A Last Goodbye (3 page)

By then it was time for B. and Ali to head downstairs. Like parents dealing with a new babysitter, they showed Mrs. Hastings where the dog had disappeared and then quickly brought her up to date on as much as they knew about the animal.

“What do you call her?” Mrs. Hastings asked.

“We don't call her anything, because we don't know her name,” Ali said. “We're still trying to find her owner.”

“That's probably wise,” Mrs. Hastings replied. “Once you name them, they're as good as yours.”

Ali didn't want to think about that. “Sorry,” she said. “We've got to run.”

Their dinner reservation was in the steakhouse. The table had originally been set for twelve, but the number was reduced to eleven when Stuart Ramey called down to say he wasn't feeling up to joining them in the dining room.

“What if he bails on the ceremony tomorrow?” Ali asked B. under her breath. “We'll end up stuck with a ceremony and no music.”

“Stu will be there,” B. assured her. “Don't worry.”

For a wedding rehearsal dinner, this was a very subdued affair. The required speeches by both the best man and matron of honor were brief and to the point. B. proposed a toast to his parents, both deceased, saying that he wished they had lived long enough to have a chance to meet Ali. Bob Larson spoke about welcoming a new son to the family, and Colin stood up with his Shirley Temple in hand and said he was really happy to have a new grandpa.

The rest of the time, however, the main topic of conversation was the dog. If Athena had been upset about her son's having dashed into traffic to save the dog, she seemed to have recovered.

“My grandmother has a little dachshund like that,” she said. “Her name is Princess. She's probably about the same color, reddish-brown, and she's spoiled rotten.”

“Maybe they're sisters?” Colin suggested.

“I doubt that,” his mother told him.

“What if B. can't find her real owner, not that awful man who threw her out?” Colleen asked. She was still worried that the dog would end up in the pound. “Can we keep her?”

“No,” Athena said, shaking her head. “That's not gonna happen. We'd need a fenced yard.”

“We could build one,” Colin suggested.

Athena looked at him and shook her head again. “That won't happen, either.”

Colleen then turned her plaintive gaze on her great-grandparents. Bob Larson was the one who answered. “No can do, pumpkin,” he said. “Grandma and I take too many cruises.”

Colleen wasn't about to give up. She turned to Ali next. “You have a fenced yard,” she said triumphantly, as though the fence alone meant the matter was settled.

“The problem with that is Grandma doesn't want a dog,” Ali replied. “And I most especially don't want a dog on my honeymoon.”

“What's a honeymoon?” Colin asked.

Thinking that discussing the dog might have been a better bet, Ali let B. take a stab at answering. “It's something that happens after weddings,” B. explained. “It's when the bride and groom go off and spend some time by themselves without anyone else along.”

“But the dog could go, too,” Colleen insisted. “She wouldn't be any bother, would she? Uncle Leland could watch her.”

Knowing they had at least two pressing errands to run after dinner, Ali and B. went light on the champagne toasts and passed on having wine. Because Colin and Colleen would be in attendance and maybe running out of steam, Ali had booked the earliest possible dinner reservation.

It was only a little past eight thirty when B. and Ali went back upstairs to their room and discovered that a plastic sign with the words
PET IN ROOM
had been hung on the door handle along with one that said
DO NOT DISTURB
. Inside they found Mrs. Hastings seated on the couch with the dog in her lap, sleeping again. The animal looked up groggily when they entered. Then, exhibiting a distinct lack of interest, she immediately resumed her former position.

“Poor little thing,” Mrs. Hastings said, patting her on the head. “She's completely worn out. She's barely moved a muscle.”

“So how was it?” B. asked, sounding very much like an anxious parent grilling a babysitter.

“Well, I've succeeded in breaking the code on a few things about her,” Mrs. Hastings answered. “She's definitely spoiled and much prefers being hand-fed to eating out of a dish. Once I figured that out, she ate her helping of hamburger like it was going out of style. I tried her on some of the kibble, but she turned up her nose at that, most likely because of her teeth.”

“What about her teeth?”

“Didn't you notice how bad her breath is? Her teeth and gums are in terrible shape. She'll probably need to have some of them pulled. By the way,” Mrs. Hastings added, “I'm quite sure she's lived in a multistory building.”

“Really?” B. asked. “How did you figure that out?”

“After she ate, I took her for a walk,” the sitter said. “She knows all about riding in elevators. The first time dogs get on elevators and start going up or down, they pretty much go nuts. Not so this one. She understood perfectly. She's also very well behaved, by the way, and knows all about walking on a leash.

“When we got to the elevator lobby, she sat down and waited like she already knew that doors would slide open and we'd step inside. On the way up and down, she just sat there, pretty as you please, waiting for the doors to open again. And once we got outside and hit the grass in the dog walking area, there was no fooling around. She did her business right away. By the way, there are more poop bags in the PetSmart bag.”

“So she knows how to walk on a leash and is house-trained,” Ali said. “But I'm not doing dog-walking duty. I'm here as the bride, not the resident dog walker.”

“That's right,” Mrs. Hastings interjected. “Someone mentioned that you're getting married tomorrow. That'll make for a busy day. What are your plans for the dog?”

“Our plan for the dog is to go to a vet tonight, find out if she's been chipped, and, if so, return her to her owner,” Ali said.

Mrs. Hastings reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card, which she handed over to B. “Well, if that doesn't work out, feel free to call me directly. You'll get a better rate if you take me for the whole day rather than hourly.”

B. slipped the card into his pocket, then reached for his money clip. Mrs. Hastings waved it aside. “I'm a regular here,” she said. “My charges are simply added to your bill. All right, then. I'll be going. I left the leash over there on the table by the door. Good luck with that vet. I hope you find her owner.”

Before venturing back out, both B. and Ali changed into more casual attire. The dog made no objection when B. attached the leash to her tiny red collar. Once he put her down on the floor, she stretched and gave a long, nose-to-tail shake. On their way out the door, B. offered the lead to Ali. She shook her head.

“Nope,” she said. “This is your deal, not mine.”

After boarding the elevator, they rode down and made their way through the long corridor that led to the lobby, all without incident. The dog trotted obediently beside B. as though that had always been her rightful place. It was only when the doorman opened the lobby door to let them out into the driveway that things went wrong. Several people were gathered on the curb outside, waiting for their respective vehicles to emerge from the garage. One of them, a portly gentleman in a double-breasted suit, was smoking a cigar with one hand and leaning on a cane with the other. As B. began to lead the dog past him, the dog emitted a surprisingly serious growl deep in her throat and then lunged for the guy's ankles.

B. was able to haul her back before any damage was done, but the man was clearly offended. “Hey, that's a vicious little dog you've got there,” he shouted after B. and Ali as they walked swiftly toward B.'s rented Caddy. “You ought to keep a muzzle on that ratty little monster.”

Opening the back passenger door, B. shoved the dog inside and shut the door behind her. By the time Ali opened her door and climbed in, the dog had jumped up on the center console. Then, before Ali could fasten her seat belt, the dog darted into her lap, shivering again as though the very idea of being in a vehicle was enough to petrify her.

“She's shaking again,” Ali reported to B. when he climbed into the driver's seat.

“I don't blame her,” he said. “We already know that at least one car ride she took today didn't end very well.”

Holding the tiny trembling dog and trying to comfort her, Ali saw the scene at the Palazzo's valet stand from a new perspective. The little animal, suddenly thrust out alone in a huge world complete with looming buildings and rushing cars, must have been utterly terrified. Much as Ali didn't want to spend her wedding weekend dealing with a stray-dog problem, she couldn't help but be proud of Colin, who had somehow, against all odds, managed to corral the petrified creature and save her from certain death.

Once B. had keyed the veterinary clinic's address into the GPS, they set off. Ali discovered that nighttime traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard was nothing short of astonishing. They inched along in gridlock fashion until they were able to turn off on Sahara. When they located the clinic, it turned out to be a modest one-story stand-alone building with a parking lot full of vehicles. The ride there had taken more than twenty minutes, but the dog was still shivering.

“Since we don't know how she'll react in a roomful of animals, I'd probably better carry her inside,” B. said, and Ali was happy to hand her over.

Walking into the vet's reception area reminded Ali of stepping into the ER waiting room of any hospital on the planet. A dozen concerned people were seated on chairs scattered around the room, accompanied by their ailing or injured pets. Spotting a huge German shepherd wearing a pinch collar around his neck and a bloody towel wrapped around one paw, Ali decided B.'s idea of holding their charge was 100 percent correct.

On their way to the counter, Ali counted seven dogs in all: a sheltie, an aging, white-nosed golden ­retriever, a bug-eyed pug, two docile pit bulls, and two Chihuahuas. Both of the Chihuahuas were decked out in sparkly Christmas-themed rhinestone vests. In addition, there were two carriers with cats in them added to the mix. The humans in the room looked worried and concerned. The animals, barely acknowledging anyone else's presence, merely waited.

“Can I help you?” a young woman in a blue flowered uniform asked. “What ails your baby this evening?”

“She's not really ours,” B. explained. “We found her abandoned earlier today, and we're wondering if she has a chip. If we need to make an appointment . . .”

“No appointment needed for that,” the receptionist replied briskly. “I've got my wand right here. It only takes a minute.”

She was right. After bringing an electronic device out from under the counter and with B. still cradling the dog in his arms, she ran the wand over the dog's shoulder.

“Yup, she's chipped all right,” the clerk announced. “An LPID chip. L-P-I-D—stands for Lost Pet ID,” she added, spelling it out. “You can get their information off their website on the Internet. When you contact them, either by phone or e-mail, give them this number.” She passed B. a slip of paper on which she had written the information.

“The poor little thing looks pretty thin,” she added. “Do you want me to weigh her?”

“Please,” B. replied.

When the clerk returned the dog to them, she was frowning. “A miniature dachshund like this should weigh right around ten pounds. This one clocks in at only seven—that's a third under her ideal body weight. And her teeth are a mess. If you want me to, I can take her back and keep her here with us while the people from LPID try to locate her owner.”

“What happens if the owner can't be found?” B. asked.

The receptionist shrugged. “At that point we'll contact Animal Control and turn her over to them.”

B. took a deep breath and looked at Ali. This was the moment of decision. The clerk had given them a clean shot at simply walking away from the situation and getting back to concentrating on their wedding.

“It's up to you,” he said.

Ali took a moment before making up her mind for both of them. “No, thank you,” she said. “We'll look after her until the owner is found.”

“Good,” B. said.

In the roomful of people, it may have sounded like he was speaking to the clerk. Ali knew he was really speaking to her.

“What do we owe you?” he asked.

“Not a thing,” the clerk said. “We never charge for helping return lost pets to their owners. It's a public service.”

Back in the car, with Ali holding the once again shivering dog, B. turned to her and said, “What now?”

“Let's get this over with and do what we can to find her owner tonight,” Ali said. “Assuming the chip connection works, we can drop her off either before or after we go to the courthouse for our marriage license.”

By then, iPhone in hand, Ali was already searching Safari for LPID. Once she found the website and the phone number, she handed the phone to B. Then she reached down and held the trembling dog close to her breast. “It's going to be okay,” Ali murmured comfortingly. “We're going to find your owner now. Just you wait and see.”

Once B. had dialed the number, they sat in the clinic's parking lot for the next several minutes while he waited on hold. Finally when an operator picked up, he launched off on an explanation of the situation. When he finished, he was again placed on hold. For several more minutes they waited while an annoying version of elevator music hummed through the phone's speaker. At last the operator returned to the line.

“Sorry,” she said. “I can tell you that the dog's name is Bella. I called the number we have listed in our records. Unfortunately, it came up as a disconnect with no referral to a new number. There was an e-mail address listed as well. I tried that, too, but the message bounced.”