Dancing Dogs (3 page)

She had a snapshot of Casey, her golden, up on the counter above the window where she served the early risers and commuters who came through the drive-thru. Photos of all of her dogs were up on her refrigerator at home. Casey had marked Lisabeth’s move into middle age, her kids growing up, and some of the fun going out of her marriage. Frank had always been a quiet, low-key man, but in recent years he had become withdrawn, losing himself—or hiding maybe—in sports, especially the New York Yankees, whose every game he watched with almost obsessive attention. Sometimes, he forgot their anniversary or her birthday, but he always knew the standings, batting averages, and the combined ERA of the Yankee pitching staff by heart. And maybe he was jealous of all the pets. Every dog or cat that she’d brought into the house had been a pitched battle until a year ago, when her beloved Casey died of liver cancer.

Frank, a night-shift supervisor at a meatpacking warehouse, had put his foot down after $2,400 in vet bills. That was it, he said. No more dog food. No more ruined couches. No more diarrhea on his grandmother’s rug. No more walks in the rain and snow. No more dog hair on his sweatshirts and pants. No more peeing on the kitchen floor. No more pretzels snatched from the TV table.

No more listening to Lisabeth coo to Casey like she once had to him when they first started dating, in what he always
called the “empty years,” the time before Steinbrenner, the years when the Yankees weren’t in it, weren’t trying.

No more dogs.

Relationships, Lisabeth told Jeannie, her dawn-at-the-drive-thru colleague, were all about the little things, the small gestures, the thoughtfulness, and occasional endearments. These days, Frank didn’t do any of those things. As he was fond of pointing out, he grew up in a house where there was a hot meal waiting for him every night, and he expected the same from his wife. At least he hoped for it. But, Lisabeth said, laughing, he rarely got it. She wasn’t much of a cook, and was usually working at one job or another, something he did appreciate.

God forbid, she thought, he would ever get up and make both of them a hot meal. That was not something he ever saw in his mother’s house.

There was a kind of holding-the-line quality to their life. If their marriage wasn’t exactly a fairy tale, it wasn’t the worst either. They were nice to each other, offered sanctuary to their two kids, and managed to scrape up enough money to get to Lake George for two weeks every September.

Sometimes, during their twenty-nine years of marriage, Lisabeth’s love of animals had made the difference for her, even if Frank was never interested. “They just find me,” she told him, but his response was always the same: “Let them go find somebody else.”

Until recently, Lisabeth had always found some way to get them in the house. But this time was different. Frank was really putting his foot down.

“So what are you going to do about a new dog?” asked Jeannie. Jeannie lived with her mother, and had four cats and two rescue dogs, and to be quite honest, she couldn’t
imagine a life with only people—with Frank, in particular—and no animals.

“I don’t know,” said Lisabeth. “Frank says no animals, no more dogs. He says we can’t afford it. And he’s probably right.”

Jeannie looked up at the screen to see how many coffees she had to make. “No animals?” Her tone was incredulous.

Lisabeth took an order—double latte, six glazed, three apple-cranberry muffins, two medium hot coffees, light and sweet.

“Pull up to the window, please,” she told the customer.

“Do you have to tell him?”

Lisabeth laughed. “Well, honey, you can’t exactly sneak a beagle into the house and keep it a secret.”

Lisabeth reached behind her for her sack of the donut holes, saved as occasional treats for dogs. It was an unofficial policy at DD to give a Munchkin to a dog if the owner asked. Mostly, they were given for free. Dogs everywhere were excited to see a DD.

Lisabeth thought she had heard a dog barking through the microphone. A minute later, an SUV pulled up, and the big head of Bailey, the Lab, was sticking out the rear window. Feeding the dogs was the best part of her job, she thought. There were about a dozen regulars, and Jim, the manager, liked to joke that you would have thought all of their customers were dogs. Lisabeth never laughed at that. The dogs were always happy to see her, and they didn’t mumble into the intercom, rush their orders, squawk about mix-ups, prices, or the time it took to make a cup of coffee.

She turned to Jeannie. “I was on Petfinder again last night, and they got a beautiful dog, a rescue beagle with the biggest brown eyes you ever saw. He’s healthy, and got his
shots. His owner died of a stroke, and he was found starving in the house. Housebroken and all. A sweetie, they say.”

“But Frank said ‘no more dogs,’ ” Jeannie said, filling the coffee orders at her station next to the microphone.

“I know, I know,” said Lisabeth.

Jeannie shook her head, silently grateful she didn’t have a husband telling her what dogs or cats she couldn’t get. She’d had two husbands in her life, and neither of them were worth a single one of her cats.

“The rescue people are coming to the mall to meet me after work.”

“You don’t have to go,” Jeannie said, putting the lids on the coffees.

Lisabeth took two more orders, and then checked the monitors. “Yeah, and birds don’t have to fly.”

L
ISABETH AND
J
EANNIE PULLED
into the southernmost parking lot by the Wedgewood Mall, the biggest in the county, and waited for the blue minivan coming up from North Carolina Beagle Rescue.

“There it is,” Jeannie called out. Lisabeth flashed her lights, and the van swerved over to them.

Janet, the driver, introduced herself before opening the sliding door. Inside, there was considerable baying and howling. Lisabeth looked in and a beautiful beagle looked back at her, his tail thumping wildly behind him.

Janet closed the door. “They get too excited,” she said. But Lisabeth knew that wasn’t the real reason Janet closed the door. It was in case things didn’t work out; Janet didn’t want the dogs to get their hopes up.

Lisabeth didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take him.”

Jeannie looked at her, a bit startled after listening all day to how Frank would never go for it.

Janet took out a form and asked Lisabeth a lot of questions. Did she have a fence? What kind of food did she use? Would she pledge to neuter the dog? How often was she home? What kind of training method did she use? Would she get the dog shots every year? Were there kids in the house? Old people? What did her husband think? Did he want the dog? Would she allow a representative to come and visit the dog? Would she walk him three times a day?

Lisabeth had been through this before, and mostly told the truth. Janet went through her drill, they exchanged forms, and Lisabeth handed over a $50 donation. Janet said she had four more dogs to drop off, all the way up to the Canadian border, so she gratefully accepted the coffee and donuts Lisabeth and Jeannie had brought over from DD.

After walking around to the back of the van to get the dog, Janet opened the crate and fastened a leash to his collar. The dog, about three years old, hurtled out of the van and began sniffing Lisabeth’s sneakers, his tail going like an airplane propeller.

“They’re nose dogs, you know,” said Janet, “so they’re not always the most obedient creatures. Especially if they smell something.”

She said the dog’s name was Owen. Mostly, his elderly owner and he had watched TV. He got along well with other dogs—she didn’t know about cats—but he seemed relatively easygoing, at least for a beagle.

Lisabeth was on her knees, not listening much; she was too busy rubbing her hands along the side of Owen’s head. She pulled a handful of biscuits out of her pocket, and the dog wolfed them down hungrily.

“This is going to work,” she said, and the dog seemed to look at her in agreement.

L
ISABETH PULLED
into the driveway of her small split-level. Frank’s battered old Chevy pickup was in the driveway. From the car, she saw the TV lights flickering in the living room—the big flat screen she and the kids had gotten Frank last summer as the Yankees charged toward the World Series and flopped along the way. If she’d known they were going to be wiped out by the Angels, she would have gotten him a country-western CD, maybe Hank Williams. Or a DVD about Derek Jeter.

Her heart was racing a bit. Frank wasn’t a bad guy, not really. And he had permitted a lot of dogs and who-knows-how-many cats over the years. But since Casey had passed, the loneliness had been cutting, something she could feel, like a big dark hole that sometimes felt as though it was becoming her life.

The beagle hopped out of the car and immediately put his nose to the ground, circling and circling, before following her to the back door. Lisabeth stopped, then headed into the garage. She began to tremble. He would never go for this; he would make her take this poor little guy right over to the county shelter on Route 50, where they would put him in a cage. If he was in a good mood, he might just let her call the rescue people and arrange to have the dog picked up. Janet had assured her that they would take the dog back if there was any trouble.

“Owen,” she whispered, “just be still.” He looked up at her with those mournful eyes.

She rummaged in the boxes lining the shelves of the garage,
and the dog followed her, watching her pocket—a biscuit came out often enough to keep him focused.

She called Jeannie on her cell.

“Has he seen the dog yet?”

“No, but Jeannie, I’m scared. I’m just scared.” She felt her eyes welling up with tears. “It isn’t just the dog. I’m fifty-two years old, and I’m scared of my own husband. I hate being scared like that.”

Jeannie told her she would come and get the dog if she wished, or go with her into the house, but Lisabeth said thanks, but no. She’d deal with it.

She turned off the cell phone, wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her orange DD shirt, and pulled the dog to her side. He looked at her curiously, but he was game, it seemed, if she was.

She took a deep breath and went back to rummaging through the boxes. She plucked out a Yankees neck scarf, something she and Frank had gotten on one of those giveaway days at the new stadium. She tied the scarf around Owen’s neck and walked into the kitchen, where she heard the familiar play-by-play coming from the living room.

She filled a bowl with water and set it down on the floor.

“Hey, honey,” she yelled, “I’m home.”

“Hey, babe,” Frank called back. “I’ll be out in a minute. Eighth inning. Chamberlain is holding the Blue Jays down. I just want to wait for Rivera.”

Lisabeth smiled. Frank was not a religious man, but if he worshiped, it would be at the Church of Mariano Rivera, the Yankees’ great closer. Or maybe Derek Jeter, their shortstop and team captain. Lisabeth recognized their talent, but couldn’t help wishing both of them would get out of her life.

She got another bowl, and took out the bag of dog food
that she’d kept after Casey died. Owen gulped it down greedily.

Frank issued battle reports from time to time. Rivera gave up two hits. One more and the game would be tied. He needed a strikeout. “Come on, Mariano!” Frank shouted from the living room.

Lisabeth was still trembling. She tried to shake it off.
I’m a grown woman. I’m not a child. I’m not a coward
.

She leaned down and took Owen’s leash off. The dog circled the kitchen twice and then made a beeline straight through the doorway and into the living room.

Lisabeth opened the refrigerator and pulled out a Bud Light. She might need it.

She heard a groan, and the announcer shout that Rivera had given up a walk. The bases were now loaded. He needed a strikeout or a double play. Shit, she thought. He’ll be in a bad mood.

Then she heard it.

“What the fuck is this? Who are you? Christ, I thought we went over this!” In the kitchen, Lisabeth closed her eyes and held her breath.

Do your job, Owen
.

The dog had ridden in the car with his head in her lap the whole way. She couldn’t give him up now. Lord, she should have just called Frank, told him they were coming, given him some warning. She didn’t have to ask, but she could have just
told
him.

She looked at the clock. Several minutes had gone by. Something was wrong. On the TV, the announcer made a comment about the hitter needing a new bat. A commercial came on.

What was happening? Why hadn’t he called for her? Why wasn’t there more shouting? Her cell beeped: Jeannie. She ignored it.

Holding her beer in her shaky hands, she walked quietly through the hallway and turned the corner. The game was back on now, and Mariano Rivera was winding up.

“Got ’em!” shouted the announcer. “Rivera does it again. Strikes out two in a row to end the game. The Yankees win! Thanks to Mariano Rivera and a late-inning home run by Derek Jeter!” The roar of the crowd filled the room, and Lisabeth’s eyes went to the sofa.

Her jaw dropped. Frank was sitting on the left side of the couch, holding a bottle of Bud Light. Owen was sitting beside him, his Yankee scarf showing the interlocking insignia, the two of them watching the game. Frank had his hand on the scarf as if it were some kind of lucky charm.

“So,” he said, “you went ahead and did it?” He was glowering at her, but his look softened when he turned to Owen, who was staring straight ahead at the TV as if there were a steak inside of it.

“They won,” said Frank, his hand scratching Owen’s ears. It looked like they did this every night. Owen seemed to relax, sniffing Frank’s hand. Jeez, Lisabeth thought, they even sort of look alike.

“Where did he come from?” Frank asked, a question more than an accusation.

“North Carolina,” she said tentatively, almost in a whisper.

There was a long pause as Frank regarded the beagle, who looked right back at him.

“He hopped up onto the sofa, and Rivera got a strikeout,
just like that,” Frank said. “Then he looked at the set again, and Rivera got another strikeout. Till then, I thought the game was over.”