Cormac: The Tale of a Dog Gone Missing (4 page)

“Want me to get your checkbook, Sonny?” Diana leaned against the fender of the Jeep, her arms crossed, a smile for me.

“Oh, I have to pay? I thought maybe—ah…”

“That I’d buy lunch? Sure,” Diana said.

“Better take what you can get there,” Mr. Bennett said, his eyes twinkling. “A dog’ll sometimes rob your bank, you know.”

“Okay,” I said. “My checkbook’s in the glove compartment. I’ve got a pen.” I picked up the little dog. His mother came to investigate. She decided I made the grade, I guess, because she smiled up at me as I held her boy, then walked away to join her other children. The puppy had longish legs that dangled below my forearm. He turned his head and began chewing on my whiskers. His breath was hard, like a cigar smoker’s, but his honey-brown eyes fended off criticism. Maybe he was practicing his chewing technique for the furniture at our place, or, he could be hungry. I knew that I was ready for a nice lunch, and asked, “Do I get to pick where we eat?”

“Anywhere at all,” Diana said.

I put the pup down and wrote the check, while Mr. Bennett filled out the AKC forms for his registration. I had not even thought about the pedigree, said I didn’t think I’d file the papers, that it wasn’t important to me. Mr. Bennett suggested otherwise, made the point that it helped track the dog if another owner should acquire “this fellow.”

“No, sir. Not a chance. No one else acquires this fellow but the welcoming ground at the end of his long life.”

“It’s your choice, of course, to register him or not. And I do hope it works out that you two never part company,” Mr. Bennett said.

“Look,” I said. “Can there be any doubt we are made for each other?” The little dog had sat when I put him down and hadn’t moved since. He just stared up at me with his pink tongue hanging out.

On our ride home, Diana motioned with her head toward the backseat, where the boys and the puppy were all in a tangle with each other, laughing and squealing.

“Yes,” I said, a few miles later, “this dog, excuse me—this fellow—is one of the family. He’s a keeper no matter what.” At a stop sign, before taking off again, I turned and looked at the puppy in the back seat. John Luke and Dylan were now sedate and looking out their side windows. The young Golden, maybe twenty pounds at three months, was stretched out between the two boys, completely still, with his muzzle down on the seat but his eyes wide open. He looked straight at me, and I was so captured in his gaze that I didn’t see the car pull up behind me at the stop sign. The driver in the car behind me blew his horn, and I got underway again.

“You know,” I said, “we talked about naming him King. Be we can’t just settle for King. That could be any old king. But Cormac as in Cormac Mac Art, who ruled County Meath in the third century and was ‘wise, learned, valiant, and mild.’ Now that’s a kingly name.”

“Now, how can you know such a piece of trivia? You made that up, Sonny Brewer,” Diana said.

“No,” I said. “I know of Cormac Mac Art because I looked into the background of Cormac McCarthy’s name. I’d love to name our dog Cormac, and we could think of him as a king.”

“I like Cormac alright, I suppose. You did write the check, after all.” Diana turned toward me. “If I help you sell the name to the boys, can we dispense with the hyperbole about ancient Irish kings? It would be such a chore to go through all that when someone asks how he got his name.”

“Ah, yes, lassie,” I said, “let ’em know ’tis Cormac McCarthy for whom we be namin’ the pooch. Aye, and done it is, then.”

Several of my customers at Over the Transom have heard me say that Cormac McCarthy’s literary craftsmanship is unexcelled, have heard me preach that McCarthy’s penchant for infusing violence with a love of language is exquisite. I believe, and have hand-sold the opinion, that Cormac McCarthy’s unblinking eye catches man’s blood-smeared meanness in the glaring light of his particular art and renders it required viewing. It occurred to me that Mr. McCarthy might not be flattered to share his name with such a sweet, doe-eyed fellow as the Golden Retriever in the backseat of my Jeep. But, if Cormac McCarthy knew that I was a bookseller specializing in used and rare volumes, that I’d invested $750 for a first edition of Blood Meridian, then perhaps he might not judge his name taken in vain.

I shifted my musings to the rumble in my belly, and suggested we stop off at a little café that served blue-plate lunches, “a meat-and-three place” as Drew called it. I made up my mind to order the fried chicken and turnip greens and mashed potatoes and green beans. “Mama Joe’s would be great,” Diana agreed, “but what about—” she paused, “Cormac?”

“I didn’t think of that,” I said. “Hmm. Well, I don’t want to leave him alone in the Jeep for that long. I guess we’ll just have to skip it and go on home.” Printed on the cover of the folder Mr. Bennett had given me were these words: I will take care of you. And so I would, and it would mean sacrifice, beginning with the blue-plate special at Mama Joe’s. Mr. Bennett had said it might rob my bank; it would cost money to keep Cormac. And what had Diana said? Commitment. It would take some of that, too.

“Oh, well,” I said. “A homemade peanut-butter and jelly sandwich doesn’t sound so bad.”

By the time we pulled into our driveway, both the boys and the dog were asleep in the backseat. Diana cautiously, quietly opened Dylan’s door. I opened the other. John Luke’s eyes popped open right away, as soon as I laid my hand on his shoulder. He stepped out of the Jeep and ambled awkwardly toward the house. “What’s for lunch?” John Luke asked and disappeared inside. Dylan slept on his mother’s shoulder. They, too, went inside. I was left alone with Cormac.

Almost as if he had been waiting for the chance of some privacy, the young Golden opened his eyes but kept his muzzle down on the seat. I bent down, putting my elbows on the car seat, and brought my face close to Cormac’s.

“So, want some peanut butter, Cormac?”

Cormac stretched his face toward mine and licked my chin. I closed my eyes and let the pup slobber me down good. “Well, come on, pal. I hope you like crunchy.”

I SAT ABOARD the swiveling stool behind the sales counter at the bookstore. I kicked the Birkenstock sandal off my right foot and stroked Cormac’s head with my toes. He sat on his haunches looking through glass display case at the knees of the man on the other side of the counter.

I had rigged a gate at the open end of the counter to keep Cormac from roaming about the bookstore. Some customers were uncomfortable with him. Most days, I left Cormac at home to play in the yard, to chase any squirrels that dared explore the ground within the fence. He was healthy and active, with a great appetite, and had grown fast. At six months, he now weighed about thirty-five pounds. The first couple of weeks I had to remind the boys not to hand over table scraps, though now and again I did treat Cormac to a teaspoon of peanut butter.

My daughter Emily stopped by the store on her way back to college. She’d come to Fairhope to her mother’s place for the weekend. She walked in with a rawhide chew-toy for Cormac. “I can only stay a minute,” she said, taking the wrapper off the chew. Cormac knew the treat was for him. His whole being was invested in his eyes and nose as he strained to detect what Emily was about to hand over. “My dog loves these things, too,” she said. She told me her young Boxer was in the car, that she’d just got him one of the same chews at the pet supply store. She said she needed to get on the road to Tuscaloosa, gave me a hug and said goodbye, giving a little tug on Cormac’s ear. “He’s sure good looking,” Emily said. With zero modesty I agreed, following her to her car and giving Charlie a pat on the head. Emily said she had tests and a big paper to write and wouldn’t be back to Fairhope for three or so weeks. “I’ll call when I head back this way,” she said. She pulled away from the curb and I saw Drew walking down the sidewalk.

We went inside the bookstore and he came to the counter, leaning forward to get a better look at Cormac. “This mutt’s bigger than Zeb, but he’s twice as laid back,” Drew said. “Some day we’ll have to let the two of ’em run, so Cormac can pick up on a little rambunction.”

“No thanks,” I told Drew. “This guy’s got the perfect temperament for a used bookstore.” Indeed, the space at my feet seemed to suit the young dog, whose curiosity only now and then got him on his feet. I told Drew that Cormac was naturally housetrained. “It’s weird,” I said. “Even in the backyard he only uses this one small area for his business. And, he’s never once peed in the house. I put down newspaper, but he’s not interested. Only answers nature’s call outside where nature lives. I’m telling you, he’s a high-class pup. Most important, he’s good company here in the store.”

“I bet,” Drew replied, a touch of sarcasm easily detectable. “You need some customers in this place, man.”

“I’d settle for just one or two to buy a half dozen of my top-shelf books,” I answered. “If I sold this one book,” I turned on my stool and tapped the spine of the little green octavo volume Gombo Zhebes, “I could cover expenses for two months and take home some money, too.”

“You gotta be kidding me!” Drew said. “Let me see that book.”

“No. Better leave it out of harm’s way,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to take your money if you broke it.”

“Oh, bull,” Drew said. “I’m not going to break a book.”

“So, Zebbie hasn’t given you any trouble?”

“Not much. He chased my goats a few times. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do to curb the bad habit. Then one of my older billys took care of that.” Drew smiled. “I’d headed out to the goat pasture to scold Zebulon when he got a flying lesson from Julius Caesar. He’s kept away from the goats ever since.”

Drew told me that Zebbie’s other infractions were all minor, that he and Linda were glad to have him around. “And speaking of the little monster, I’d better go. He’s in the truck. Plus, I’ve got a concrete truck due at the job site in ten minutes.”

Drew went around to the end of the counter and called Cormac, who jumped up and went to the gate there, standing on his hind legs. Drew petted the red dog. “He is a good-looking retriever.”

“Quite the regal beagle, he is,” I said. “Plus, he can talk. He’s a great conversationalist.”

“Like I said, you need some human contact, man. You should start selling beer in this place.” Drew headed for the door.

“I’m not kidding,” I said, following.

“Oh I believe you,” Drew said. “And, like I told you, Zeb can fly.” He shook his head, then, “What in God’s name are you talking about? I’m calling Diana to tell her you’re drunk at work.”

I laughed and told Drew to come back to the counter with me. I opened the little gate, stepped in and bent over to pat Cormac. His tail whipped from side to side, his eyes lit up. I found his chew-toy, a piece of rawhide twisted on the ends to look like a bone, and offered it to him. Cormac took it, and bobbled his head to adjust the rawhide toward the back of his mouth, holding it crosswise the way he might retrieve a stick.

“Okay, Mick,” I said.

“I thought it was Cormac,” Drew said.

“It’s Cormac. And, Mick or Mickins, depending on the day or my mood,” I said. “Sometimes he’s just the doggins.” Doggins was our Tolkien-sounding word for canine friend. Cormac had not waited for me. By the time I returned my attention to him, he was already talking. All he needs to accomplish his special vocalizing is anything at all in his mouth: a leaf the size of a business card, a sock, a baseball cap. The sound he makes is like the moaning of E.T. in the movie before he said, “E.T. phone home.” It may not be English, but the guttural, throaty articulation still speaks emotions accurately. There, at the back of Cormac’s tongue, over his pink soft palate came sounds best described as like a mother’s purring over a sad child, or a grandmother’s mewling over her newest grandson.

“You call that talking?” Drew asked. “He just wants to bring you something.”

“Well,” I said, “It is something of a whimper, I admit. But deep and throaty, nonetheless, and endearing. Completely endearing.” I challenged him to bring Zebbie to the bookstore for a sound-off contest.

“Zebulon won’t concern himself with trivialities like this,” Drew said. “His fierce warrior genes compel him to engage in more worthwhile fooling around.”

“Like chasing goats?”

“For starters,” Drew said. “But the book’s not closed yet, pal.” Drew punched me on the arm. “I better get going on that one.” We walked to the door with Cormac following, talking all the while. He did, in fact, sound sort of silly grunting and moaning around the chew-toy. I leaned down and patted Cormac’s head and he immediately assumed the sit position. He tilted his head up, kept talking, kept telling me, no doubt, how much he trusted me to take good care of him.

“MAYBE I SHOULD’VE brushed you, Cormac.” He sat beside me on the passenger seat, perked up, watching the world speed past the window. The clouds hung heavy and low and it looked like it might rain before lunch. “Sostie is coming to see us at the bookstore today.”

Betty Fulton, a friend and author from Jackson, Mississippi, was to drop by for a visit this morning as she toured the South for her latest book, Love and Divorce on the Rocks. Her husband, my long-time friend, Scott Cannon, and their black and white Collie mix, Sostie, would be coming, too.

Betty had popped in for a visit about three years earlier while in town to do a signing at Page and Palette, another bookstore just up the street. Scott, who loitered in Over the Transom spinning tales of the wealth and power available to us both if we could only get in on the ground floor of the disposable bikini market. When Betty, tall and glamorous, walked in, Scott instantly hit on her. I learned later from Scott, confirmed by Betty, that he asked her that day if she’d marry him, then the blessed event took place almost a year later.

“You’ll especially like Sostie,” I said to Cormac. “She’s such a cutie, and get this, as much a hound for peanut butter as you,” The doggins hiked up his ears and scooted over on the seat closer to me as if to indicate, “tell me more.”

I took my eyes off the road for a second and lowered my voice. “My pal Scott did time in Ethiopia in the Peace Corps. Now listen up, Mick. This gets technical.” I thought about Diana asking if we could skip my discourse on ancient Irish kings when telling people how Cormac got his name. “In Amharic, what they speak in Ethiopia,” I said, “the word for three is sost. Get my drift?”