Flawed Dogs (7 page)

“The Duüglitz tuft!” she said in an awed whisper normally saved for matters of religion or premium gossip.

Her mouth dropped. Then slowly, one by one, Piddleton’s fanciest citizens began murmuring the same thing: “The Duüglitz . . .
the Duüglitz . . . !
”

And one by one, they stood in solemn reverence. As if the pope himself had suddenly alighted upon Heidy McCloud’s head.

The most supernaturally beautiful dog that any had ever seen was before them. Sam’s perfect proportions, crowned with his tuft born of almost inconceivably careful breeding, was almost more than many could take. Flemmie Croup in the back fainted and needed slapping.

For a moment, Heidy thought that her dancing had won the crowd over . . . but then realized that all eyes were on Sam.

She looked up at her uncle’s window. The curtains were parted enough for her to see that his face peered down. Suddenly it was gone.

The judge approached and handed Heidy a large silver trophy cup while people clapped. Heidy had never won anything in her life other than time-outs in the closet from nuns.

She looked around at the grinning, cheering strangers . . . who suddenly didn’t seem so strange anymore.

The judge tied a blue ribbon around Sam’s neck and smiled at the dog. Sam grinned back.
“I love banana taffy,”
he said.

The crowd roared their approval and then, very suddenly, hushed to silence. They parted as if somebody important was moving through. More murmuring: “It’s Hamish McCloud!” “Hidden for all these years!” “He’s come out!”

Heidy’s uncle, still in his robe and pajamas, moved unsteadily toward her, wincing in the noon light, as would a prisoner emerging from a dark prison cell. He looked at Heidy, then at Sam. He plucked the dog from her head and stretched out his long torso, examining his ears, nose, toes, fur and finally the wonderful tuft. He looked back down at Heidy.

“Where did you get him, Niece?”

The crowd stared. Heidy saw Miss Violett standing off to the side with a plate of little sandwiches. She smiled sadly at Heidy and didn’t give her an eyebrow flash.

Heidy looked up at Hamish and then at Sam. “He just . . . dropped into my life.”

“Is he yours?” asked Hamish.

“NO!” thundered another voice. The crowd parted yet again, revealing Mrs. Nutbush in her blue fur, stomping toward them across the lawn, waving a shipping receipt. Her pointy heels suddenly sank into a mushy patch in the grass and she stopped, struggling to pull free.

Heidy dropped a horrified Sam to the ground. “RUN!” she screamed. “GO! RUN FREE! LIVE IN THE FOREST LIKE A GNOME!”

Sam didn’t run. It had been a confusing day, but one thing was very, very clear: He didn’t want to live like a gnome. He wanted only one thing now. Looking up at Heidy, he knew exactly what it was.

Mrs. Nutbush wobbled closer toward Sam, arms reaching out, eyes ablaze, fur gyrating and flying.

Enough is enough,
thought Sam the Lion.
Time for action.

He turned to face all the show dogs lined up beside him. He yelled one word, very loud and very clear.

The other dogs pricked their ears. There are exactly four words that are genetically guaranteed to turn a gaggle of pampered lapdogs into a mob of killers. “Federal. Express. Guy.” are three.

The fourth is the word that Sam now said.

At the sound of it, the dogs spun their heads and spotted a furry blue rodent of monstrous proportions.

Mrs. Nutbush froze five yards from Sam. Four dozen of Piddleton’s finest purebreds blocked her way, noses flaring.

Mrs. Nutbush flared her own nostrils right back at them.

Sam uttered the magic word again:

“GOPHER!”
they repeated like a chant.
“GOPHER! GOPHER!”

Good-bye.

The human owners dove to avoid the explosion of their howling, barking darlings galloping across the lawn, leashes ripped from their gloved hands. Led by a snapping, saliva-spewing shih tzu named Mr. Tinkles, the fifty-two elegant show dogs chased a screaming Mrs. Nutbush and her blue gopher fur coat through the orange meringue on the dessert table, under the coffee cart and directly through the Heavenly Acres reflecting pond.

Now, this is a shocking and violent part of the story, and there’s no need to dwell on the details. All that anyone needs to know is that by the time the Piddleton police department removed Mrs. Nutbush from the empty Heavenly Acres dog kennel into which she had dived, she was mostly naked but unhurt. Her blue fur coat, however, would be aggravating the delicate bowels of Piddleton’s parlor dogs for weeks to come.

Hamish McCloud and Heidy watched as a babbling, blanket-wrapped Mrs. Nutbush was strapped to a gurney and driven away in an ambulance. Her car was towed by the police captain, who turned to Heidy and said that it might take some time until the woman recovered from her emotional collapse. Would Heidy mind looking after Mrs. Nutbush’s new Austrian red Duüglitz dachshund? . . . And give him a home?

Heidy looked at Sam, who looked back at her. She gave him a little eyebrow flash.

She thought he gave her one back.

“Sure,” said Heidy quietly.

Now there’s a word, thought Heidy.
Home.
Hamish put an arm across her shoulders, and they both turned to walk back toward her new one.

Heidy slept in a room by herself for the first time since she could remember. No other girls. No nuns. No locked doors.

Only one dachshund curled up in the crook of her knees. A first for both.

She slept, exhausted from both the day and the dizzying reality that her life had turned inside out, becoming an object that she could at least begin to see as something having a recognizable shape. Beyond that, all bets were off.

Sam couldn’t sleep himself. He had a human of his own, he was lying in the bend of her knees and they were all on this marvelous thing called a bed. Who could sleep?

He looked at the slumbering girl, her butt arched toward the ceiling, arms bent in a pretzel below her stomach and saliva pooling slightly on the pillow below her open mouth, exhaling wheezing half snortles unique to exhausted, happy fourteen-year-olds.

They’re so cute when they’re sleeping,
he said to himself.
I’m definitely keeping her.

Eager to explore the huge house, Sam jumped to the floor and wandered out of the room and into the upstairs hallway, which seemed to stretch for miles. Light glowed around a half-open door at the distant end. He loped toward it, curious who in this wonderful place would be up so late.

With a long nose, Sam pushed the door open. Uncle Hamish looked up from his desk, wireless spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. His face stretched into a beaming smile.

“Sam the Lion! Our champion! Come here, lad, and let me have a close look at you . . . and that marvelous
tuft
!” Hamish held his hands out wide, welcoming, warm.