The Mountaintop School for Dogs and Other Second Chances (4 page)

I had noticed the new sheet of notes taped to the wall in the vestibule, eye level above where I would have placed my boots if I hadn't left them downstairs. I had also noticed the yellow sticky on that sheet of paper, with my name on it, plus the command to
READ IMMEDIATELY
. It was held in place with a small piece of Scotch tape. It didn't come away when I gave the paper a tug. My fingers were white-stiff numb. Whatever was there would have to wait. It had not occurred to me to wonder why the notes would be there. I just wanted to put on another layer and get back outside.

The little dog's name, I'd find out when I looked at the notes, was Josie.

“Josie. Spayed female,” I would read.

 

Small Mix, white, some tan. Age eight. Brought to a shelter by owners several weeks after appearance in household of new baby, their first. House dog, fenced-in yard. Zero prior leash experience. Zero prior contact with other dogs. Zero prior experience riding in vehicles. Zero prior experience with food not cooked in the home. Was cared for by home-visit vet, groomer, and sitter. When questioned at shelter about behavior toward the baby, owners declined to answer. Partial but significant loss of hearing was ascertained at shelter to be recent, and the result of a blow, or several. Up-to-date veterinary records from owners state normal hearing. Head X-rays were not ordered by shelter vet. Recent X-rays and scans inconclusive. Was initially listed as adoptable at shelter. When that status was changed, a person who happened to be there to adopt another dog made contact with us. Was taken from shelter just prior to scheduled euthanasia. Weight loss due to refusal to accept food has been restored. No longer necessary to muzzle for nail clipping, brushing, etc., but necessary to approach patiently. Do not startle. Hearing loss not fully adapted to at this time. Maintain distance until letting her see who you are and what you are doing. May possibly return to the world as a companion animal. Rule of thumb: wait, and let her come to you.

 

Josie didn't break my skin when she bit the inside of my wrist, in the spot where the sleeve of my jacket slipped up from holding out my hand. But those teeth had come close to making holes.

I reeled back as the dog went into a low stand on the bunk. Her lips were pulled. Her eyes were narrow. Her ears were back and taut. Her tail was extended, rigid. There was a movement of the fur in her shoulders, and even though I was badly rattled, I remembered the breed book, and I was saying to myself, oh, so that's what they meant about hackles.

I stared down at the dog and felt the rush of my temper warming me. But I didn't raise my voice.

“If you think you're scaring me, you're wrong,” I said calmly. “It was just a little nip. You didn't hurt me at all.”

The dog kept her stance but tipped her head to one side, as if trying to figure out if I was bluffing.

“Did you hear me say
nip
? In case no one ever told you, you have tiny, tiny teeth. I was insulting you.”

I was bluffing about the bite not hurting. The marks were already pinkish red and would soon halo blue in bruises. I moved my other hand to cradle the injured wrist, and suddenly, at that slight gesture, a simple hand in the act of changing position, the eyes of the dog opened wide, and filled with a terrible, instant blankness. She just simply went blank. Her tail dropped like a rope someone had let go loose. Her lips closed. Her body went slack, and she began to tremble—not like shivering from being cold. She was vibrating in her legs, flanks, chest, shoulders. Silently, she turned her head downward. I realized she was waiting for something to be done to her, which she knew she couldn't escape.

I did the first thing I thought of: drop to the floor between my bunk and the next one. I sat still and put my hands behind my back.

“Don't be afraid of me,” I whispered. “Please stop shaking. Please . . .”

I hadn't closed the door. I realized too late that all she wanted was to get away from me. She leaped down, yipping madly, and streaked for the stairs as fast as if her tail had caught on fire. Someone had opened the outside door. She must have felt the new rush of cold air.

Then she was yapping her head off out front. When I got up, forgetting that my feet were in socks on oil-polished wood, I slipped, and went down again on my backside.

I let myself sink, lying flat. Why didn't I leave this place when it was still daylight? Did the kid in the Jeep have a phone? Why didn't I get his number so I could call him for a ride to the train? I could have offered him cash and a new muffler too, from one of the shops I'd noticed on my bus rides. I remembered the names because they all started with the same letter: Meineke, Midas, Monro.

I hadn't noticed a vehicle belonging to the inn. There wasn't a garage. Was there a taxi service out here? A snowmobile for hire? A helicopter?

I was lying with my head near the wall, under a ceiling globe. The light burned and I shifted, putting my hands to my eyes. When I took them away, I saw that a Rottweiler had entered the room.

She was enormous. In her mouth was one of my boots and both of my gloves.

“Hi,” I said.

That was how I met Tasha. She was a Rottweiler purely: black with a brown jaw and brown neck. Slightly above each eye, at the ends of invisible eyebrows, were the usual brown spots, almost like polka dots, the size of dimes. Her ears were high up and flap-folded neatly. Her black was like a seal's. Her brown was russet, vivid, rich.

She dropped my boot and gloves, as if commanded to. She was drooly and bright and shiny, and she was smiling at me.

She seemed willing to stick around, but there was the sound of the Jeep, which seemed to call to her—it was getting close to suppertime. Off she tore, and when I started to go after her, I tripped on my boot, and found myself distracted by a rolled sheet of paper inside it.

 

Tasha. Rottweiler. Spayed female. Age between three and four. Weight one hundred twelve. Health very good. No sign of injuries. Was reported to animal officer in urban area by resident who observed a car at a stop sign from which a large dog was released. As the car sped away, the dog disappeared around a corner, chasing it. License plate not recorded. Was found by animal officer the next morning on a nearby block, getting into curb trash. No tags, no collar. Was delivered to humane but crowded shelter. No response to found-dog appeals. Was adopted twice and returned both times due to size issues, difficulty at controlling, intimidation qualities, and destruction of objects. Was brought to obedience class by a shelter volunteer, but attendance had to be terminated due to unfriendly/aggressive behavior toward owners of other dogs. Was then transferred to second shelter with fewer animals. Consistent unruly behavior there, including excessive vocalizing and menacing demeanor. Was nevertheless listed for adoption. Was taken from second shelter in hastily arranged rescue when a staff member received an anonymous tip that persons who arranged to adopt her were in fact involved in dogfighting. Not yet fully leash-trained. Must only be walked by physically strongest. Has demonstrated emotional instability and moderate to extreme depression and anxiety. Receiving medication in gradually lowered dosage. Outlook for place in home as companion animal: fair to low.

 

I raced downstairs. No one was in the lobby. No one was outside. There was only the Jeep in the distance, going up into the darkness without me.

The room I returned to smelled faintly of dogs. No messages were waiting for me from the Sanctuary. I looked out the window and decided not to close the shutters. It had started to snow, straight down, in light streamers, like trails of falling stars. I thought of the Sanctuary's logo. Then I took a long, hot shower. I could see their faces around me in the steam: Shadow, Hank, Josie, Tasha. It was strange to be alone but not alone.

W
E WERE SNOWBOUND
. We were as muffled as if an avalanche had fallen on us in the night, in a silent, wonderful crash. Finally there was a reason for being stuck in the inn. We had electricity but no connections: no phone, no Internet.

Excited with the feel of a holiday, I dressed quickly and followed my nose to the kitchen. I smelled cooking. I smelled baking. I smelled odors that stood alone, and others in strange combinations: roasting chicken, something fishy, something meaty, peanut butter, oats, molasses, vanilla, cinnamon, ginger. Crossing the lobby, I felt waves of heat and food that seemed to be saying, Evie, you know you belong here. Come on in.

But I didn't rush into the kitchen. I paused by the doorway and ducked out of sight, like a shadow no one turned around to see. I peered in silently and felt like an outsider-snoop. I didn't know why I had to do this, but something in my instincts made me feel I should be worried. Something inside my skin was alerting me to trouble.

The table had been moved from against the wall to the center. All four of its extension flaps were raised. Sitting at the table, facing the doorway but with her eyes on her work, was a woman of maybe seventy, maybe older. She looked like anyone's ideal of a warm, kindly, bosomy grandmother. She had the type of old-person face that doesn't wrinkle or toughen, but grows loose, soft, shimmery. She wore a full white apron, streaked and smudged with stains. Her hands were in an enormous bowl of dough.

The windows were so frosted, they looked like oblongs cut out from the moon. On the stove, things in pots were cooking over every burner. I saw that the counters were loaded with cookie sheets cooling on racks, and containers with front openings like in a candy store. Some were filled, some empty.

The cookies were different sizes, as if the woman had placed dough on the sheets without looking or measuring. Some were small as a lozenge, some medium-size, some large and thick. Some were dried strips of . . . chicken! Beef! Salmon!

They were dog biscuits, and kibble, and jerky. I was looking at a production center for treats!

I remembered that the Sanctuary said on its site they believed in positive reinforcement—so of course there would be treats. Right away, I pictured myself as a trainer at the head of a class of dogs, my pockets full. But I'd need to sort the treats. I brainstormed a moment and got lucky. I would get one of those mini-aprons for nails and screws and things, the kind carpenters wear. They probably come with four pouches, which would suit me perfectly, according to the mouths of my pupils: big, medium, small, tiny. My treats would have to be homemade, which meant learning how to bake. This seemed like the right time to start. “I want to learn baking, please,” were the words that were forming in my head.

Again, I held back. The woman at the table was not alone. Mrs. Auberchon was out of my sight line, but I realized in a minute that she was working at the counter by the sink. She was grating carrots.

“I swear,” came her voice, “if it wasn't for the weather, we'd be seeing the last of that girl today. I give her till the day after tomorrow.”

The woman at the table paused in the mixing of her dough. Empty cookie sheets lay on either side of the bowl. She had a warm, liquidy voice. I thought she'd stick up for me, ideal-grandmother-like, even though she didn't know me.

“I'm never one to jump to conclusions, Mrs. Auberchon,” she said. “But it doesn't seem to me she's a keeper. I'll give her until the end of the weekend.”

“Day after tomorrow,” said Mrs. Auberchon. “You didn't see her when she was out at the pen with Hank. And goodness knows what happened with the other three. It was a lot for a first day, giving her the four of them at once, but it showed what's what with her, in my opinion.”

“Tell me again about the sugar,” said the woman at the table.

“It was a straight line of it, right where you're sitting. I'm telling you, she poured it out on purpose, but I didn't see her make it into the line.”

“I wonder why she did that. Do you think she's immature or something, playing with food like a child?”

“I didn't get that feeling, not that I'm saying she's mature. To tell you the truth, I don't think she knows anything about animals. So what do you want to bet?”

“I could put up,” said the woman at the table, “doing the laundry once she's gone. I know you could scream sometimes when you've got to do another load.”

“It won't be much, with just the one bed and two towels,” said Mrs. Auberchon. “How about throwing in you'll clean upstairs too?”

“I could do that, Mrs. Auberchon. How about you take care of the jerky next time? I'd love a break from it. And all the mixing, too.”

There was a pause. Mrs. Auberchon was thinking it over. Then she said, “Deal, but I'm sure I'm going to win.”

“I don't agree,” said the woman at the table. “But what if we're both wrong, and after the weekend, she's still here?”

“Then we'll have to start over,” said Mrs. Auberchon. “Wait till you see her clothes. For once I can't complain about the tuition being so much. She'd never miss it. She has a jacket that's got to cost more by itself than everything I own. And she's awful small. You know, one of those petites. I just don't think the small ones should be handling dogs.”

“Let's not be prejudicial,” said the woman at the table. “But I wonder if she's the kind of small one who looks down on everyone, even if they can't look at you without looking up.”

“It's true she has an attitude problem,” said Mrs. Auberchon. “Looking down is the right way to put it. Is this enough carrots?”

The woman at the table glanced sideways and said, “Do a few more. I'm almost ready for them here.”

“We should put in for a new food processor,” said Mrs. Auberchon. “I forgot how long it takes to do grating by hand. I'm getting sore fingers from it, not that I'm being a complainer. That Tasha! You never should've let her in here our last biscuit day, and then you didn't report it that she chewed up the lid and half the bucket.”