The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (3 page)

S
TEWART NEARLY
ran the entire way home that day and did his best to complete a fifteen-minute cleaning regimen: dishes washed, bathroom cleaned, clothes stowed haphazardly behind a closed closet door, bed made, pillows fluffed. He lit a candle that he had bought at the market during the 50-percent-off-all-Christmas-merchandise sale in January.

It smelled of pine.

Pine is okay, isn't it? It doesn't have to be Christmas to light a pine candle, does it?

One or two minutes past three, Stewart heard the familiar, and welcome, squeal of brakes from the driveway below. He opened his door and left it open.

In another moment, Lisa rushed in, carrying a tray with two large cups wedged into the holes, and her steno pad.

“They're both lattes,” she explained. “So it doesn't matter which one you pick. Full caffeine, if that's okay with you.”

“Sure,” Stewart said as he took the cup closer to him. “Let's sit down in the living room. It's more comfortable. I know it's small, but they don't build turrets like they used to.”

At this, Lisa laughed.

Somewhere Stewart had read that a woman values a good sense of humor above nearly every other criteria when judging a man.

I'm off to a good start. I'm okay with funny. It's not like I can will myself handsome.

Stewart winced to himself.

As if being funny will really make a difference. I mean, come on, now.

“Show me the pictures,” Lisa said, excited.

Stewart pulled out his phone and displayed the five pictures he'd taken.

“That is such a cute dog,” she said, even more excited. “How did you get him to pose like that? With the bone and all?”

Stewart shrugged.

“Seemed like he knew what I was doing—or wanted.”

Lisa asked him to recap every bit of the theft, which Stewart was happy to do. As he spoke, she scribbled notes down in the steno pad.

Do they still have stenographers?

“You don't have to mention me in the story, do you?”

Lisa smiled at him and stared back.

“I don't think so, Stewart. But if I get the Pulitzer Prize for this, they're going to want to know.”

He mimed wiping sweat off his forehead.

“That's a relief. I mean…not that you couldn't win the award and all…but by that time I'm hoping that I won't be working at Tops anymore. Like I'll have a real job by then.”

Lisa paused and looked down at her hands.

“It is hard, isn't it? Getting started. I thought by now I would be doing something important and not making lattes.”

“Which are very good, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

She keeps smiling back at me. That's a good sign.

“Well, I think I have enough material now. Like I said, I'll call you if I think of anything else.”

“Sure.”

Lisa stood to go, then glanced at the kitchen counter.

“You know it's not January sixth anymore.”

She was looking at his Verse-a-Day calendar.

“Oh, yeah, I've been meaning to get that up to date. It's on my to-do list.”

Lisa laughed again.

She laughs easily. And it sounds pretty.

“I didn't know you—you know, went to church and all that. You know, faith. Jesus, and all that.”

Stewart's thoughts raced as he tried to come up with a reply that might fit.

“Well, sure, I go. Not all the time. My grandmother sent that to me. But I like it.”

Did that sound convincing?

“That's good,” Lisa replied. “Nice to know that a neighbor feels the same way I do. Well, I'll get writing. And send me a copy of those pictures, okay?”

“Sure. I'll do that right away.”

And she shut the door behind her.

Feels the same way I do? About what?

The next day, only minutes after the Tops Market opened, the bandit dog struck again. Mr. Arden was not there—he was attending a managers' meeting in Sunbury—and Stewart managed to take two more photos of the dog in action. As he tracked him from the store, he managed to get within a dozen feet of the dog, who, by this time, almost seemed to enjoy being near Stewart. Stewart would have sworn that the dog slowed down to let Stewart keep pace with him, at least for half a block.

Stewart stopped at the Wired Rooster and gave Lisa a heads-up.

“How did he sneak in this time? I thought the store would be at DEFCON Five by now.”

“Managers' meeting. Our assistant manager was in the back signing for a truckload of frozen stuff. And the dog shadowed the bread guy as he wheeled his rack inside. They're supposed to come through the back, but he didn't. So the dog was hidden behind the bread and stuff until he was well inside. Then he took the bone and hightailed it back outside.”

“Do you think he's reselling them somewhere?”

At this, Stewart laughed.

She's funny, too.

“Well, the
Gazette
doesn't publish until tomorrow night. I'll add this to the story and run it over there. Any new pictures?”

“Just two, inside the store. But they're kind of blurry.”

Stewart leaned close and showed them to her.

He smelled lilacs. Again. Lilacs and coffee. It was a heady mixture.

Must be her shampoo or something.

“Send them to me. I'll let them pick one if they want it.”

“Sure.”

“You're so nice, Stewart. If they publish this, I'll treat you to dinner. Or cook dinner. Something.”

Stewart was going to say that she didn't need to bother, but he did not.

I would really like to have dinner with her.

The
Wellsboro Gazette
, printed just once a week, hit the streets early every Wednesday morning. Above the fold, as newspaper veterans would call it—the top story this week, just under the newspaper's logo—featured a very sharp, four-color picture of a smiling, black-and-white dog under the lurid headline
CANINE CRIME CAPERS: DOG BANDIT STRIKES TOPS MARKET AGAIN AND AGAIN.

The byline at the beginning of the story read: “By Lisa Goodly, Special Assignment Reporter for the
Gazette
.”

Stewart's picture of the dog took up nearly a quarter of the front page. The credit line simply read:
GAZETTE PHOTO
. Stewart, surprised that the newspaper put the story on the front page, scanned through the piece quickly.

She didn't name me. That's good.

Then he read it more carefully.

She's a good writer. Why is she making coffee for a living? She should work for a magazine or a newspaper or something. I don't know much about writing news and stuff, but this is good.

The morning crew at Tops Market could hardly talk of anything else that morning: the dog, how clever it was, how angry Mr. Arden got, what they might do when they finally catch him. Everyone speculated on one angle of the story or another.

Stewart listened, but did not participate.

Mr. Arden appeared in the front of the store around half past nine.

“Listen, everyone. This dog situation, this…this embarrassment has to be stopped. The health department will shut the store down if they think we're letting the dog in. And then you'll all go home—and not get paid. No one wants that, do they?”

A murmur of nos answered his question, none of them truly enthusiastic.

“So—if we see him, we catch him. Okay? Stewart here, he's the one in charge of dog patrol. If you see the dog, call for Stewart. The dog is only going to come in the morning—that's his modus operandi—which is Latin for how he does things. It's always the morning. It's his pattern. So be on your toes. Especially you, Stewart. Everyone got that?”

A series of unenthusiastic yeses followed.

A voice from the back of the small group called out, “What if it has rabies?”

Mr. Arden glared in that direction. One of the back room stockers must have spoken out.

They're like crazy, those guys on the loading dock.

“It doesn't.”

No one asked Mr. Arden how he could be sure of that fact.

“Now back to work. We don't want this store to be made a laughingstock by a criminal—even if it is just a dog.”

With that, Mr. Arden retreated and everyone listened to the slow, complaining creaks of the staircase as he ascended to his office.

Halfway up they stopped, and a loud wooden groan escaped from the middle step.

“Stewart Coolidge, can you come to my office for a minute?”

Mr. Arden's voice drifted down like the echo of a specter, Stewart thought. He tried to think where he had heard that metaphor, or simile, or whatever it was, as he climbed the stairs. Maybe in some Crypt Keeper episode.

“Stewart,” Mr. Arden began as he leaned back in his chair, which also groaned as he did. “You stopped to take a picture of the dog? I thought you were supposed to be capturing the dog.”

Stewart had worried that this question might be asked, and he'd spent an entire evening crafting a response that he thought made sense.

“Yes. I did get a picture. I was chasing the dog and it stopped and turned and growled at me, so I didn't want to provoke it in any way. No one wants any expensive medical claims for a dog bite and rabies shots and all that. And I knew that a picture would be valuable to show people what sort of dog they should be looking out for. And the dog is really fast. The paper asked for the picture and I knew that it would help in the search. That's why, Mr. Arden. I mean, I didn't write the story or anything. But I thought the picture would help in the search.”

Stewart felt that it sounded more than a little rehearsed, like all the times he had to give speeches in high school, when the words rattled out like machine-gun fire in an effort to get them spoken before they disappeared from thought.

But Mr. Arden smiled as he explained it.

“That's good thinking, Coolidge. Good thinking indeed. Executive sort of thinking.”

T
HAT EVENING
, Stewart and Lisa spoke about her article for nearly twenty minutes while standing on their shared landing space on the second floor. Lisa bubbled with enthusiasm.

“They really liked the story. I think the editor wants me to do more like that. This is just so great, Stewart. It opened the door. And I owe it all to you.”

Her phone began to ring, and she gave him a quick hug and slipped back inside her apartment.

I did not expect that. Not at all. A hug. Me? Her?

It was then that Stewart heard something—a growl or a bark from the backyard of the house, in the shadows of the even more ramshackle garage that was situated farther back.

Cautiously, he hurried down the steps and walked out onto the porch, thinking that perhaps a raccoon was into the trash again. The last time that had happened several bags of garbage had been strewn all over the yard. Stewart thought a shout would scare off whatever animal it was. He did not want to rake eggshells and moldy banana peels again.

He stood at the edge of the porch, the wood creaking as he did. It almost did not matter where a person stood in the house—something would creak in response.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to see into the shadows.

Instead of seeing a furry, furtive creature scuttling away into the shadows, Stewart saw a dog.

It's that dog. From the store.

The black-and-white dog slowly walked toward Stewart, his head turning to the left and right, as if he were assessing the possibility of threats or capture.

“Hi, doggy. How are you? It's me, Stewart. From the Tops Market. Where you steal rawhide chews. The bones, I mean.”

The dog stopped walking and sat down, sniffing the air, staring at Stewart.

“It's okay. It's okay. You don't have to be afraid.”

Later, Stewart would ask himself why he wasn't afraid. It was an unknown animal, coming out of the shadows. It could very well have been rabid or vicious, like he had lied about to Mr. Arden, or both. But Stewart would later tell himself that he simply was sure that the dog posed no threat. He just knew that dog was gentle and was lost and hungry.

“Are you hungry?”

The dog stood and took three steps closer, as if he understood the word “hungry.”

“Listen. You wait here. I'll be right back. I have food upstairs. Wait. Please?”

Stewart took the steps two at a time as silently as he could. He seldom locked his door so he never had to fumble finding his keys. Besides, when he did try to lock it, one sharp jiggle of the handle was more than enough to pop the door open.

So much for security.

On the kitchen counter sat a full plate of macaroni and cheese. He had finished making it just as Lisa had arrived home. He had not touched it.

Dogs like cheese, don't they?

He grabbed the plate and hurried downstairs. He stopped at Lisa's door and was about to knock, but he heard her voice, loud but lilting, talking about “the story.”

She's still on the phone. I don't want to disturb her.

So he quickly padded down to the porch.

The dog was exactly where Stewart had left him. He looked up when Stewart reappeared.

Taking very deliberate steps down to the yard, Stewart moved slowly, making no sudden gestures or loud noises. The dog stood up and took one step backward. Stewart placed the plate on the ground, then backed up to the porch.

“It's good. I know it's only the store brand, but I like it a lot. I don't think I could tell the difference between this and the Kraft version—and this one is much less expensive. Try it. You'll see.”

The dog sniffed a long time, then walked to the plate, lowered his head, and took a small, sample bite. He looked up at Stewart and smiled, a lopsided, canine smile, then went back to the mac and cheese. It was obvious to Stewart that the dog was hungry, or even famished, but he ate with dignity, with exactness, chewing with grace, not gobbling, not rushing, but tasting every bite, and apparently enjoying every bite.

In a few moments, the plate was empty, licked clean of any cheese residue.

“Good? I like it a lot, too.”

Stewart made his way down off the porch, taking small steps until he was within arm's length of the dog.

I just knew he was a nice dog. I just knew. Sometimes…you can tell. You're just sure.

He crouched down and extended his arm.

The dog sniffed at his hand.

Then Stewart tried to reach around and pet the top of the dog's head.

The dog cowered and backed off and then turned, looking back once more, and ran into the shadows. Stewart heard the brush in the back crackle and break as the dog moved through it.

A sense of sadness nearly overwhelmed Stewart at that moment, sadness over what the creature must have endured and the cause of his fear. In a small nut-brown voice, Stewart called out after the dog, called out into the dark, “It's okay. You can come back at any time.”

Stewart did not share what had just transpired with Lisa. He was afraid that she might get scared that the dog was lurking in the shadows of the house, even though Stewart was absolutely certain that there was no danger.

But it's better if she doesn't know. I think. For now, at any rate.

The dog scampered back to his makeshift den and sniffed about with care.

No other animal had been there since this morning, when he'd barked at the squirrel that was rooting through the leaves where the dog had slept.

The dog, now satisfied that the spot was just as he had left it, circled several times, flattening down the leaves, repeating centuries upon centuries of instinctual behavior. He lay down and put his head on his paws. For the first time in a very long time, his stomach felt almost full. He raised his head and listened. He must have worried that the human might follow him into the darkness, the gentle human with the warm food, and yet, he was also a little sad that the human did not follow him.

The dog sniffed the night air again. He knew it would be chilly this night, but not cold. That was good. He wondered if he might see that human again tomorrow. The dog's stomach growled again. The human's food was wonderful, but not sufficient to banish all his hunger.

Perhaps tomorrow he would take one more of those bones.

There was food in trash cans, he knew, but he was not a raccoon or possum who apparently relished going through the refuse of others. The dog did not want to lower himself to the level of a trash-eater.

He closed his eyes, thinking of that human again, thinking of the gentle tone of his voice, and the longing that showed in his eyes, that longing to belong, to be part of something other than himself.

It was a look that the dog understood without knowing the words.

The dog remembered when he was a puppy, with his mother and his brothers and sisters, when he was always safe and fed and warm and when all seemed right with the world, everything calm and at peace. He knew, without knowing why, exactly, that that was the way all things should be, even for a dog without a name, when he was part of something good and kind and caring.

There was a note on Stewart's door.

The handwriting was feminine and precise. It was from Lisa.

“If I write a follow-up to the dog thief story, I am going to call him Hubert. Stop for coffee after you get off and I'll tell you why.”

A real invitation. That's good. Progress. Sort of. Maybe.

Bargain Bill Hoskins was the only occupant of the otherwise empty office of Bargain Bill's Dynamite Cars. The neon sign outside glowed
Bargain Bill's Dynamite Cars—You'll Have a Blast With Our Wheels!
all done in script, in bright greens and purples. Every fourteen seconds a neon explosion in red and ochre lit up, as if punctuating the slogan with a neon blast.

His car lot, situated on the east side of town, and just inside the city limits, was one of three used-car facilities in Wellsboro—a fact that Bargain Bill had agonized over on many occasions.

“There's not enough business for all three of us. One of the others should close and we would all be better off.”

He had said that often over the last fifteen years, and neither of the other two used-car dealers had heeded his wish.

Bargain Bill, as most everyone called him now, even his long-suffering wife on occasion, read, with great interest, the saga of the bandit dog. He had driven past that very market this morning and had seen Mr. Arden, who drove an old 2002 Chevy Cavalier and who should be in the market for a newer car any day now, tacking up paper on the telephone poles by the store. Bill had slowed down and seen a picture of a dog under the banners
WANTED!
and
REWARD!

Only now did he make the connection, after reading the story.

“He's getting a lot of free PR for his store out of this. It's a cute story, I have to admit.”

The words “free PR” stopped Bill's line of thinking as an explosion stops all conversation within earshot.

Free publicity…

Slowly, an idea began to form in Bill's mind.

After a few minutes, he smiled widely.

“Free publicity. That's the ticket.”

And then he grabbed his Rolodex and shuffled through his cards, looking for the personal phone number of the editor of the
Wellsboro Gazette
.

“I only have thirty minutes for lunch,” Stewart explained. “I said I had to go to the dry cleaners.”

“Do you?” Lisa asked as she slid a small latte across the table to him.

“No. Actually I don't think I own anything that needs to be dry-cleaned. Well, maybe my sport coat. And that's it, I guess.”

Lisa's smile appeared genuine and unforced. Stewart felt that even if no relationship developed, he would still be able to say that she was a friend. At least he hoped he could. Lisa was the sort of almost nearly perfect girl who was well beyond even his most ambitious ambitions.