The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (4 page)

Pretty. Smart. Confident. All the things I'm not.

“So why Hubert?” Stewart asked.

Lisa grinned.

“It's an inside joke, sort of. When I was little, I went to Catholic school through sixth grade. The public school in town was terrible, so my parents, who weren't Catholic, made me go there instead. And we had to learn all about the saints. Saint Hubert is the patron saint of rabies.”

Stewart was unsure whether to laugh or look concerned.

“I don't think the dog has rabies, though,” he said.

“Oh, I know, Stewart. But it's a cool name, don't you think? No one names anything Hubert anymore. Distinctive.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Stewart replied, then said the name again, as if testing the sound. “Hubert.”

“It's a good name,” Lisa said.

“I don't know. I'm not sure he looks like a Hubert.”

Lisa reached over and gently touched the top of his hand with her fingers.

“Maybe it will grow on you. Or him. If you see him again.”

Stewart could not think of much else than her reaching across the table in the Wired Rooster Coffee Shop to touch his hand, so he nodded, quite energetically.

“Sure. Hubert. Maybe. Sure.”

Contrary to his established modus operandi, his standard method of thievery, the dog, who was now called Hubert by at least two people, made his boldest move yet, appearing at the Tops Market only minutes past noon. The store was crowded, so a dog slipping past the doors hidden by a passel of incoming and outgoing customers became a simple matter of being confident, and quick. He grabbed the rawhide chew and was out on the street before Mr. Arden came hustling down aisle three, waving a broom, shouting to Stewart to bar the door.

Stewart was mid-bag at that point, and really didn't hear the shouted commands over the music incessantly played over the store's loudspeakers.

“Upbeat music makes people buy more,” Mr. Arden had claimed once when a checkout clerk complained about the insipid music choices. “And perhaps you're not hep to the new sounds. Music works. It's a scientific fact. ‘Subconscious retailing' is what it's called.”

When Stewart saw his manager wielding a broom, he could not imagine him actually using it on the dog…on Hubert.

By the time Stewart had bagged the last two cans of Tops tomato soup into Mrs. Levin's brought-from-home, recyclable canvas bag, the dog had already made it outside and Mr. Arden was sputtering, in a veritable tizzy, almost, at the front of the store.

“Stewart—where were you? You're supposed to be on guard, aren't you? Didn't I tell you to watch for that mangy beast?”

Stewart looked stung.

“I was helping a customer, sir.” He waited just a heartbeat before adding, “I'm supposed to be helpful, right?”

Mr. Arden sniffed loudly as if a disagreeable odor had just wafted into the store.

“Fine. Fine. For the rest of your shift, I want you to post more of these flyers—with the dog's picture. Someone is harboring this thief. Someone has to be held responsible.”

So Stewart spent the last two hours of his shift stapling a series of
WANTED
posters up and down Main Street and Central Avenue.

Maybe I should catch him and turn him in for the reward.

Stewart smiled as he thought about it.

Probably a five-dollar gift card from Tops.

After work, he stopped in and relayed the latest episode to Lisa as she prepared him a small latte with caramel syrup.

“The editor says he wants a follow-up story for the next issue. Do you think your manager would talk to me…like in an interview?”

Stewart shrugged.

“I guess. If you mention the store a bunch of times. Sure. I think he thinks that people will come just to see if they can catch the dog. He is offering a reward, you know.”

“I heard. Or saw. How much?” Lisa asked as the milk frothed in the small metal pitcher.

“I don't know. Maybe like a gift card to the store. He's not known for being generous, so I wouldn't think you could get all your Thanksgiving dinner stuff at once.”

Lisa laughed again.

She has such a nice laugh. Inviting.

“Listen, I'll talk to you after work. You'll be home, won't you?”

“Sure. I'll be there.”

Progress.

He walked out and caught his reflection in a store window.

Who am I kidding?

Bargain Bill Hoskins walked into the Insta-Print store with a copy of the
Gazette
in one hand and a pencil-drawn poster in the other.

“Can you make two hundred and fifty copies of this? And use this picture?”

The young man behind the desk,
SAM
written on his name tag with a dull Sharpie, looked at both, holding them up to the light and turning them one way and then another, as if he were examining a piece of fine art for being a possible forgery.

“You want me to make copies of this? The pencil lines are too light. It won't copy at all.”

Bargain Bill appeared to slump and inch or two from exasperation.

“No. Good grief. I want you to use your computer or whatever it is you use and type this up—and make it look professional. But make it look like this. And with this dog picture from the paper.”

The young man scrunched up his face.

“This picture is terrible. It will be all muddy.”

“I don't care about that. People will know what the dog looks like. From seeing it in the paper. The words are what I want them to notice.”

“Well…I guess. How soon do you need them?”

“Now. This afternoon at the latest.”

Sam scrunched up his face even more, looked over his shoulder at the clock, then back to Bargain Bill.

“Okay. Two hundred and fifty copies? That gives you the best price. What kind of paper?”

Bargain Bill slumped even farther down, as if being deflated in stages.

“I don't care. I'm going to hand them out, maybe tack a few up here and there. Good paper. Okay?”

Sam took the two pieces of paper and, as Bargain Bill left the store, he began to type on the computer keyboard:

A
S THE
DOG
, Hubert, gnawed on his latest theft, he kept looking up and listening. From his protected spot in the brush he could see the back door of the human place where that human came out with the plate of food that tasted creamy and good. It was almost warm and that made it even better.

He chewed methodically, nipping off little pieces of the rawhide, swallowing them. He knew that this food was not the best food for a dog, not permanent food, but it did help. He would have to make some choices soon.

He had once thought his only choice was to go on, keep moving, heading along the river, and keep looking, hoping that he would find his way to another human who would help him. Or maybe, just maybe, he should stay here and let this human help. The dog was not adept at making decisions about what to do in the future, what to do after this one moment of the present moved into the past. Dogs, as a rule, he thought, were not overly concerned about what will happen next—only with what is happening now, and perhaps a little concerned with what has happened in the past.

The dog was not sure he remembered exactly why he was alone and why he'd had to fend for himself for so long. All he knew was that it seemed like a very long time since he'd slept inside a place where humans lived. He used to sleep inside. Then he closed his eyes and recalled pain, and humiliation, but when those thoughts and feelings came alive in him, he did his best to ignore them. He instead focused on his still-empty stomach. Or the cold. Or the scents that drifted in toward him. Or danger. Or a thousand other things that a lone dog encountered on his own.

His present, his “now,” was all about being lost.

Some humans are not nice. The dog knew that. When the dog was reminded of that truth, when he went face-to-face with that reality, when he encountered mean humans, he did not like the experience; he disliked the jangly way it made him feel. When that occurred, he then thought of something else, something less puzzling, less confusing, less hurtful.

Not all humans are like that—mean. Not all humans are not nice. Some are nice. And kind. Like the one that gave me warm food. He was a nice human. He did not want to hurt me.

The dog believed he could now sense the intentions of humans by the way they smelled and the way they talked and how they moved and if they lowered down when they talked to a dog instead of making the dog look up. Some dogs did not like to look up. It hurt their necks.

He stopped chewing and raised his head, just an inch or two. The sun was halfway down in the sky. The air was warmer today. The dog felt comfortable. Almost.

He heard footsteps. It was that human. He could tell by the sound and by the scent. The human walked slowly up the steps and stopped at something, moving just a little as he did, then holding papers in his hands.

It was time for a decision. The dog closed his eyes, just for a moment, and tried to remember feeling warm. He tried to remember what it felt like to lie on a soft floor, feeling safe and without worry and without hunger and without pain and without threat. He shook his head and stood up, and made his decision.

He could not think about it more than he already had. It was time. He had grown weary of never being with a pack, of not being with a human. It felt unnatural. It was not normal.

He jumped over the log and crackled through the brush and weeds, heading toward that human who gave him the warm food. The pain of being lost and alone overwhelmed any hesitation he might have had. He wanted to belong again, and was willing to risk everything to get that feeling back once more.

Stewart looked up from the stack of circulars and solicitations that consistently made up the majority of his mail. He had heard something in the brush behind the garage.

It's that dog. He came back.

Stewart waited until the dog stopped walking, about a dozen feet from the porch. Then Stewart stepped to the backyard, moving very slowly, not wanting to make sudden moves that might be perceived as a threat.

When he'd made up half the distance, he knelt down, his knees on the damp earth of spring. He smiled, extended his hand slowly, and said softly, “Good boy. Good Hubert.”

When the dog heard the word “Hubert,” his ears perked up, as if it were a familiar word.

I'm sure it's not…but maybe it is. A long shot, but it could be.

“Come here, Hubert. I won't hurt you. I've got food upstairs.”

The dog, now called Hubert, only hesitated a second, maybe two, then he stood and walked directly to Stewart and pushed his wet nose against the outstretched palm. The dog made a soft growling noise in his throat, as if trying to say that he trusted Stewart and that he, Hubert, as an unknown and perhaps a wild dog, would pose no threat, either.

After a moment, Stewart stood slowly. The dog watched him.

“You want to come upstairs? I have food upstairs.”

The dog again tilted his head in response, as if he were trying to understand Stewart's odd accent and vernacular.

“This way. We have to climb steps. You're okay with steps, aren't you?”

Stewart, since he had seldom been in the company of dogs, wasn't certain that all dogs knew how to navigate stairs. He assumed that they did but felt it prudent to ask—or at least inform the dog that there would be steps involved.

Stewart walked up the three steps to the porch and the dog followed him, matching him step-for-step.

He must have climbed steps before.

Then Stewart opened the downstairs door and walked in. Hubert followed him in without hesitation. Stewart began to walk up the stairs and the dog followed a step or two behind, as if not wanting to rush his host.

Stewart opened the door to his apartment. The dog walked in right behind him, sniffing the air with enthusiasm, but not sniffing objects or furniture or anything else—just taking in the scents of the room all at once.

“This is it. This is where I live,” Stewart said softly and extended his arm, indicating that what the dog was seeing was the extent of Stewart's home. The dog seemed to nod and smile.

And then Hubert sat down, polite and silent, and stared up at Stewart, as if to silently ask about the food that had just been mentioned downstairs.

What do I have that a dog would eat?

Stewart opened the refrigerator and peered inside. He had never gone in for fancy cooking—or much cooking at all—so the majority of the foodstuffs inside the appliance were made up of condiments: ketchup, mustard, mayo, and hot sauce.

And pickles.

He had three jars of sweet pickles—all of them opened, all of them half-consumed.

I'm pretty sure dogs don't eat pickles.

Then he brightened.

I have hot dogs. From just last week.

Tops had run a sale on them and Stewart had bought two packages of the store brand “All-Beef Franks.”

He took two hot dogs out of the package, looked back at Hubert, who had remained seated, then took out one more.

He sliced them up into smaller pieces and placed the slices on a paper plate.

He could tell Hubert was excited about the smells, but he stayed seated and wasn't clamoring for the food like some starved animal. Stewart considered where to put the plate. A small alcove in the kitchen seemed perfect, and he set the plate down on the floor.

He had once read that animals like to feel protected when they eat.

“Okay, Hubert. Dinnertime.”

Hubert did not move.

“It's okay, Hubert. This is for you.”

Stewart stepped backward a bit.

“Go ahead. You can eat.”

Hubert slowly rose, looking first at Stewart, then to the hot dog slices on the floor.

Maybe they don't smell as much when they're cold.

Hubert walked slowly to the plate and lowered his head. Stewart could see the dog's jaws moving. Hubert remained bent to the plate until he had eaten everything. It had not taken long, but it was longer than Stewart had thought it would take.

Maybe he's just being polite. For a dog.

Stewart grabbed an old bowl out of a cupboard, a metal mixing bowl of some sort that was dented and one that he seldom, if ever, used. He filled it with water and placed it next to the empty plate. Hubert backed up a step to let him do so. Then he bent to the water bowl and lapped up much of it, making noisy swallowing sounds as he did.

When he was finished, he stepped back and looked up at Stewart, water dripping from his chin.

Stewart thought the dog smiled at him.

“Did you like that? Are you full now?”

Maybe not full, but if he's really, really hungry, it's probably not a good thing to give him too much at one time. Might make him sick.

The dog seemed to nod in agreement, licking his lips in a satisfied manner.

“I'm going to make coffee now, okay?”

The dog sat and watched as Stewart put water into the kettle and measured out instant coffee and creamer into his favorite mug. When it was finished, the dog wrinkled his nose at the scent.

“I know. Dogs probably don't like coffee.”

Stewart walked into his small living room, in the turret, and set down the coffee cup. Hubert followed him in, politely sniffing. Stewart picked his favorite chair and sat down. A thick braided rug filled up most of the floor. The dog stepped gingerly on it, sniffing at the ground, then circled three times. He stopped facing Stewart, then carefully lowered himself. Hubert put his paws in front and laid his chin on them, watching Stewart as he sipped at his mug.

The dog's eyes slowly closed. It was obvious that he was fighting sleep, but Stewart imagined that no domestic dog would sleep soundly outside, in the cold. He watched as the dog's eyes shut—and remained closed. In a moment, Hubert started to snore softly, sounding like a rabbit gnawing on a carrot.

So this is what it feels like to have a dog.

Stewart just stared at Hubert.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Bargain Bill picked up his stack of flyers.

“They look good. The picture is fine. It's not muddy at all.”

Sam nodded.

“I know. I called the
Gazette.
They sent me a PDF and I used that.”

Bargain Bill had no idea what a PDF was, but he knew that the flyer would draw attention.

Maybe I can get a big write-up in the paper as well. Catch a free breeze of publicity.

Before he left, he turned back to Sam and said, “Okay if I put one of these up on your bulletin board? Never know who's going to come in, right?”

And before Sam gave his approval, Bill was already removing the fourth thumbtack from four other posters, tacking his flyer up in the center, then stepping back and admiring his handiwork.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.”