Murder Strikes a Pose (10 page)

the jogger’s ranting echoing behind us.

“That’s right. Run away and keep on running! I ought to call

the Humane Society. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to own

animals!”

I used to smile, nod, and pretend to agree when George said,

“You know how people are.” I didn’t know what he meant then,

but I certainly understood now. Fostering Bella was going to be a lot harder than I had originally anticipated.

After that, we avoided other dogs. When we saw one, we’d jump

off the trail or run full-speed in the opposite direction. I even found a sort of rhythm to it. Not a soothing rhythm, certainly not a relax-ing rhythm, but a rhythm nonetheless. See a dog, run for your life.

See another dog, run for its life.

But dogs were easy. Bella’s reaction to other dogs was consis-

tent and predictable. Her reaction to people—not so much. Most,

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she treated like long-lost friends or at least potential dog food pro-viders. But occasionally she’d see someone and go crazy, snarling and lunging like she’d done with Detective Henderson.

I was both confused and intrigued. On the surface, Bella’s

behavior toward people seemed random, but I suspected she re-

acted to something specific. I simply needed to figure out what.

John might not want me looking into George’s murder, but even

he
couldn’t object to my solving “The Case of the Cantankerous Canine.” And as a yoga teacher, I had the right skill set. Each time I worked with a student, I watched, reflected, and looked for patterns: patterns in movement, patterns in breath, even patterns in thought. How much harder could it be with a dog? As we continued walking, I closely observed, trying to solve the riddle of Bella’s aggression.

First we ran into a woman with a toddler. “What a beautiful

dog!” she exclaimed. “Is she a purebred?” Bella sat down and of-

fered to shake hands. “How cute! She gave me her paw!” The red-

haired munchkin-child giggled uncontrollably while Bella covered

her face with wet German shepherd kisses. I opted to keep Bella’s toilet water drinking habit to myself.

Later, we encountered a groundskeeper on lunch break. He

relaxed in the shade, preparing to take the first bite of his tuna sandwich. “Isn’t it a gorgeous day?” he said, smiling. He stood up, leaned forward, and held out his hand. “I used to have a shepherd like that when I was a kid. They’re great dogs. Can I pet him?” Bella pulled toward him, suddenly drooling profusely. “Hey there, big guy … Whoa!”

Bella ignored the empty hand he offered and snatched his

sandwich from the other, swallowing it in two large gulps. Then

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she nudged, licked, sniffed, and flirted, clearly hoping for seconds.

I sheepishly apologized before dragging Bella away.

I continued making observations, and Bella continued intro-

ducing herself to new friends. All went well until I spotted an over-weight man with a long white beard. “Look, Bella,” I whispered,

pointing in his direction. “That guy looks like Santa! All he needs is a red hat and a black belt and—”

That’s all I got out before Bella went berserk. She barked,

danced on her toes, and waved her tail straight in the air, attempting to look as large and menacing as possible.

There was no jolly “ho ho ho” from this Santa. Instead, he

yelled unrepeatable phrases, waved his cane in the air, and threatened to bludgeon Bella if she took even one more step toward him.

“Seriously, Bella,” I whispered as we hurried away. “Who doesn’t

like Santa?”

Bella had no comment.

And so it went. Women and kids were never a problem. Men,

however, were a conundrum. Although Bella generally liked men, occasionally she’d see one and go berserk. I looked for commonalities, to no avail. It didn’t matter how close or far they were, how short or tall, how fat or thin. It didn’t matter if they limped, jogged, or sat in the shade. It didn’t matter if they wore a backpack or carried a bag. It didn’t even matter if they were eating a tuna fish sandwich.

I wondered if there was some sort of “bad man” stench only

Bella could smell, but that seemed unlikely. The answer, when it

appeared, practically slapped me in the face. How could I, of all people, have been so blind? Bella calmly explored the trail about twenty yards behind a tall blond backpacker. He turned around,

and Bella went crazy. I could barely hold on to her. The difference?

When he turned, Bella saw his face.
He had a beard
.

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If I’d ever needed proof, I had it now. This was one smart dog.

“Bella, it’s not that I don’t agree with you,” I whispered. “But

sometimes you have to keep your opinions to yourself. If you want a new home, you’ll have to change your attitude.” She looked at me stubbornly as if to say,
you first
.

I needed help.

_____

I strode purposefully past the brand-new “Help Wanted” sign in

the window of Pete’s Pets, grabbed a basket by the door, and start-ed filling it with the bare essentials.
Water and food bowls, check.

Extra large pick-up bags, check. On second thought, grab two boxes
of those. Chew toys. Do I really need those?
I turned away until I envisioned Bella dismantling my dining room table.
Better get several kinds of chew toys.

Next up was food. What to do about food?

Obviously, last night’s dining disaster couldn’t be repeated. I

scanned the mind-boggling array of choices cramming the shelves.

Bags of kibble vied for space with foods that were canned, dehy-

drated, freeze-dried, and frozen. Some contained the meats of my

childhood, such as beef, chicken, lamb, and fish. Others were made of more exotic ingredients, including rabbit, venison, buffalo, and brushtail—whatever that was. I even saw one made of kangaroo.

Gross!

As if that weren’t bad enough, the next aisle contained yet a

different choice. Evidently, once you figured out what you wanted
in
your food, you had to decide what you wanted
out
of it. That aisle boasted foods that were soy-free, corn-free, gluten-free, and grain-free. I was beyond confused.

76

I searched the store looking for someone who could make

sense out of the chaos. I found Michael stocking designer cat litter.

One look at the glorified bags of soon-to-be-garbage, and I

could see where all those missing dog food ingredients had gone.

This display featured cat litters made of corn, wheat, peanut shells, and pine. Non-politically correct cat owners could also go inor-ganic. Then they could choose between clumping, non-clumping,

or something called “crystal.”

Whatever happened to using a good old sandbox? Obviously

the pet industry had gone as crazy as the yoga industry. I was pretty sure cat owners needed fifty-five kinds of kitty litter as much as yoga students (who practiced barefoot) needed yoga shoes.

Michael looked surprised to see me, but he left his stack of cat

box accouterments to talk.

“Hey, I’m sorry about what happened last night. I heard you

found the body of the
Dollars for Change
vendor that was killed.”

I shuddered. “Yes, it was pretty awful. I still can’t believe it.”

“The building manager came by and told me. Somehow vio-

lence seems worse when it happens to someone you know.”

“Jake the Jerk was by? Glad I missed him.” Oops. Did I actually

say that out loud?

Michael smiled. “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he? I don’t know

what Alicia sees in him. Most people seem to like him, though. I

guess you and I have better taste.”

I changed the subject before I said something else I’d regret. “I need some help. I’m taking care of George’s dog until I can find his daughter, and I don’t think the food I bought at the Super Mart is working for her.”

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Michael flinched as if slapped in the face. “You fed her grocery

store food? That stuff is nothing but fillers and trash. I wouldn’t feed it to a cockroach.”

“Yes, I get that. But it was an emergency. Besides, I think Bella may need special food. You know, the kind you feed sick dogs.” I

looked at Michael expectantly.

“Sorry, Kate, I’ll need more information than that. Does she

have food allergies?”

“No, I would remember that. Bella has a disease, but I can’t

think of what it’s called.” I looked away, trying to recall what

George had told me about Bella’s illness. “All I can remember is

that it has lots of letters, German shepherds get it, and she needs special food or she’ll starve.”

“Bella has EPI?” Michael asked.

“That’s it! I can’t remember what it stands for, though.”

“Exocrine pancreatic insufficiency. That’s too bad. EPI is seri-

ous. One of my customers has a shepherd with it. I think you’ll

need more than special food for Bella, poor thing. No wonder

she’s so skinny.”

“So, what do I do?”

“I’m not sure, but my customer will be. Let me call her.” He

went to the desk and started typing. A minute later, he grabbed his cell phone and went into a room marked “Private.”

While Michael made the call, I killed time looking at the “Pet

Services” bulletin board. A few dog training flyers caught my eye.

One who guaranteed results with issues ranging from separation

anxiety to aggression sounded promising. I pulled down the flyer

and put it in my pocket. I wouldn’t need this information, but Bel-la’s next owner might.

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Michael returned with a sheet of paper and a determined look.

“OK. Here’s the scoop. Bella needs enzymes to digest her food.

They’re prescription, so you’ll have to buy them from a vet.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. Michael pre-

tended not to notice. “My customer agreed to help you out in the

meantime. She recommended a food, and she’ll donate enough

medicine to last a couple of weeks. But she said you can’t just give Bella the medicine. You’ll have to prepare her food a special way for it to work.”

“That sounds complicated,” I complained. “I’m not going to

have Bella long. Can’t her next owner deal with all of this?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, without hesitation. “Until Bella gets

the enzymes she needs, you may as well not feed her at all. You

wouldn’t starve her until she got a new home, would you?”

Of course I wouldn’t. But I also remembered what George told

me about the price of that medicine. A couple of weeks wasn’t

much time to find Bella a new owner.

“Tell you what,” Michael said. “Let’s ring up your supplies, and

I’ll throw in a five-pound bag of food to get you started. I’ll call you when I have the enzymes. In the meantime, is Bella here? I’d

like to say hi to her.”

I looked at Michael’s bearded face. The mental movie of Bella

saying hi to him was a cross between
The Three Stooges
and
Friday
the 13th
. “Sorry. Not a good idea. She doesn’t like men with beards.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed that. I thought she just didn’t like oth-er dogs.” He scanned the shelves and grabbed a small bag of food.

“Don’t worry, she’ll like me. I’m great with dogs.”

“I don’t know …”

“Seriously, it’ll be fine.” Michael leaned against the counter,

folded his arms, and cocked his head. “Tell you what. Let’s make

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a bet. Bring Bella out to the parking lot. I’ll meet her there, where there’s lots of space.” He pointed to my overflowing shopping basket. “If she doesn’t like me, I’ll give you all of this stuff for free. I’ll consider it my donation to a dog in need.”

“And if she
does
like you?”

“Well, then,” he said, lifting his lips in a hairy grin, “in that case, you owe me a date this Saturday night.”

“A date?” He had to be kidding.

“Yes, a date. I have a feeling we’d really get along. You like to act all tough, but you’re actually pretty sweet underneath all that bravado. As for me, well, I’m an amazing catch.” I stared at him, speechless. “Let Bella be the judge,” he continued. “If she likes me, you have to give me a chance. If she doesn’t, well, who am I to argue with a dog as smart as a German shepherd?”

It seemed like a safe bet. That beard looked exactly like a Brillo pad—dark, scratchy, and teeming with bacteria. Bella would eat

him for lunch. I, on the other hand, would get free dog supplies

and a chance to knock some of the cockiness out of this overly

confident male.

“You’re on.”

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nine

Bella whined with anticipation as I unlocked the door and

released her from her mobile prison cell. She scrambled out of the car and voraciously sniffed her new surroundings while Michael

moved toward her slowly and nonchalantly, as if out for an after-

noon stroll. Bella spied him and froze; she stood completely still, ears pricked forward, intently staring. Her eyes practically burned holes in his chest. I smiled and chuckled to myself. This was going to be fun.

Michael edged nearer, until he was about five feet away. Bella

moved tentatively toward him three steps, then backed up again. I wrapped the leash around my wrist, took up the slack, and held on tight. No doubt about it. Bella was about to explode.

“Woo, woo, woo.” Bella’s vocalization was soft, almost mum-

bled. She was obviously concerned about Michael, but this was a

far cry from the vicious attack I expected.

Michael crouched down and looked at the ground. “Hey, Bella

girl,” he said in a low, soothing tone. He held out his hand, fin-81

gers in a fist—to avoid their amputation, I assumed. “Loosen the

leash,” he said. “Let her come up and sniff.”