Dancing Dogs (16 page)

She eventually narrowed the acts down to three or four and concentrated on those, giving each a distinct name and musical background, and a different costume for her, so the dogs had plenty of cues.

K
ARA TALKED
to neighbors, called schools and festivals, even tried to get an agent in New York City. No luck. One week, she put a small ad in the local
Pennysaver
offering her dog act for children’s parties. A week later, she got a call from a woman named Jean Kashimian, a social worker.

Jean said she wanted to bring her to the Green Valley Nursing Home’s Alzheimer’s/Dementia Unit to perform for the patients there, many of whom were enrolled in the county’s hospice program and were near death. Jean said Kara would have to present rabies-vaccination certificates, and they would put up a wire gate between the dogs and the patients at first, so there would be no potential for trouble. But the patients loved dogs, loved all kinds of animals.

Jean said they could pay $150 for a one-hour visit.

At first, Kara said she’d have to think about it. It wasn’t exactly what she had in mind, but still, in the end, it was a gig, a chance to try out her training practices. She had to start somewhere. So she took the job after all.

One sunny, early winter day, she pulled up in her minivan to the sprawling, one-story nursing home. She had driven by it a thousand times, but never really looked at it before.

She took a deep breath, put the dogs on their triple harness,
and let them out of the car. Jean was waiting in front of the main entrance.

“I can see you’re nervous,” she said. “Don’t be. They’ll love you guys.”

Kara signed in and walked with her dogs down four long corridors. Kara could smell the institutional food right away, the potatoes and soup. When they got to a door at the end of a long hallway, Jean punched in a security code.

She explained that the code had to be used, as patients sometimes got confused or tried to get out. “They all think they’re going home.”

They walked into an atrium. The dogs’ claws clicked on the smooth linoleum floors. Kara saw one elderly man strapped into a wheelchair shouting, “Martha! Martha! Martha!” over and over again. A woman next to him held her ears, and another was clutching her side in pain. Two women sitting on benches against one wall smiled and waved at her and the dogs. “Look, look, look!” said one, excited as a kid at a carnival.

Jean brought Kara and the dogs over to a small gated-off area that separated them from the patients. Immediately, one woman walked over and knelt to the floor. Candi came right up to her, waving her docked tail. The woman put her hands on her face and exclaimed, “Why, Spot! You used to be just a little poodle. And look at you now. You’re a big brown and white dog with the most wonderful eyes.”

Candi wiggled and squirmed with delight.

Another woman rolled up in a wheelchair. “This is my dog,” she said. “I used to have this dog.” She was smiling. Jean whispered to Kara that she hadn’t spoken in months.

A man came up and looked angrily at Kara. “Are you ready to take me home? I’m waiting to go home.”

No, she said, she wasn’t. He cursed at her, and pointed his finger, until a nurse came up and gently guided him back to a bench.

Kara plugged in her boom box, and took out the Bruce Springsteen CD. When “Born in the U.S.A.” came on, the dogs went up on their hind legs and danced for their lives.

The response from the audience was the strangest and most wonderful thing Kara had ever seen. People clapping, circling their wheelchairs, trying to dance with the dogs, yelling and shouting for joy. Afterward, Jean opened the gate, and the dogs rushed out to greet the patients, who leaned over to pet them and say hello.

One woman bent over so that she was almost nose to nose with Candi. “You remind me of my dog, you beautiful thing. My Hugo. I remember him.” The nurse said later it was the first thing Mrs. McCandless had remembered in a long time.

“Nobody comes here, not even their families much,” Jean said. “It means the world to them to see a dog. This is better than I’d hoped.”

It took an hour for Kara and the dogs to get out. The corgis loved the attention.

Jean signed Kara and the dogs up for weekly visits to several nursing homes in the area. They said they could pay her $400 a month for five visits. Kara agreed.

Two weeks later, she got a call from a man named Harry Avanti. “I’m a local theatrical agent, from Albany,” he said. “I don’t handle Brad Pitt, but I have fun. I represent acts for weddings, county fairs, corporate meetings. My daughter-in-law, Jean Kashimian, always talks about the work you’ve been doing in the nursing homes. I’ve got a gig at the Columbia County Fair and one at the Washington County Fair. Your
act is a natural. One thousand dollars for three performances over two days, two in the evening, one matinee. If this works out, I’ve got a dozen kids’ parties coming up. I get fifteen percent, do all the bookings, and collect the money for you. What do you think?”

For once in her life, Kara was speechless. She couldn’t believe it. She wanted to scream for joy, but just stood there opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish.

“Kara?”

“I’m just thinking,” Kara said, trying to play it cool. “Okay, yes,” she said. “Yes.”

W
HEN
P
ETE AND
S
ALLY
’
S ALARM WENT OFF AND THEY STIRRED IN
bed, the first part of Lucky’s day began. He jumped up onto the bed to say good morning. Usually he got a cuddle, but today Pete and Sally were in a hurry, hopping out of bed and into the bathroom with just a cursory pat on Lucky’s head.

Lucky was a small brown mutt with big ears and a short stumpy tail. The shelter people called him a “Heinz 57,” as he seemed to be a little bit of everything. They told Pete and Sally that he might have been abused, which helped solidify the idea that the little dog needed to go home with them.

Pete and Sally did not believe in buying a dog when there were so many that needed homes. Lucky knew the word “abused.” He heard it often, whenever he misbehaved, barked too much, growled at someone, peed on the floor, or
looked particularly sad. Usually, those behaviors would result in more food and attention, so he began to think it was an important word.

Every morning while Pete and Sally got ready, Lucky lay at the foot of the bed, waiting for them to lead the way downstairs. For Lucky, going downstairs meant it would soon be time to have breakfast. But first, he was let out into the yard, while Pete or Sally yelled after him, “Good boy, Lucky, do your business!” which he did. As soon as he returned to the house, it was time to eat.

Some mornings, Pete or Sally would take him on a walk through the neighborhood, but that usually happened on days when they didn’t have to leave. Lucky watched closely to see where they looked—if they looked at the coat rack, he would get a walk. If they didn’t, he usually wouldn’t. This morning, he didn’t.

Lucky didn’t know where Pete or Sally went, which made him anxious, as there was no way to keep an eye on them when they were gone. He often ran to the door, hoping to be taken along. A few times he raced past them and got as far as the car, but Pete or Sally always brought him back in.

“Get back, boy,” said Pete, leaning over to stroke him.

“I always feel bad leaving him,” Sally said almost every morning as she tossed a biscuit down on the floor to make Lucky feel better. “I bet he just mopes all day.”

Lucky looked Pete in the eye, then Sally. As they moved to put on their coats, he whined and barked. “It’s okay,” said Sally, reaching down to pet him. “We’ll be back.”

Pete gave Lucky another treat to reassure him. But still, he looked stricken and Lucky knew it tore their hearts. As they headed for the garage, Lucky stared with a haunted
look out the window. He whined and barked until they had gotten into the car and driven away.

O
NCE THEY WERE GONE
, the second part of Lucky’s day began.

Pete and Sally went right out of Lucky’s mind as soon as the car was out of sight. They simply vanished, and although he came across their smells all day, and certain things triggered images and memories of them, he would not otherwise think of them again until he heard the familiar sound of their car pull into the drive some time later. Lucky had no consciousness of what he could not see, no sense of the passing of time, no notion of the difference between one hour and one day. And he had a lot of other things to think about.

First off, he went into his crate, which Pete and Sally left open for him in the kitchen. He knew they didn’t like to lock him up in it, but Lucky loved to spend time in there when he was alone. It gave him a sense of security and a chance to close his eyes for a few minutes, to orient himself to the quiet of the place. Sometimes he ducked into the crate when he heard sirens, which frightened him, or airplanes, which unnerved him. Or when other dogs or deer came too close to the house, and he had exhausted himself barking at them.

When Pete and Sally were gone, his notion of the house changed. It was quiet in one way, but the noises and creaks and other sounds were loud and continuous. Lucky left the crate and went to check the food bowl to make sure it was empty, then he continued on into the living room.

The house was two stories, but Lucky preferred only certain parts of it. He explored the house repeatedly, many times a day, and carefully. He was especially interested in the
places with crumbs. And smells. People were messy creatures, scattering food, clothes, and other things everywhere.

Each day was a whole different story—varying smells of food, of Pete and Sally, of bugs and settling wood, and of shifting tiles on the roof. There was always something new to find, odors to follow. Lucky studied smells like a scholar, and never tired of them. Each morning, he painstakingly reviewed the scents of the previous day.

This day, he tracked pizza crumbs from the cracks of the tile near the oven, to the carpet underneath the dining-room table, where the pizza had been served, and in and around the sofa in the living room, where Pete and Sally had eaten. It was exciting work, and to do it properly and carefully took a good deal of time.

Then he hopped up onto the sofa that looked out onto the street, making it a good vantage point for keeping an eye on things. When Pete and Sally were in the house, he was usually not permitted on the sofas. They just didn’t understand.

Lucky saw people in a nearby yard digging holes, and a dog sitting next to them. He growled and barked intermittently for half an hour. The dog turned to look at him but did not growl, or bother to challenge him. Mostly, the two just let it be known that each was aware of the other’s presence. At first, Lucky’s vocalization was a warning to stay away, but it soon eased into a sort of
Hey, how you doing?
thing.

When the other dog lost interest, Lucky jumped down from the sofa and patroled the living room, listening for the sound of the cat who always mysteriously appeared from upstairs. No sign of her yet.

Lucky’s routine varied, depending on the weather. In
the summer, he sometimes went upstairs to lie on the floor of the tiled bathroom, which was the coolest spot in the house (and he could drink from the toilet bowl, which Pete and Sally didn’t like but rarely saw). In winter, he liked Pete and Sally’s bedroom, where he could jump up on the bed and stay warm (another place he was technically not permitted). Lucky also liked the vent in the living room, which blew hot air into the house, and was a good place to stay warm.

In the upstairs bathroom, he listened to the sounds of the water dripping through the pipes. He would tilt his head so that he could hear better, and puzzle over where the sounds came from and where they went. In this, he made no progress. But the familiarity of it was comforting to him. It was the sound of his house.

Back in the living room, Lucky took up his spot on the couch, where he could keep an eye on the neighborhood. Sasha, the cat, appeared, jumping up onto a sofa back and glaring at him. The cat mystified him; she ignored Pete and Sally most of the time and showed them little affection. She didn’t seem nearly as skillful as he was in getting them to do things, yet they doted on her anyway. She spent considerable time in Sally’s lap, and though Lucky was always seeking ways to drive her off, none were ever successful.

This morning when Sasha appeared, Lucky ignored her at first. Then he turned back to the cat for a Stare-Off, which usually lasted until Sasha either blinked or moved. This morning, she did neither, squinting at him through the narrow slits of her eyes. Lucky growled, which unnerved Sasha, and she hissed at him before hopping off the sofa, vanishing to some dark recess of the house. Sometimes, when there was a big storm or high wind, Sasha would appear and sit near
Lucky, and that was all right, as long as she didn’t get too close.

When Lucky heard a scratching sound, he was off in a flash, moving up the stairs, and then toward the rear of the house and into the guest bedroom, a place he almost never visited. It was a warm, balmy day, and Sally had opened the window to let some air in. As Lucky turned the corner, he saw a squirrel sitting on the inside of the window ledge. Although Pete and Sally were never home to see it, the cheeky squirrels who lived in the big maples around the house often tried to get inside, especially in warm weather.

Lucky charged. The squirrel chirped in fright, then turned and darted out the window. Lucky threw himself up onto the bed and over to the window ledge, barking and snarling until the terrified squirrel disappeared into the tree outside.

Lucky waited a few minutes, and then trotted back downstairs. He felt an ancient, primal feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment. Several times a day, pigeons or other birds landed on ledges and gutters, and Lucky rushed up to bark and drive them off. The house was his to protect from human and animal intruders, and he was conscious of this at all times. It was intense work, and it went on all day.

The oil heater in the basement clicked on, then rumbled to life. Sasha streaked through the living room and disappeared again. Sometimes she went down into the basement, where Lucky rarely went. Pete and Sally left the basement door open a bit so that Sasha could go check for mice, but Lucky knew that Sasha didn’t often chase mice. Mostly, the cat prowled the house looking for sunny spots to curl up in.