Well, sure, we went, but I was hardly expecting to get a dog that was raised by a criminal.”

  “Setting that aside for a moment, Cassandra, let me ask you something. If you were nursing baby Melanie and someone rushed up and yanked her out of your arms, wouldn’t you growl?”

  She pushed her short strawberry-blond hair back from her forehead as she straightened, making her several inches taller than I; but then, so was everyone. “I see your point, Allida. Apparently, we should have been paying more attention in class.” She looked down and, in a babyish voice, added, “Shouldn’t we have, Melanie? Didn’t they tell us about how mommy dogs are protective of their baby dogs?”

  Melanie, her head still half buried in the folds of her mother’s skirt, nodded.

  Beside me, the puppies had finished nursing, and the husky got to her feet with some effort. Four of the puppies had drifted off to sleep, but the fifth was making its wobbly way around on the small oval-shaped rug. His size and ability to walk indicated the puppies’ ages to be four or five weeks. They would be able to begin weaning soon.

  I leaned down for a closer look. The pups had the soft fluffy fur of almost any dog, but their collie-like ears, square jaws, and curled over tails indicated to me that they were half rottweiler, or perhaps American Staffordshire terrier— commonly known as a pit bull.

  The husky cautiously approached us, testing my reaction and that of the Randons, who, fortunately for the sake of the already stressed dog, did not step back. The dog’s appearance was so clearly one of gentleness—her ears up, eyes alert, getting our scent. I walked to one side of her until I was even with her shoulders, then turned to face in the same direction as she—this being the least confrontational approach in a dog’s perception—and stroked her thick, smooth fur.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Suds,” Cassandra answered, clicking her tongue. “As I understand it, her owner is a big beer drinker.”

  “Guess that’s better than naming her ‘Foam,’” I muttered.

  “Such a good dog Suds is,” I said enthusiastically while giving her an ear rub. Cassandra raised an eyebrow in response to the odd speech pattern, but by my accounts, we were even. If I could put up with her baby talk to her daughter—not to mention her daughter’s unusual enunciation—she could put up with my speech idiosyncrasies when talking to dogs.

 
; My initial impression was that this was a really sweet dog and that the Randons, as dog owner beginners, were very fortunate not to have gotten the typical high-energy husky. Suds was soon trying to lick my ear—which I don’t tolerate under any circumstances, and I don’t care what species of tongue we’re talking about. I rose and said, “Cassandra, I have some free time here. How about if I give you and Melanie a quick brush up course on care and feeding of a nursing dog?”

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  “We can start with my helping you set up an appropriate location in your house for Suds to nurse her puppies.” I gave her a big smile, mostly because I was so proud of myself for having tactfully worked that into the conversation, but she didn’t seem impressed.

  “I thought huskies were outside dogs. That’s why I thought it would be fine if we just...closed off a section of the porch.”

  “The front porch is out of the question. You can’t supervise your visitors out here.” The woman must have slept through all of the animal shelter’s classes; my guess was that she was being passive-aggressive in response to her husband’s efforts to get a dog. Then again, I was painfully aware that my skills at psychoanalysis began and ended with canines. “Let’s see what else we can come up with. Do you have a mudroom, by any chance?”

  She did, and we soon had a corner sectioned off with some cardboard sheets the shelter had provided, and made a reasonably comfortable surface with the throw rug from the front porch covered by newspaper. Cassandra decided that, during warm days, she could just prop open the outer door to this room and close the inner door.

  Once having given mother and daughter the basics on how and when to handle puppies, we were soon seated at her patio table with the puppies napping nearby, while Melanie and Suds played peacefully—that is, if one ignored Suds’s happy barks, which I could but which caused Cassandra to massage her temples and shoot withering looks at Suds.

  This was a true dog neophyte, and I found myself imagining what a wonderful challenge Cassandra would make for me, if given the opportunity to convert her. I so wanted to say, You’ve got the dogs, you’ve got the happy, appreciative child, and you even inherited the nice fenced-in yard from the previous owners. Let me show you the joy of a family bonding with a dog. Let me teach you how to communicate with dogs and experience the richness of it all. But I decided my pronouncement wouldn’t go over well now. Best to wait another day or two until she’d begun to adjust to the concept of dog ownership on her own.

  Having let the conversation lag for too long, I asked Cassandra, “You said earlier that Suds’s owner is a criminal?”

  “Armed robbery, as I understand it. I got this secondhand from Paul, when he was checking into all of this dog stuff in the first place. All I know for sure is that the owner’s in jail and won’t be released until sometime in July. At which time he wants Suds back, but none of the puppies. I guess the father—Suds’s mate, I mean—was a stray or something. In any case, he’s out of the picture. Typical male, I guess,” she added with a laugh. “Knock her up and then skip town.”

  “If the owner’s serving time for armed robbery, he couldn’t have been around when Suds got impregnated. Who was watching the dog at the time?”

  “I guess his wife, who left town and deserted the dogs.”

  I automatically bristled at the thought of abandoning one’s pregnant dog, but resisted the temptation to point out the irony in Cassandra’s not noticing how irresponsible that was of the woman, while having joked moments earlier about the wanton dog’s “typical male” behavior.

  Cassandra watched her daughter’s joyful play, a wary, almost fearful expression on her own pretty, well tanned features. “I hope I haven’t made a big mistake in taking on so much. All I agreed to was to foster a dog for a little while, to see what having one was like. I mean, Paul and Melanie are just so avid about having a dog and all, but what if Suds’s former owner gets out early? I know he wants his dog back. I don’t want to take the chance of his coming back for his dog and, you know, casing our house in the process.”

  “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 th
e 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.