Блейз Клемент - Duplicity Dogged Тhe Dachshund

I take my pet-sitting business as seriously as I did being a deputy. In a way, the jobs are a lot alike. Whether you’re taking care of pets or enforcing the law, you’ve been entrusted with lives, and I treat that with a lot of respect. I belong to a professional association of pet-sitters that has a code of ethics as strong as the AMA’s. I’m bonded, licensed, and insured. When I take on a pet-sitting job, my clients sign an agreement detailing what they expect of me and what they agree in return. I get their vet’s name and number, any medical conditions the pet has, along with medications or vitamins or special treatments needed. I get a complete history of illnesses, injuries, and allergies. If the client has a trusted relative or friend, I get the name and number to call in an emergency. I find out the pet’s favorite foods, favorite toys, favorite games, even their favorite TV shows and favorite music. I have the owners show me where they keep the pet’s food, litter, leash, and grooming equipment. In some cases, I agree to pay for any emergency medical treatment or any unexpected home repairs that may arise while the owners are away, and they reimburse me when they return. In other cases, especially with clients who know me well, they simply give me signed blank checks to use as needed. While I’m on duty, I keep meticulous records of what I did and when I did it. In other words, pet-sitting is my profession, and I treat it in a professional manner.

By the time I finished the calls, it was time to leave for my afternoon visits. I took a quick shower and put on fresh shorts, a clean T and clean white Keds, and slathered sunscreen on every inch of exposed skin. Except for our father’s black eyelashes, Michael and I inherited our mother’s blond coloring, so I fry after just a few minutes of sun. I grabbed my backpack, detouring through the kitchen on the way out to search for a banana or an apple. Except for breakfast an eternity ago, I hadn’t eaten all day, and hunger was sucking in my stomach. My kitchen was like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. No cheese, no apples, not even a limp stalk of celery. All I found was a mostly empty package of whole almonds. I grabbed it and told my stomach I would give it dinner later.

By the time I was at the foot of the stairs, the almonds were all gone. I tossed the empty bag in the trash can and got in my hot Bronco. I really needed to go grocery shopping. I really needed to get my life organized. I really needed to get a life. There was fresh egret and gull poop on the hood of the Bronco. I needed to wash my car too. Jesus, if I did all the things I needed to do, I wouldn’t have time for any of the things I had to do.

During the summer, afternoon rain clouds start scudding in from the Gulf around four o’clock. Like free-wheeling blue aardvarks, they rumble and flick lightning tongues at golfers and swimmers and tennis players, indiscriminately loosing showers here and there to cool the air and make the foliage smile. To avoid mildew or getting struck by lightning, I try to walk all my dogs before the rains start. Then I repeat everything I’ve done in the morning except for grooming. Mornings are for grooming and walking and playing and feeding. Afternoons are only for walking and playing and feeding. Either way, I spend the same amount of time, about thirty minutes, at each house.

Morning or afternoon, my first stop is always at the Sea Breeze, a big pink gulfside condo where Billy Elliot lives. Billy Elliot is a greyhound that Tom Hale rescued from the fate that befalls dogs who don’t win enough races. Tom’s a CPA who has been in a wheelchair since a wall of lumber fell on him at a home-improvement store. Tom and I trade services. He handles my taxes and anything having to do with money, and I go by twice a day and run with Billy Elliot.

When I got there, Tom yelled at me to come sign some papers. I went in the kitchen where he works at a center table. Tom has a thick mop of curly black hair, round black eyes behind round rimless glasses, and a plump middle. He looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy, except cuter.

He said, “Sign this form for the state, and this one for the federal government.”

I signed on the lines where he pointed, and he leaned back in his wheelchair and glared at me.

“Dixie, don’t ever sign anything without reading it.”

“I wouldn’t know what I was reading anyway, and I trust you.”

“Never trust anybody with your money.”

“It’s not my money. It’s a cat’s money. You promised me you would take care of it, and that’s all I need to know.”

He sighed. “How is the cat, by the way?”

“We should have that cat’s life. He lives with people who spoil him rotten. He eats, he sleeps, he plays a little, he eats, he sleeps.”

Tom grinned. “He’s a damn rich cat. I’ve made a report for you, all the investments the cat has made, all his profits and expenses. Take it home with you for bedtime reading. I mean it, Dixie. I know you trust me, and I appreciate that, but you need to know what’s going on. Too many people are too trusting when it comes to money, and I’m beginning to think half of the suckers live in Florida. I guess it’s because we’ve got so many old people.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “That’s a little ageist, don’t you think?”

“Probably, but I’ve spent all week trying to help a sweet trusting great-grandmother who’s a victim of identity theft. Somebody cleaned out her savings account and ruined her credit. I suspect she signed things she didn’t read or gave out information just because somebody asked for it.”

I stood up and grabbed the folder. “I don’t do that.”

“Good. Read those reports.”

I promised I would, but we both knew I wouldn’t. Sometimes you just have to trust people.

It was close to seven when I neared Secret Cove. The box of free kittens had been removed. Either they’d all been taken by kind Samaritans, or they’d all fried in the heat. At Mame’s house, she was waiting behind the glass by the front door with the leash in her mouth and a determined gleam in her eye. I thought that was a good sign. She was old, but she had purpose, and when you really get down to it, that’s the only thing that makes life worth living for any of us.

I hugged her hello and ignored the disappointed look she gave me when I put the leash back in the basket by the door. No way was I going to walk down that lane again today. Sheriff’s cars were still at the crime scene, and I knew that’s where Mame would want to go. I did a quick walkthrough to make sure she hadn’t had any accidents or done anything naughty. In Judge Powell’s study, the rug beside his desk had two small wet spots on it. I poured club soda on the spots and blotted them dry.

Mame came and watched.

I said, “So your bladder isn’t what it used to be. Whose is?”

She yawned and flapped her long ears as if the subject didn’t even merit conversation.

When I took her out to the lanai for a sedate game of fetch-the-ball, she played, but I could tell she had hoped to go chew on the finger again. At around seven-thirty, I changed the TV channel—Mame liked variety—set the timed nightlight, and kissed her good-bye.

At the Ferrellis’ house, the driveway was filled with cars. I parked in the street and went to the front door and rang the bell. A flint-faced woman with black hair cut in an angled bob answered the door with a lit cigarette in her hand. She gave me a snooty glare.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Dixie Hemingway. Mrs. Ferrelli asked me to come by tonight.”

She looked as if she didn’t believe me, and turned to yell into the living room. “Stevie, did you ask somebody named Hemingway to come by?”

Instead of answering, Stevie came down the hall. “For God’s sake, Marian, let her in!”