The Mountaintop School for Dogs and Other Second Chances (17 page)

“I don't have any Kleenex,” he said. “I wish I did, but I don't.”

I wiped my nose and eyes on my sleeve. He looked at me like he thought that was cool.

Then I waited in the Jeep while he gassed it up and went inside to pay. Dapple wasn't ever going to be in my class again. I wondered if Josie would miss her, or if Hank would, or Shadow, Tasha, Boomer. And what about Alfie? And what about the Scottie Dora, still in the infirmary? I hadn't even met her yet.

When he came back, the first thing Giant George did was tell me not to ask him where they were taking Dapple. He didn't know. The second thing he did was ask me if I wanted to stop on the way back for a burger or something. No, I did not.

“I hate it that Dapple won't be in my class,” I said.

“That's okay. You'd probably fuck her up even worse than she is.”

I'd been doing so well. I'd been sitting there holding myself together. I felt my face sliding into a wail, as if he'd decided to shatter me, and he'd hit on the best way to do it. And I lowered my head and cried all over again, harder, really hard, trembling like a broken dog, soaking myself.

“I was kidding! Evie! I wanted to make you laugh! Tell me you believe me I was kidding!”

I really wasn't mad at him. But I didn't stop crying until we were nearly up Sanctuary Hill, the sun beginning to set, a red glow in the sky like a slash mark, like a cut. Soon I'd be seeing the notes on Dapple again, this time with one word added:
Networked.

M
RS. AUBERCHON WAS
in the kitchen, looking at a barely touched bottle of vodka left behind months ago by a guest. She'd kept it high up in a cabinet where she stored things she never used. The days of making treats at the inn were over. Mrs. Walzer had fallen while attending a church social. She had broken her hip.

It was too soon for a visit. Mrs. Auberchon knew from making phone calls that Mrs. Walzer was still drugged.

She'd already spent ten minutes imagining herself as a temporary replacement baker, as if a broken hip took as long to fix as a broken fingernail. In no time at all, she had imagined, Mrs. Walzer would sail through the doorway, taking over again. But Mrs. Auberchon couldn't kid herself about her ability to make treats. She'd be overwhelmed. She'd have no talent for it, same as with singing.

Cranberry juice would be nice to put vodka into. She had a can of concentrate in the freezer, also a can of orange. Cranberry and orange together in a pitcher might be just the right thing. She could call it a punch.

It wasn't as if the dogs would be heartbroken about no more homemade treats. They wouldn't even notice, the same way, she knew, years ago, dogs didn't care that the Sanctuary had to stop feeding them straight from their own gardens, their own pantry, their own freezer, their own frequent trips to the market, the butcher, the shop that sold fish, the farm that became a development of new houses but used to sell eggs and chickens and sometimes ducks from their pond, at prices very close to being charity. Then one day, like a shift in the turning of the earth, so that suddenly you were looking at a different part of the sky, there were no more staffers up there to be spared for the cooking. There were twenty, there were fourteen, there were ten, there were seven, there were four. The dog food became dry nuggets in different sizes, arriving in giant sacks from a feed store somewhere, from orders placed online. That's what would happen with the treats, and it was terrible, and here was an excellent bottle in her hand, vodka made from potatoes, she read on the label.

She'd never tried vodka from potatoes before. It looked very blue-ribbon, very expensive. The liquid was clear as tonic water. The bottle itself was as pretty and shapely as if it held perfume, and Mrs. Walzer was on morphine in a hospital bed, and look what was happening here.

Tonic,
she said to herself.
Perfume.

She was alone. No one was coming to see her. She only kept the wood stove going for the sake of the pipes.

The satisfaction she felt when she heard of the spotted hound's rescue had not lasted long. Soon photos would come, along with news of the new location, but Dapple was gone, because that's what dogs did: staying and leaving and never coming back. Why didn't they ask her if she wanted to be in on that rescue, not just sit still making phone calls? She knew she would have declined. But it would have cheered her up to be invited. They knew about Mrs. Walzer's hip.

She looked out the window. No one was in the pen. No one was out for a walk. No one was dragging a trash can into her sight for a dog to jump over. No one was sitting at her table eating a roasted chicken without a knife and a fork and a plate, or eating the last of her bacon, or slouching around in the lobby with a bowl of Mrs. Walzer's granola.

The light was gray, the snow too old, the wind too biting and nasty. She'd been keeping herself only in the kitchen and her room, like a shut-away, like she was ill, like she needed medicine. And she was getting nowhere with Dora the Scottie, not even after hours and hours of sending her voice into the infirmary, talking herself into hoarseness. That dog was mending just fine post-surgery. She should have been up and about and wagging her tail by now, not lying on a bed in the corner like a terrier in a coma. Whose job was it to get some light in those eyes, some sparks, some sign that yes, even after everything that happened to me, I want to be alive?

It was the job of the Warden. But what if she'd lost her touch? What if she'd run up against a dog she couldn't get through to, in any way at all?

Medicine,
Mrs. Auberchon said to herself.

She had read that dog
Black Beauty
from start to finish, leaving out the worst parts. She'd read her Beatrix Potter and bits of every book she had, plus things about terriers she'd found online. But nothing had worked, not even Evie's application and “I want to talk to aliens,” which Mrs. Auberchon had saved as a last resort.

There wasn't a library in the village. She could order new books at her keyboard, not that money was in the budget. She'd pay for them herself. She wouldn't mind. But they'd take forever to arrive. Should she fix the cranberry juice first? Should she fix the orange juice first? Should she never mind calling it punch and take it straight, maybe a couple of sips right out of the bottle? How sweet it would be to feel warmed! How glad she would be for the burn of it, the stirring, the healing on the way, the calming of her nerves, her tension, her unhappiness!

Mrs. Auberchon undid the cap. She was standing at the counter near the sink. She stepped sideways, tipping the bottle so the mouth was close to the drain. When half of it was emptied, she paused, and paused again when there was only enough to fill a shot glass. Then all of it was gone.

She ran hot water on the label until it loosened enough to peel off. The bottle was too attractive to throw away. It didn't have to come to its end. It could have another life, perhaps as a vase, perhaps as a candleholder, bright wax dripping down its sides, hardening, lasting, staying. She filled the sink with sudsy water and stuck it in there to soak.

She was now good and mad at that dog. The dog was
rescued.
That dog was
saved.
Terriers could be obstinate, but honestly, this one was way out of line. This one had gone too far.

She had printed out the notes, had kept Dora's story beside her all those hours of reading. She thought of her salt-and-pepper fur, clean and smooth from the grooming she didn't want done. She pictured Dora's short legs, inert as she lay on her side: the legs of a dog who didn't care if she ever got up again and used them. Her muzzle was black and the hairs were a little spiky, like the gray-black on top of her head, like she'd gone punk in the days when punk was a fad and she'd never outgrown it. Her stick-up ears were all black, as were loops around her small eyes, like a raccoon's, or a miniature version of a panda's. Her tail was a loose, frizzy braid of black and gray, looking soft and also wiry. Mrs. Auberchon had never seen it move.

The bottle in the sink water had floated to the top like a lesson in buoyancy. Mrs. Auberchon clamped her hand on it and held it down until it filled, as if drowning it. Then she picked up a towel and wiped her hands dry and went into her room, to look the notes over again.

 

Dora. Female. Terrier, Scottish. Black and gray. Age approximately nine or ten. Urban, high-density neighborhood. Was found by landlord of apartment building after repeated complaints from neighbors of barking, which the landlord was slow to respond to, as he was slow to respond to all complaints. Not possible to know precisely how long she was there, following abandoning of apartment by its residents, after rent default. Animal control officer was called in. Several neighbors were questioned. Animal officer reported estimation of alone time as five days to a week. Several bowls had been left, presumably of food and water, reported by officer to be empty. Also reported was her name of Dora. Was taken to shelter without veterinary affiliation or funds for medical care. Dehydration, not severe, was treated by shelter staff, but symptoms appeared of stomach/intestinal disorder. Was sponsored by employees of nearby auto-body shop who often contributed cash for emergencies. Was taken to heavily burdened animal hospital, where she was diagnosed with a routine dietary ailment that would pass on its own. Was not kept in hospital for observation. Remained listless and problematic at shelter. Was then referred to breed rescue group, which sent a representative, who decided to send her here, rather than foster, due to acute psychological withdrawal, which had seemed a greater need than physical state. Was examined upon arrival and immediately scheduled for surgery to remove blockage of ingested non-food material, specifically, a significant amount of wallpaper, the glue of which presented a threat of toxicity. Following successful surgery, remains in infirmary. Intravenous medication no longer necessary. Other medications minimal. No sign of infection. Does not appear in pain. Has been carried outside of isolation to other areas, but those efforts have been suspended. Becomes highly agitated everywhere but infirmary, several times to point of fear of seizure. No further details at this time. Outlook: Unknown.

 

Well, thought Mrs. Auberchon, damn her and damn her again for not giving one tiny flick of her tail to Evie and her aliens! And looking the whole time like she was bored!

Not one thing Mrs. Auberchon had read to her was boring! Beatrix Potter! It was true that Peter Rabbit, as a character, wasn't always a hit with the dogs. But no dog ever, in all these years, had scorned Jemima Puddle-duck. Who did that Scottie think she was, scorning Jemima Puddle-duck? And Mrs. Tiggy-winkle! She had scorned Mrs. Tiggy-winkle most of all! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle! That helpful, kind hedgehog, alone in her cottage, her life all chores and laundry!

Mrs. Auberchon reminded herself that agitation can lead to a seizure. She needed to be calm. She needed a cup of tea. She needed to be strong. She saw what she had to do. She'd have to tell that terrier once and for all, loud and clear, that enough was enough.

She would have to do it in person. There was no other way. She was going up the mountain.

A
DOPTION
.
THE ULTIMATE
of ultimates for orphaned dogs, even Sanctuary dogs who seem to have zero potential for ever being wanted by anyone in the outside world.

One night in my former program, some of us were watching TV. A commercial came on for a humane society group looking for donations to help shelter dogs get adopted. Five or six dogs were in the ad, looking at the camera from behind metal webbing of a fence or kennel or crate. I had to look away from those eyes. I was still in no shape to consider the possibility that anyone in the world might be worse off than I was. But the girl beside me had a question, to which no one responded.

This girl happened to be famous. She was a star in a network drama, not a soap opera, but a prime-time one, big ratings, long-running. The writers wrote her out for a while so she could
clean up her act.
That was how she put it. She'd been acting since she was in kindergarten. She asked us, “How do you think the director gets those dogs to look so miserable?” At the end of the ad was a number to call and a website address, but no one wrote them down.

Adoption is good. Adoption is
noble.
Adoption means
a home for someone homeless.
To hear the news that a dog is being adopted is a great and wonderful thing.

But I couldn't believe it. Hank? Mr. Obsessive? Mr. Brawny Lab-Pit? Mr. I Hate Wooden Objects? Mr. Jumper? Mr. Attack Dog of Broom Handles? Mr. Don't Walk in Areas of Trees Unless Checking First for Fallen Branches?

Of all of them, he was the first?

I wouldn't have remembered seeing the adoption commercial if I hadn't just found out that Hank would be taken away. He had terrible manners. He was still a beginner in basic obedience. I felt like a teacher being told that a pupil is quitting school forever, after just a few weeks of second grade.

We hadn't even made it to the agility part. I wasn't going to see him jump hurdles.

His adopters feel that the name Hank is all wrong. They're calling him Basil. They live somewhere that's a desert. Their favorite plants to grow in their gardens are their many varieties of basil. They're experts with that herb, and win awards at plant shows.

Basil is dumb for him and also sissy. No one cared how I felt about it.

Call.
Another Sanctuary staffer—Forest Green—now has a name. I'm guessing her age to be high sixties. She has fluffy reddish-brown hair like a Pomeranian. I thought at first she dyes it, as there's not much gray, but then I looked closely, and she doesn't. Unlike the other three and pretty much everyone else, she isn't taller than I am. We see each other eye to eye. Her name is Louise. What I thought was a fantastic tan is her regular skin, but then, all that shows of her, in her turtleneck and sweats, is her face and her hands. She's Mexican.