The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (24 page)

When they returned, Stewart poured out kibbles into the dish and filled the water bowl with fresh water from the fountain in the hall outside the cells.

Hubert sniffed at both, but did not taste either. He seemed content simply to know that both were there when he did get hungry or thirsty.

Hubert looked up at them with canine satisfaction, or contentment.

They petted and hugged and petted again, then slipped out of the cell, and while Stewart locked the door, Lisa was on her knees, petting Hubert through the bars.

Stewart knelt down as well.

“Listen, Hubert. You have to stay here tonight. You understand? You have to stay here. It will be okay. I'll come back in the morning and we'll go for a walk then. But you have to stay here alone tonight.”

Hubert stepped back and sat down, his face gone serious, almost somber, as if he finally understood that he was under lock and key and would not have Stewart sleeping nearby.

He barked once, a serious bark, a bark of understanding.

“You'll be okay, Hubert,” Stewart said as they approached the outside door. “We'll get all this straightened out in a few days. Okay?”

Hubert barked one time, softly, as if saying good night.

As Stewart and Lisa walked to her car, she turned to Stewart and took his hand.

“Stewart, what happens if this all goes bad? What happens if they declare him a public nuisance or a threat to the public health or whatever? What if we lose him? I talked to my attorney friend and he said they could issue a big fine—or even have him put down.”

Lisa's voice trembled as she said the final words, as if saying them would somehow give them credence, which she did not want to do.

Stewart did not know where his sudden calm came from. He thought he would be more distraught than Lisa was.

But he wasn't.

There was something about the way Hubert stoically sat there, in jail, waiting for someone to keep his promise, expecting that promises made would be promises kept. And Stewart had little experience with people keeping their promises. But this time would be different. This promise would be kept—or he would sacrifice all to make it happen.

“It will all be okay, Lisa. It will.”

He looked deeply into her eyes.

“I promise.”

S
TEWART FAITHFULLY
came to the police station three times a day: before he went to work, after his shift was done, and later in the evening. Hubert must have timed his arrivals. Every time Stewart walked through the front door of the department, he could hear Hubert barking—not loud or insistent or frantic, but more like calling out, or just saying hello.

On the evening of the third day, Stewart asked the officer on duty if Hubert barked while alone in the cell.

“Nope. Quiet as a church mouse. Only barks when you show up.”

“That's good. I would hate to have him be a bother,” Stewart added.

The officer, a young patrolman with a shaved head, leaned back in his chair, the chair squawking in complaint, and stretched his arms behind his head.

“He's okay. We all go in to check on him, you know. I think it's pretty stupid to lock a dog up. We all do. Make you pay a fine or whatever. But such are the ways of small-town politics, you know?”

“I guess.”

“He's a really nice dog,” the officer said. “Reminds me of my dog when I was a kid. Kind of gave me the urge to get another one. Or adopt one from a shelter or something.”

Stewart walked into the cell area and unlocked the door.

Hubert, of course, was wiggling with excitement, whimpering, head bobs, and all.

“Must be boring here, all by yourself. Nothing to look at.”

Hubert barked in agreement.

“Well, let's go for a walk first. Then I'll feed you. And we can talk. Okay?”

Hubert barked again, again in agreement.

They took their normal, stay-off-the-main-drag route, and twenty minutes later were back at the jail. As they walked through the office, there was a stack of books on an unused desk, right next to the entrance to the very small cell block. A handwritten sign was taped above the stack:
HELP YOURSELF
. So Stewart took one, thinking that he could read for a while as he sat with Hubert to keep him company.

Stewart filled Hubert's bowl with food and the other with fresh water and returned and sat on the floor with Hubert, drawing his knees up and leaning his back against the concrete bed. It was not the most comfortable place to be, but Stewart thought that if Hubert could endure it twenty-four hours a day, the least Stewart could do was to spend a few more moments with his dog.

My dog. That sounds weird. But I guess that's what he is. Mine.

Hubert sat next to him and leaned against him, and Stewart put his arm around the dog's neck. That caused Hubert to wiggle closer. Stewart grabbed at the book, thinking the station must have some sort of free lending library for people waiting disposition of their arrest, or whatever.

It was not a contemporary book.

It was a copy of the Bible.

“But it's not black. It doesn't have a Bible cover.”

He showed it to Hubert, who dutifully sniffed it.

“Is that legal, Hubert? A Bible that doesn't look like a Bible, I mean.”

Hubert grinned and sniffed at it again, nudging the book with his snout, nudging it closer to Stewart, as if asking to be read a story from the book.

“Hubert,” Stewart chided with a smile, “you don't understand English. Or at least this kind of English. Too many
thee
s and
thou
s for a dog, even a smart dog like you, to understand.”

Stewart flipped open the book and read a few sentences. To his surprise, he could actually read it and it actually made sense.

“They must have changed this since I went to church as a kid, Hubert.”

Hubert nudged at the book again with his snout, growling happily.

“You really want to hear something?”

Hubert barked, not loudly, but firmly.

Stewart flipped the book open at random and began to read. It was somewhere in the middle of a section marked Daniel and, while Stewart didn't exactly follow the story since he'd started it in the middle, Hubert appeared to like listening to him read aloud. He leaned more and then slowly slid down, until he was on his side and his head was in Stewart's lap. His eyes were half open and there was a faint smile on his dog face.

“Huh. I sort of could figure things out in this. Like it was almost modern.”

He closed the Bible for just a moment and looked at the cover again. It did say
HOLY BIBLE
in small print, and Stewart was pretty sure they couldn't print that if it wasn't true.

He flipped it back open, closer to the end.

“That's the new part of the Bible, Hubert. That much I know.”

It was a section marked John.

He scanned the page and his eyes stopped on one particular verse—or sentence. Stewart wasn't positive what they were called in this new version.

Stewart read aloud, “
I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to the Father except through me.
”

“They talk a lot about truth in this book, don't they, Hubert?”

At this, Hubert scrambled to his feet, or paws, and butted his head against Stewart's chest.

“What?”

Hubert looked up and grinned, then butted his head again, as if he wanted to push that thought into Stewart's heart.

“You want me to read more?”

Hubert offered a quiet bark in reply.

Stewart thumbed through a number of pages, ran his fingers down the pages, at random, then stopped and read, “
And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
”

At that, Hubert barked again, and bounced up and down, and offered one last head butt against Stewart's chest.

Stewart closed the Bible and set it on the concrete bed and put his arm on Hubert's shoulder, wanting to settle him down.

“This is what Lisa knows, isn't it, Hubert? This stuff about God and knowing about the truth and peace and stuff.”

Hubert growled, agreeing.

“I could ask her what this all means, couldn't I?”

Again, Hubert growled, a truly-happy-at-last sort of growl.

Stewart looked at Hubert, looked into his eyes, and thought he could see something mysterious and otherworldly there, as if Hubert had a secret, had the truth, and was waiting for Stewart to come upon it.

“Lisa knows all about this, right?”

Hubert growled and began to dance and wiggle, excited.

“Hubert, be serious now.”

Hubert stopped moving and stared back.

“This is what you knew, right? When we left you here that first night. In jail. You knew…something…something that gave you peace. Right? I didn't think dogs understood things like this—but I guess if God made people, He made dogs, too, and maybe He made some dogs who know more than others. Right?”

At this Hubert began to dog-dance and bounce and whimper and growl and lick and head-butt with wild abandon.

Stewart let him go on for a long moment, then gathered the wiggling dog in his arms and just held him, held him firm and tight.

And the truth shall set you free.

Hubert had been in jail for five days.

Stewart continued to show up for work and do his job as best he could, but very few of his fellow employees said much to him, afraid that if they were seen consorting with him, and if Stewart somehow got blamed for everything that had gone on during the dog bandit's run of brazen, daylight thefts, then they might be cojoined with him—and somehow be exiled from favored employee status.

And no one wanted to be exiled and left adrift on Mr. Arden's bad side.

To Stewart's surprise, and to everyone else's, Mr. Arden had hardly said a word to Stewart about anything. Stewart heard a few snatches of gossip—that Mr. Arden had been instructed by the company team of lawyers and attorneys and HR consultants to steer clear of “the offender” until the city council held its hearing on the locked-up canine. Then, once Stewart and the dog were found guilty, in an almost court of law, the corporate hammer could fall on him.

No one wanted to be near that corporate hammer when it fell.

The only person who expressed interest in the situation was Denny King, who worked nights most of the time, and who was said to have a checkered past, and, as some claimed, was working only because of a state program that found jobs for ex-convicts.

“Tough,” Denny said the morning after the arrest. “You weren't busted, were you? Like for aiding and abetting or anything?”

“No. Just the dog.”

“Good. If you need it, I got a name of a great lawyer in Lewisburg. He's sort of a weasel—but then, aren't they all?”

Stewart nodded, not sure if he actually knew any lawyers personally.

“He can get anyone off on anything. You need him, give him a call and mention my name. Okay? He's a righteous guy, if you know what I mean.”

Stewart didn't know what he meant, but thanked him for the information. He was sure he didn't need a criminal lawyer. And even if he did, he couldn't afford one.

And I don't think animals get court-appointed legal representation—like the criminals do on TV.

Now, after five days of Hubert's incarceration, Stewart had made friends with most of the police force of Wellsboro—not that there were that many to befriend. To a man (and two women) they all expressed dismay at having a dog locked up, and even further dismay over the sad state of political affairs—even in a small town like Wellsboro.

And as he got to know them, he became more interested in the paths they had taken to join the police force. To his great surprise, one of the older patrolmen had actually majored in political science at the University of Pittsburgh.

“Waste of my time,” he explained to Stewart. “Should have just gone to the academy right out of high school.”

“And you like what you do?” Stewart asked.

The patrolman smiled. “It's the best job I ever had, son. I love every day. Always something different. Like dogs who steal, you know?”

Stewart was mostly certain that he was telling the truth and that he did really like what he did.

I wonder what that feels like—to like what you do?

The evening of the fifth day of Hubert's incarceration, Lisa and Stewart walked from their house to the police station. It was a warm evening, and Stewart liked walking with her. It extended their time together and it gave them a chance to talk with no interruptions.

Hubert, Stewart stated, seemed to be holding up well. “He looks a little bored, but he's happy every time I come and doesn't whine too much when I have to leave again.”

That evening, Stewart and Lisa gathered up a bouncing Hubert and took him out for his nightly constitutional.

The warm air was thick with the scent of real lilacs or some other flower filling the night, and the sky showed dark and clear, holding a canopy made up of the jeweled light of the stars.

A few blocks into their walk, Lisa pulled Stewart's hand close to her. All three of them stopped and Stewart and Hubert looked at her, wondering why.

“Stewart,” Lisa said in an almost whisper, earnest, and a little scared, “can we break him out?”

Stewart actually stepped back a half step.

“Break him out? Hubert?”

Hubert listened, then sat, thinking that this conversation might take more than a few moments. His head was tilted to one side, as if trying to follow dialogue being spoken in a foreign language.

Lisa looked both ways, up and down the street, as if checking for eavesdroppers. They were standing next to a vacant building that used to house a video rental store.

“Listen, Stewart, I was thinking. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to Hubert. And I have to think that a lot of this hubbub over the bone stealing and all was because of the stories I wrote for the
Gazette
. If the stories weren't there, no one would care, probably. So…I just couldn't bear to see something bad happen.”

Stewart turned to face her directly.