The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (2 page)

Before she shut the door, she stopped.

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

Stewart stopped cold.

Think fast.

And he didn't—think fast, that is.

“Your trash,” Lisa said.

Stewart hoped he did not blush. He was not normally a blusher, but with Lisa, he wasn't sure.

“Oh, yeah. Trash.”

“Well, bye,” Lisa said, her smile almost a knowing one, as if she was aware of the effect she had on him. But Stewart was pretty sure she wasn't, or didn't know. The door closed with a ratchety, hesitant Victorian click.

And Stewart slowly descended the steps to the outside trash bins, all the while smiling broadly to himself.

S
TEWART THOUGHT
about going out that evening, but didn't. There were several bars in town within easy walking distance, but he never really felt comfortable going to bars. Perhaps he kept hearing his grandmother:
All rum is demon rum, all bars are the devil's playground, all women in bars are not the sort of women you would bring home to meet your family. Is some bar floozy the sort of woman you want to meet? I think not.
His grandmother, who had been the person most responsible for raising Stewart as a child, had grown more strident and brittle in the past few years, as if trying to make up for time wasted just being normal and not sort of church crazy.

And he did not like having to shout to carry on a conversation, which always happened in bars.

He wondered if Lisa went to bars. He saw her leave the house on occasion, always by herself, and return home at a relatively early hour.

He mentally replayed their conversation this afternoon.

She's probably not interested in a relationship. Probably not. And not with me, at any rate. I mean, let's be realistic here, Stewart.

He grabbed the TV remote and flipped through the channels.

I'm a bag boy at the Tops Market. Not exactly a position that attracts women. Not much of a future there.

He got up from the couch and walked the four steps into the small kitchen. He stared at the counter for a moment, weighing his options.

Maybe a cup of coffee.

He filled the electric kettle with water and set it to boil while he measured out the instant coffee and instant, powdered cream.

I could go down to the coffee shop where Lisa works and get a real coffee…but that's a ten-minute walk. And four dollars that I don't need to spend.

He waited for the kettle to reach temperature. On the one end of the counter was the Verse-a-Day calendar that his grandmother had sent him for Christmas. The top sheet still showed January 6:
Let your conversation be without covetousness; and be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee. Hebrews 13:5

Stewart had read that same verse for four months.

I don't like to be reminded of what I'm not doing right. That is why she sent it. And I don't think I am being covetous…even though I'm not exactly sure what it means.

He had toyed with the idea of simply throwing the calendar away but worried that his grandmother, if she ever visited, which was highly unlikely, would look for it. And then what would he say?

Maybe I should start going to church, like she keeps telling me. “That's where you'll meet a nice girl,” she says. “A girl you won't be ashamed of.”

He poured the hot water in the cup and stirred it into a mud-colored mixture.

But wouldn't they know I'm there just to try and meet women? Hardly seems like a religious thing to do.

He walked back to his couch and set the cup on the small end table.

He stabbed at the remote again.

He got only a few network channels, sports channels, and that one that showed old TV shows, so there wasn't much to choose from.

Today, two college basketball teams were playing, neither of which he had any real interest in, but it was better than anything else he had come across.

Midway through the second quarter, the score at 35 to 39, Stewart sat bolt upright.

Was that a knock at my door?

He stood and waited. Then he heard the knock again, a polite, small knock, not demanding at all.

Not a Jehovah's Witness, I bet. Those guys are usually loud.

He hurried to the door, wiping his hands on the backside of his jeans.

In his doorway stood Lisa Goodly, with a small steno pad in her left hand and a pen in her right.

“Uhhh…hi.”

“Hi, Stewart. I hope I'm not bothering you. Am I?”

“No. I was just watching some game. I'm not really sure who's playing, to be honest with you.”

Lisa laughed.

I made her laugh. That's a good sign, isn't it?

“I had my doubts about guys and sports. You've just confirmed it,” she said, her eyes sort of twinkling, Stewart thought. “Doesn't matter what it is, just as long as it's a sport.”

Stewart grinned, hoping to match her amusement.

“And there wasn't anything else on I wanted to watch. Reruns of
The Andy Griffith Show
ran a close second.”

“I love him,” Lisa said. “And Floyd the barber is my favorite. Creepy, but funny.”

Stewart nodded.

She can't be up here just to discuss my television habits. Can she?

“I wanted to ask you more about the dog. At the supermarket this morning.”

It took Stewart a moment for the question to fully register.

“Oh, sure. Come on in. Sit down. Want coffee? All I have is instant. I have some tea, if you'd like.”

Lisa demurred on refreshments. Instead she asked him if he knew the price of the rawhide bone—“Two seventy-eight, plus tax.” And if he could give her a better description of the dog—“Not really. Black and white, but mostly black. Medium. Sort of longer hair, or fur, or whatever. You know, sturdy-looking. But I didn't get a long look at him.”

At the end of the questions, Lisa closed her steno pad and sighed, loudly, for effect.

“Do you think he'll be back? The dog, I mean.”

“Mr. Arden claimed it would. Maybe. Maybe it's hungry. It didn't have a collar. At least I didn't see one.”

Lisa brightened, flipped open the steno pad, and scribbled that detail down.

It looks like she has good penmanship—even when she's writing fast.

“Stewart, this is such a cute story…but it just isn't long enough yet. If he comes back, will you tell me right away? And will you try and remember the details? Assuming you don't catch him, that is.”

“Sure.”

One reason not to catch him.

“I don't know if you knew that I majored in communications and journalism at Pitt.”

“In Pittsburgh? I mean, at the Pittsburgh campus? That looked like a fun school. I had a friend who went there.”

“No. The Johnstown campus. It was easier to get in and a lot cheaper since I could live at home.”

“Sure.”

“But I want to write. Or maybe be on TV. On the news. I thought that if I can start writing for the
Gazette
…it would look good on my résumé.”

“Sure. Well, if the dog comes back, I'll let you know right away. Maybe I could take a picture. If I have time. And if Mr. Arden doesn't see me doing it. ”

“Oh, Stewart, that would be just great. You are such a sweetie.”

And with that Lisa gathered up her pad and pencil and departed, leaving Stewart sitting, smiling, with a cup of coffee that slowly grew colder and colder.

Stewart sat, for a long time, with the basketball game and the flickering blue light of the TV in the background, the sound muted, and stared out the window of the turret. He had cracked the window slightly. The third floor seemed to gather up all the heat in the house. It was great in the winter, not so great in the summer.

As he listened, he thought he heard the bark of a dog, down by the front porch. He tried to look out but the window would not budge open more than three inches.

Maybe it's that dog. And maybe…this is the start of something in my life. Wouldn't that be great?

T
WO DAYS PASSED
.

There was no dog thievery at the Tops Market. And Stewart began to despair. And grow more and more disappointed.

So did Lisa—but she was disappointed for different reasons than Stewart.

At least we're talking every day,
Stewart thought.
That's something. Even if it's only to ask about the dog.

On the third day, the dog reappeared, and, as Mr. Arden would say, “the criminal returned to the scene of the crime.”

Stewart saw him as he stood outside the automatic doors. But he did not say a word, or sound the alarm as Mr. Arden had requested.

I can't be totally sure it's the same dog. Maybe a customer left him out there. I don't want to upset a good customer just because of a case of mistaken identity.

Stewart kept to his work, and watched, just out of the corner of his eye. He also did not want to alert the proper authorities, at least not yet.

The next time Stewart looked over, the dog had disappeared.

Must have been a customer's dog.

But he also heard a commotion—a sort of small commotion in aisle five.

That's the pet food aisle.

Stewart grabbed his phone from his pocket and switched it to camera mode. He held it up, and from around the corner came the black-and-white dog, holding a large rawhide chew in its mouth, trotting, as casual as could be, through an open gap offered by an empty register, which had been secured with a small chain, hung at waist level, holding a sign that read
CLOSED
.

Stewart snapped three pictures.

Then he heard the clumping of a large man rapidly and clumsily descending a flight of stairs. Mr. Arden's office was above the pharmacy department on the second floor, just by the employee break room.

Mr. Arden wheeled out into the store, trying to force his right arm into the sleeve of his manager's jacket, shouting and sputtering at the same time, “Get that dog! Get that dog!”

He spun around the corner, almost colliding with an endcap display of Vernors ginger ale, waving his hands.

“You! Stewart. He's back. That dog. Get the dog!”

Stewart snapped a picture of Mr. Arden in full stride, white coat flapping behind him, his face nearly scarlet with anger and exertion. Then Stewart took off as well, running toward the door, a good fifteen steps behind the dog.

Whatever level of intelligence this dog possessed, Stewart thought he had a superb sense of timing. He made it to the exit doors at exactly the same time Mr. Rinners did, hardly breaking stride at all, and heading west down Main Street. Once outside, Stewart took off at a gallop.

He was nearly positive that Mr. Arden would not follow, nor leave the store unmanaged, even for a few minutes. Stewart saw the dog loping down Main Street.

And a curious thing occurred. The dog stopped, dropped the rawhide, and turned to stare at Stewart.

Stewart, not well versed in the ways of dogs, slowed as well.

“Good boy. It's okay, doggy. I won't hurt you. It's just that Mr. Arden wants that bone back. You didn't pay for it.”

Then Stewart snapped another picture of the dog, full in frame and smiling.

That is a good-looking animal. Handsome for a dog. And he seems as if he knows it. Sort of posing, isn't he?

The dog tilted his head to the side, appearing to be memorizing Stewart's face. Then he bent down, took the bone in his mouth, and took off like a furry rocket on steroids.

Stewart plodded on a few more steps and realized that giving chase would be futile.

I ran track in high school, but even back then I wouldn't have been able to keep up.

The dog ran down to Walnut Street, then headed south.

As Stewart walked back to the Tops Market, he passed the Wired Rooster Coffee Shop. He looked inside. Lisa was behind the counter, offering a broad smile to a customer while handing him a cup of coffee.

Stewart took a deep breath and entered the store.

“Hi, Lisa.”

“Stewart. What are you doing here? On a break?”

He leaned toward the counter and whispered.

“The dog came back. I have pictures. We can talk after work.”

Lisa's smile beamed at a mega-kilowatt level.

“What time do you get off? Early, I hope.”

“I'll be home at two thirty.”

“I'll be up at three. And I'll bring coffee. You like lattes?”

Stewart did.

“Sure. I'll see you at three.”

Today is going to be a good day.

The dog ran three more blocks, then veered west. He slowed to a trot, hardly breathing fast, but a running dog drew suspicion and this dog did not want to draw more attention to himself than he already had.

The weather had grown warmer, and for that the animal was glad. God indeed designed most animals to live outside, and the dog had a good coat of fur, but during the cold winter nights, well, no animal is truly and totally comfortable—at least none that the dog knew.

But he made do, and he was grateful that whatever power created him, and cared for him, continued to do so, even in this time of being alone and lost.

Most animals simply endure the cold without complaint, because complaints would serve no purpose. None complained, especially not that lumbering black bear with a thickly layered coat of fur that the dog had encountered in the woods several months back, just as the cruelest part of winter had broken. The bear had sniffed and snorfed and growled in the dog's direction. The dog had considered growling or barking in rebuttal, but did not, thinking that this strange, shambling beast might take any harsh noise as a threat, even if the dog kept the bark informative and not threatening.

Instead, the dog had backed up several yards, putting a thicket of dry brush between the two of them, then turned, and, as noiselessly as he could, had taken off at a full run, away from the black, large, furry creature.

And now that the warm had come back into the air, at least during the day, the dog did not feel as precarious, or as threatened. There was open water about, and often some food. The rawhide bone he now carried was not filling, not exactly, but it softened the growling in his stomach and made sleep come easier at night.

He trotted on, down the sidewalk, doing his best to act like a normal dog. He sniffed and noted the familiar scent. He had found a secluded place, deep in the brush, between places where humans lived, with only squirrels and rabbits in the vicinity, and none of those posed any threats.

In the past—how long he did not know—he had encountered the scents of coyote and fox and porcupine and skunk in the woods—all creatures he did not want to encounter in the physical. He sniffed to determine which direction the scent came from and did his best to pass as far from them as possible. Skunks and foxes were not dangerous, he knew, but they smelled horribly, and the dog, while not in the company of humans, not just now, was a fastidious animal and did not want to have an awful odor clogging his nose for days on end.

Coyotes could be dangerous. He had heard them, many months earlier, attacking something, and did not care to test his mettle against a crew of them.

No, this place where he bedded down was quiet and far enough away from humans that they would not see him or even take notice of him being there. In the cove of a fallen tree, a small depression filled with dry leaves, was a spot that made a perfect bed—at least for now, the dog thought.

Perhaps that human on the street, the one that talked nicely to him this morning, perhaps that human might offer a better form of shelter. But not today. Today the dog would peel off the plastic wrapper and gnaw on the bone until it was finished.

That human, the one with the nice voice and the nice face, he lived around here. The dog noted his scent the day he took the first bone. It was a unique scent, as all humans had, but this one he remembered. And that scent was strong here.

Perhaps, the dog thought, that human lived near this place.

He chewed and smiled to himself, stopping every few minutes to listen closely, as if to say that he knew that there was a power that looked after nature and all the creatures within, and would continue to look after this one dog and that there will be just the right amount of time to find the solution to this one dog's problem. In good time, all in good time.