J. RoBB - The Lost

The weed-f ree soil was, as you’d expect, rich and soft and loamy, and digging-I’d been a dog for almost a week now: How had the peerless, inimitable joys of digging in dirt eluded me? It was an all-encompassing feeling once you got going, once you figured out how much more efficient and satisfying it was to use all your appendages, all four feet and your snout. Thrilling, really, and so satisfying to see how high the piles of earth, stalks, stems, and flowers rose behind me, littering the brick walk, obscuring its tasteful herringbone pattern. Why stop at the verbena-coreopsis combo? Right beside it was a swath of ferns and hostas for green relief, and then came a spray of tall fountain grass-that would be a challenge. Excitement filled me. The first hosta plant came out so easily, I made the mistake of barking at it. Take that! Dead as a doornail. I started on its neighbor, one of the variegated kinds I’ve never liked anyway. And that! Die, you stupid plant, die like a-like a-

“Hey!”

Where did she come from? Monica had the phone in her hand. She stuck it to her ear, said, “I’ll call you back. There’s a dog in my yard, it-” She squinted. “ Sonoma?”

Busted.

She made a run for me-I jumped out of reach. She tried another off-balance lunge; I dodged the other way. Great fun. She looked so silly, and I was grace on four legs, shifting and feinting at the last second. Loser, I taunted, juking out of reach just before she could grab my collar. She tried stalking me next, hand out, voice coaxing. “Here, girl, it’s okay, c’mon, Sonoma, c’mon, girl.” Up yours.

We circled each other around the debris on the sidewalk. Then-too late-I saw that she’d gotten between me and the gate. A second later, she reached back and slammed it shut.

Trapped.

Screw you, I’ll jump over the fence. Watch this.

But it was four feet high, and it had arrow-shaped uprights, sharp arrow-shaped uprights, between each iron post. I pictured myself half inside, half out, impaled in the middle.

Okay, you got me, I told Monica, and lay down on the hot brick walk. Now what are you going to do with me?

She put me in the bathroom. I don’t know why I let her. Exhaustion, partly, but also the growing suspicion that I wasn’t a violent dog at all, that growling was my whole arsenal, after which I had nothing. Well, barking, and some fast footwork, but that was it. I even kept an eye on Monica’s calf while she guided me into the house, imagining my teeth sinking into its tan firmness-her shriek of pain-the taste of blood. But I couldn’t do it. What was I, a vampire? No, I was a retriever.

“Sam? It’s Monica.” She was out in the kitchen, but I could hear her plainly through the closed bathroom door. “I just tried you at home, but I guess you’re… Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I won’t keep you; I just wanted you to know Sonoma ’s here. Sonoma. No, here. Well, I guess she got out.” Light laughter.

I waited for the ax to fall.

“I have no idea; maybe you left a… Oh, she’s fine, none the worse for wear. I don’t know. I know, it’s so… No problem, I’m here all day, just pick her up whenever you… Sure, that’s fine. Okay, Sam, we’ll-You’re welcome, see you soon. Oh, please, don’t give it a thought. Bye-bye.”

She brought me a bowl of water. She brought me half a piece of toast with peanut butter. After an hour, she let me out.

Oh, such transparent manipulation. I wasn’t fooled for a second. I snooped around the house awhile, then lay down on the comfy couch in the living room, dirty paws and all. What are you going to do about it? She put her hands on her hips and shook her head in a cute, exasperated way. Uncharmed, I curled into a ball and took a nap.

When I woke up, she was all sweet-smelling in clean clothes and fresh makeup, running a feather duster over the furniture. A feather duster. I rest my case. One whole living room wall was covered with framed photographs, mostly of the twins. She was a photographer, too? She looked at her watch just as the doorbell rang. I jumped off the couch.

Benny! Sam! Benny! Sam! Joyful squeaking, ecstatic circling. They smelled like Hope Springs, but also like Delia. And pizza! I sat when Sam said, “Sit,” though, and didn’t shove my nose in his crotch, and I didn’t lick Benny on the mouth, another no-n o. It probably made no sense to be on best behavior now, but it was the only defense I had. I’d figured it out in the bathroom: Monica hadn’t told Sam on the phone about my adventures in the garden because she didn’t want to upset him while he was visiting his comatose wife. She’d tell him now, though.

But it was Sam, not Monica, who said, “Benny, why don’t you take Sonoma out to the car? Monica and I have to talk about something.”

“Okay,” Benny chirped, and patted his thigh for me to come, the way his dad did. “Come on, Sonoma!”

I didn’t want to go. Instinct told me it would be better to be there when Monica lowered the boom. On the other hand, prompt, willing obedience was all I had left, so I trotted outside after Benny.

A neat, empty rectangle of sour-smelling mulch had replaced the massacred flowers and hosta, and the brick walk had been swept clean, neat as one of Monica’s countertops. Nice of her to tidy up the scene of the crime, I thought sullenly. She probably had OCD.

I wanted to hear all about the visit to Hope Springs. How was I? What was my prognosis this week? Did Benny cry? Was he sad? But for once my son was in a quiet mood. We sat in the backseat of the car with the door open for a breeze. Hot as it was, Benny didn’t mind when I sidled close and rested my cheek on his chest. Blub-blub went his heart, the best sound. Love filled me up. How wonderful to be back with my family again.

But what was taking Sam and Monica so long? I didn’t like the look of them, standing too close in the doorway, talking in earnest voices too low to hear. Although at one point Monica clapped her hands at some comment of Sam’s and said distinctly, “Oh, that would be great.” What would? Having me put to sleep?

At last Sam turned and started toward the car. Well, this was it. The moment of truth. I searched his face for anger, indignation, but he was smiling, no doubt savoring some bon mot of Monica’s. Who, just then, thought of something else she must say to him and jogged out to the car, too.

“Oh, Sam, don’t forget the, um…” Suddenly she was tongue-tied. Sam finished buckling Benny’s seat belt, backed out, and closed the door. “The, um, you know.” She made a gesture with her hands, but Sam moved and his body blocked her. I couldn’t decipher it.

“I won’t,” he said.

“Don’t forget what?” alert Benny asked through the open window.

“Don’t forget… to tell me how Sonoma got out,” Monica said, clearly improvising. She reached in to ruffle Benny’s hair. “Pretty smart dog you got there.”

“She is really, really smart,” he agreed.

Monica looked at me and lifted one eyebrow. She wasn’t trying to communicate-sending ironic signals to a dog was the last thing on her mind. But to me, that private, raised brow was as good as a wink.

She hadn’t ratted on me.

Well, great. Just great. What was I supposed to do, thank her? And for a second, actual gratitude welled up in my retriever heart. I yawned at her. I grinned. I licked my lips.

Then I got a grip on myself. What naïveté. How could I fall for such a slick trick? I wasn’t one of those dogs you could smack around and then give a bone to and everything was hunky-dory. Forgive and forget-that’s what dogs do, but I was still Laurie. If I wanted to keep my family, I had to hang on to what I knew: Monica Carr was not my friend.

“I wonder why she came over to your house,” Sam said, settling in behind the wheel. “Although I’m glad she did-she could’ve gotten run over on Wilson Lane.”