Sharon Henegar - Sleeping Dogs Lie

I signaled left to go around the block. “All of you, be quiet,” I said out loud. “We’re going to make sure that we didn’t follow some look-alike stranger.”

Immediately the know-it-all chimed in. “Don’t be ridiculous, you know what Bob looks like. And how many middle aged men in Willow Falls wear canvas high tops?”

“There could be at least two,” I answered back. “I haven’t known Bob very long, it's the proverbial dark and stormy night, and the windows were all steamed up. This could be just a weird mix up. I might have been wrong about what I saw. Now let me concentrate on driving. I will scream if I am pulled over by the police again tonight, especially if it's the same cop.”

Bob and I had met two weeks earlier thanks to our cars and our dogs. I had just left my lawyer’s office, after dealing with some of the aftermath of my husband’s death. The tears I had been blinking back had everything to do with anger and nothing with lost love. Any love I'd had for Roger had died long before he did. I stepped quickly to the tan car at the curb and inserted my key into the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. I tried again, with the same result. My tears dried as I scowled at the car, seriously considering kicking it. I heard shouting.

“Hey, get away from my car!”

I looked around and saw a tall man with a short dog hurrying toward me. I was not in the mood to deal with a crazy person. I bent to the task of unlocking the car once more.

“What are you doing to my car?” The voice, closer now, sounded a little winded. I straightened and looked at him, holding my keys defensively in my hand.

“This is my car,” I said. I sounded grumpy. “I bought it new in 1989 in Seattle and I've had it ever since.” Well, there’s a telling detail, said a sarcastic inner voice. That will certainly put him in his place.

He shook his head. “No, sorry, this is my car. See, my jacket is on the passenger seat.”

I glanced into the car and saw the jacket, and at the same moment remembered I had left my dog Emily Ann in my car. Certainly no sign of her here, unless she had magically morphed into a tan poplin jacket. I looked around and spotted my own car—identical to the one I was trying to unlock— parked two spaces further along, nearly hidden by an enormous SUV. Thousands of tan Honda Civic hatchbacks from the late eighties may still be on the road, since they refuse to die and get great gas mileage to boot. But I'd never before confused mine with another.

“Heavens, you’re right, this isn’t my car,” I exclaimed. I felt my cheeks warming. “Mine is over here—they look the same.” I took a couple of steps closer to it and saw Emily Ann wagging at me through the back window.

“Hey, natural mistake,” he said, his voice friendlier now. I noticed nice crinkles by his hazel eyes. “Sorry I yelled at you. No way could you see your car behind that behemoth.” He was about my age, on the shady side of fifty, with a fair amount of gray in his brown hair. “The first week I had mine, I lost it in a parking lot and it turned out to be hidden by a Subaru.”

“I know. I once toyed with the idea of carrying a can of helium in the car so I could float a balloon whenever I parked in a big lot.”

He nodded. “I tried that for a while, but small children kept stopping and demanding balloons.”

A laugh burst out of me. “Oh, that would never do,” I said. “Cars this small are considered choking hazards for children under the age of three.”

We stepped closer to my car, and this time the key turned in the lock as it had always done before. Emily Ann hopped onto the driver’s seat. When I opened the door she descended to the sidewalk and moved to the man’s black dog. She ignored me as I grabbed for the leash attached to her collar.

Both tails started wagging. The dogs did their ritual greetings, circling and sniffing. His dog sported a long body, short legs, an exaggerated snout, and long droopy ears, clothed in shiny black hair. “What kind of mix is he?” I couldn’t help asking. Dog lovers never can.

“I suspect he’s a cross between a black lab and a basset.” His voice was a smooth baritone, attractive and curiously soothing. “I always wonder how they know they’re both dogs,” he added, his eyes on the two animals.

“I know,” I agreed, “It must be body language.” Certainly the two dogs could not have been more dissimilar physically. Emily Ann is very tall, with a smooth dark gray coat.

They say that people look like their dogs, that we choose pets that reflect us. I think our pets reflect what we find attractive. Emily Ann is a runway-model type—long legs, narrow body, huge eyes and a big smile. Which would also describe this man, who was tall and thin and moved with the same sort of diffident grace. His dog, on the other hand, had that long body and short legs and exhibited not the slightest trace of elegance. And while I’m okay for everyday use, I must admit that I’m long waisted and a bit short legged. My nose is on the small side though, and my ears are definitely not droopy.

“I bet he was a really funny puppy,” I said, smiling at the sight of his dog stretched out in a play bow with his ears brushing the ground. The bad mood I'd brought out of the lawyer’s office had disappeared.

“I imagine he was, but he came to me a gentleman of mature years,” Bob said. “I'm Bob Richardson, by the way, and this is Jack.” He slung the small backpack he was holding over his shoulder and held out his hand.

“Louisa McGuire,” I told him, “and this is Emily Ann.” I shook his hand; it was warm and smooth and held mine with just the right amount of pressure.

“And did you get Emily Ann as a pup?”

“No, she spent her early life as a racer. But she didn’t make enough money so when she was two her owners turned her over to a rescue group. I've had her about six months.”

“Jack’s been with me just a few weeks, but I suspect we must have known each other in another life. He felt permanent the first time I met him. You said you bought your car in Seattle, is that where you’re from?”

I shook my head. “I grew up here, and moved to Washington when I married. I came back last spring. And you? I don’t remember you from high school.”

“I've just moved here from High Cross.” He looked at his watch. “Two weeks tomorrow. I don’t know anyone yet. I bought groceries on Friday so I could chat with the clerks at the grocery store. Pathetic, really. I don’t suppose you’re actually a grocery clerk in your spare time?”

I shook my head. “Not guilty.”

“Any chance you’d take pity and have coffee with me and tell me what I need to know about this place? Do you have time?”

I looked at him. He didn’t in any way match my idea of an ax murderer, and he did have a very nice dog. “Well, sure, I don’t see why not. Do you know the Bluebird Café around the corner at Third and Maple? They have some outdoor tables where we can have the dogs with us.”

“Sounds perfect. What street is this, First? I could toddle a couple of blocks. Do you need to float a balloon or anything?”

“Not this time,” I assured him, and turned back to my car. I put the briefcase with its load of unwelcome paperwork behind the seat, slammed the door, and secured it with my key, which turned sweetly in the lock.

The Food Right where Bob had left me in his car was an older store that had never been remodeled into a giant warehouse where you needed either hiking boots or roller blades to facilitate your grocery shopping. One of the fluorescent tubes over the bags of charcoal briquettes near the door flickered a bit, almost but not quite keeping time to the luxurious music that washed through the air. It took a moment to recognize it as a string version of the theme song from the old Yogi Bear cartoon show.