Murder Strikes a Pose (16 page)

A garage filled with dogs. Lots of dogs. Lots of loud, barking dogs.

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I walked to the door and tentatively rang the bell, hoping I was at the wrong address.

A matronly, smiling, and completely fur-encrusted woman an-

swered the door.

“Hi. You must be Kate. I’m Betty.” She peered around me, look-

ing confused. “Where’s Bella?”

“I heard all the barking and thought I’d better leave her in the

car.”

Betty laughed. “Good thinking, but I’ve locked everyone up for

your visit. Now bring Bella on up here so I can take a look.”

I returned a moment later with a panting, nervous, but at least

reasonably self-controlled Bella.

“My, she
is
a big one, isn’t she?”

“Bella, say hello,” I said.

Bella, always the crowd pleaser, went into a perfect sit and of-

fered Betty her paw. Betty smiled, grabbed it, and gave it a de-

finitive shake. The uproar of the garage-incarcerated dogs grew

louder, as if they could sense that their mistress was cheating.

“How many dogs do you have here?” I shouted above the din.

Betty counted on her fingers. “Well, I’ve got three of my own,

and I’m currently fostering seven more, so I guess that makes ten.”

She stood taller, as if to deepen her resolve. “But I’m no hoarder, ten is my limit.”

Ten? My God,
ten
? This woman must have been sent from the sixth level of heaven. Either that, or she’d recently escaped from a mental institution. I surreptitiously glanced around, looking for a discarded straightjacket.

“I don’t know how you do it. I don’t even have time for one, let

alone one for each finger.”

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“Rescue is definitely a work of love,” she replied, grinning. She opened the door wider. “Let’s go to my office where it’s quieter.”

Betty led me to a dark, windowless room the size of a closet,

covered in paw prints, dust, and fur. Loose papers covered every

available surface. There was barely enough room for a small desk

and two chairs, let alone two women and a jumbo-sized dog. Betty

lifted a stack of papers off a visitor’s chair and motioned for me to sit. Bella squeezed in beside me.

I wrinkled my nose. The distinctive, ammonia-like odor of cat

box wafted from somewhere in the near vicinity. Bella super-sharp senses picked up the scent as well. Her ears perked up; her eyes

sparkled with interest; she pranced on the tips of her toes. She was entranced by something
very
exciting on top of the desk. Something she wanted to get to know more intimately. Something she

needed to taste with her very own tongue. Betty looked at Bella

and grinned.

“So you like Diablo there, do you?” She lifted a huge yellow

tabby off the keyboard and placed him out of Bella’s reach on top of the filing cabinet. “Diablo here is my resident dog trainer. He’s not scared of dogs, though they probably should be afraid of him.

He’s doesn’t mind using his claws, and several of my foster dogs

have the scars to prove it.” She scratched behind the ears of the oversized jungle cat. “By the time my foster dogs leave here, they have certainly learned their manners.”

She closely watched Bella dance and sniff the air around the fil-

ing cabinet. “Looks like your dog is basically good with cats. That’s a positive thing.”

“She’s not my dog,” I automatically replied. We both watched

the canine-feline drama unfold. Bella stared intently at the filing cabinet, softly whining. I wasn’t so sure about Betty’s “good with 126

cats” comment. A far as I could tell, Bella would have liked nothing better than to sink her teeth into the feline hors d’oeuvre of the day. Diablo, on the other hand, flattened himself rigidly on

top of the filing cabinet and glared at Bella, claws fully exposed and ears plastered against his head. I envisioned flying fur, slicing claws, and spraying blood in my future.

“Maybe I should put Bella back in the car,” I suggested, point-

edly looking at Diablo. Diablo was, after all, the Spanish word for

“devil.” I was pretty sure I knew how that cat got his name. I didn’t know whether Bella or Diablo would win the upcoming battle, but

I didn’t want to find out the hard way.

Betty didn’t appear to share my concern. “Just leave them be,”

she replied. “They’ll get used to each other soon enough.” Betty sat down behind her desk and ignored the two feuding animals. Bella

reluctantly left the filing cabinet to lie down on the floor beside me. Diablo half-closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

Betty reviewed her notes. “So, this girl has EPI, eh? That’s too

bad. A serious illness narrows down the adopter pool consider-

ably.” She turned the page. “And you say she’s not good with other dogs?”

“Hates them,” I replied. “And she’s not too fond of some men,

either. She can be a real handful around a man she doesn’t like.”

Betty set down the papers and leaned back in her chair. “Well

then, we have ourselves a problem, don’t we? I didn’t realize she wasn’t good with men. That complicates things.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

“Aggression towards humans raises my risk substantially.” She

put the cap back on her pen and laid it on the desktop. “There’s a certain amount of liability in running a rescue, but aggressiveness, 127

especially toward people, makes it worse by a factor of ten. Most places would euthanize her.”

Seriously? I’d driven all the way out here only to be told to put Bella down? To my horror, I started to beg. “Please don’t give up on her. It’s not all men, just men with beards. She’s a great dog and—”

“Enough,” Betty said firmly, interrupting my plea. “If you want

my help, you need to stop talking and let me finish.”

I stopped talking.

“As I was saying,
most
places would euthanize Bella. But I’m willing to work with you.”

“Really?” I smiled hopefully.

Betty didn’t smile back.

“On two conditions.” She held up her index and middle fin-

gers. “First, you need to foster Bella in your home until she finds a permanent owner, and that could be awhile.”

My begging amped up to pleading. “But your web site says that

you have foster homes all over the state! Can’t one of them take

her in? They’re probably much better equipped to deal with Bella’s issues than I am. I’m not even a dog person—everyone knows I’m

the crazy cat lady!”

“Give yourself a little credit. Looks like you’re doing fine so far.

Better than most, actually.” She reached over to scratch Bella’s ears.

“In an ideal world, we probably
would
put Bella in a home with an experienced German shepherd owner. But our foster homes are all

overfull, and they likely will be for awhile. Do you honestly think I
want
ten dogs?”

I sensed that was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t reply. She

continued. “When I started this work, I thought I’d easily find

homes for my special needs dogs. The reality’s quite different. Very 128

few people will adopt dogs with significant health issues. Dogs

with behavior problems, well, I might die of old age before I find one of them a good home.

“Most of us here at Fido’s Last Chance end up being what are

called ‘foster failures.’ We try for years to find homes for these dogs, then end up adopting them ourselves because no one else

will. Eventually, even we reach our limits.”

Betty put her elbows on the desk and laced her fingers together.

“So, Kate, like it or not, it’s you or nothing. You’re all Bella’s got.”

I knew I could change her mind; I simply needed to be strong.

I stared her down, doing my best impression of an alpha dog as-

serting its authority.

Betty stared right back, not even blinking. I can’t explain it, but I suddenly wanted to back up, look away, yawn, and lick my lips.

If I’d been a golden retriever, I would have rolled on my back and shown her my belly in defeat.

“OK. I’ll keep Bella for now, but only until something else

opens up.” I desperately hoped she was exaggerating about how

long that would be.

“That’s not all,” Betty added.

“Second, you’ll have to invest in some training. We can put

Bella in the system tonight, but placing a special needs dog with aggression issues is next to impossible. So if I were you, I’d start calling positive trainers first thing in the morning.”

“Positive trainers?”

“Yes. Trainers that use reward-based methods in their work.

That kind of training may take longer, but it’s more humane and,

I believe, more effective in the long run than punishment-based

methods.”

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“Maybe I should keep looking for a shelter with space,” I said,

discouraged.

Betty’s years in rescue must have left her pragmatic. “I’m sorry, Kate, but I’m going to be brutally honest here. Even if you find a shelter that’s willing to take Bella, an environment like that is too stressful. You’d be torturing her. Sensitive dogs like Bella never make it.” Although she patted Bella with affection, her implication was clear.

“You have a decision to make. If you can’t work with Bella,

then you need to do what’s right and let her go.” In case I was completely oblivious, she added, “Go to doggy heaven, that is.”

Betty and I stared at each other in silence. I thought about

George and how much Bella had meant to him—how much she

had enhanced his otherwise tragic life. Killing her wasn’t an op-

tion. I signed on the dotted line.

“Beautiful,” Betty said, standing and slapping her thighs. “Now

we have one final item of business. Bring Bella over here and let me scan her for a microchip.”

“She doesn’t have one,” I quickly asserted, hoping against hope

that would close the issue. I’d neglected to share a couple of minor details about Bella’s origins. I was afraid Betty wouldn’t take a stolen dog.

Betty’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “How could you possibly know

whether or not she’s microchipped? According to your story, you

got her from a dead homeless guy, and he found her abandoned.”

Busted.

“Well,” I said stammering, “maybe abandoned was too strong a

word. She was more like lost. But she was much too young to have

a chip, I’m sure, and—”

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“Stop right there, child,” Betty said, holding up her palm. “I

can tell when I’m being hoodwinked. Now the truth, please. Spit

it out.”

I don’t know why I expected her to be so gullible; Betty obvi-

ously knew people even better than she knew dogs. I reluctantly

shared what I knew of Bella’s early life, her mistreatment, and how George “rescued” her from her own front yard.

“So, you see, even if she has a microchip, Bella can’t possibly go back to those people.”

“I can sympathize, but it doesn’t matter,” Betty replied. “Before I place a dog, especially a purebred dog, I have to look for a possible owner. If I got caught placing stolen dogs, I’d be out of business like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“Besides, how do you know your friend told you the truth?

Maybe Bella wasn’t abused at all. People steal puppies all the time.

Sometimes they have the best intentions. They see a puppy tied up outside a grocery store and assume it’s abandoned. Other times

they steal a pup right out of its yard, like your friend did. Not because the dog is abused, but because it’s cute.

“My point is, Bella may have a legal owner who wants her back.

Her real family might have given up looking after all this time, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t wanted.”

I listened to Betty’s lecture in silence. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit. But how well did I know George, really? I agreed to the scan.

As Betty ran the scanner over Bella’s shoulders, I closed my

eyes and prayed.
Please, God, please don’t let her be chipped. If you
let this one thing turn out OK—”

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“Well, look at that!” Betty exclaimed. “I got a hit! We may be in luck.” She pulled up a web site and entered a number. “The office is closed right now, but I’ll give them a call first thing tomorrow.”

My horrified expression betrayed my fears.

“Look, honey, don’t worry so much,” Betty said, patting my

hand. “If Bella’s original owners are the deadbeats your friend

described, they either won’t be registered anymore, or they won’t want Bella back. If they
do
want her back, then they’re probably a lot better people than you think.” She stood up and grabbed a

camera.

“In any case, we won’t know anything until tomorrow. For

now, get Bella to sit pretty. I’ll take her photo and post her profile in the online adoption center. Then you should head on home and

start calling trainers. If this microchip ends up being a dead end, you’re going to have your work cut out for you.”

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fifteen

After a sleepless night of obsessive worry, I returned to the

place I knew best: the wonderful land of denial. A kind, benevo-

lent world in which Bella’s microchip would be a dead end. A land in which I, and I alone, would control Bella’s fate. In my fantasy, all Bella needed was a
tiny
bit of training. And if Bella needed training, by God, Bella would get training.

A small-time trainer who posted on pet store bulletin boards

would never do. So as soon as I finished teaching the lunchtime

yoga class, I opened the studio’s desk drawer and pulled out the

time-tested marketing tool of successful businesses everywhere:

The Yellow Pages
. I ultimately settled on the trainer with the biggest listing. I knew how much those ads cost; I practically cried every month when I wrote the check for Serenity Yoga’s tiny,