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My only choices were a) admit defeat and phone Linda, my dog
trainer friend, or b) try my last idea.
The trouble was, Linda and her
ex-husband Karl shared custody
of a German shepherd named Tibor, a paragon of a dog who--had
Lincoln been indisposed--probably could have written the Gettysburg
address and delivered it, too. When Linda used him to demonstrate
perfection at our beginner's class, the snobby shepherd sneered
at the other dogs the way Zeus probably gazed down from Olympus.
So far, our new Irish setter,
Gretsky, named after the astonishing
hockey player Wayne Gretzky, (aka The Great One), exhibited only
one attribute, i.e. a prodigious capacity for affection, which
he insisted be returned. Insisted was the operative word.
After lunch, while I tried to
relax with coffee and the morning paper, he barked at me for
half an hour. He did not need to go out. He wasn't even hungry.
Swatting him produced no effect. Ignoring him? No effect. Gretsky
just wanted to see me jump through hoops for the fun of it.
"Okay," I challenged
him. "Let's find out who's Alpha Dog around here."
I climbed up on the living room
coffee table. I put my hands on my hips. I glared at the pushy
young animal yapping for my attention. Then, trying to simulate
a Great Dane, I barked right back at him.
Gretsky paused to blink at me.
He was a beautiful dog, really. Shiny auburn red. That sculpted
head shape peculiar to setters. At four months of age he had
already become a leggy young adult with a deep, narrow chest
and sparse fringing on his legs and tail. He reminded me of the
legendary chestnut thoroughbred, Secretariat. Except, of course,
horses don't bark.
The pause ended, and Gretsky joined
me in a ridiculous duet of opposing wills. I'm sure I looked
and sounded like a total idiot, but I was too angry to care.
Luckily, both kids were off at Bryn Derwyn Academy's day camp,
and Rip was there doing the zillion things headmasters do in
the summer.
Having failed with my Great Dane
imitation, I stopped making noise. Gretsky, however, continued.
Woof, woof, woof. Yap, yap, yap, yap. If his objective was to
get under my skin, he was a run-away success.
As I climbed down from the coffee
table, I experienced a guilty pang of nostalgia for our previous
Irish setter, Barney.
Barney and I had a rapport. If
I so much as thought about walking him, he would shimmy with
joy. When the kids' bus was late, he would raise an eyebrow of
concern. And the morning he bolted for the house next door, I
knew for certain there was an emergency involving Letty MacNair,
our reclusive older neighbor. Unfortunately, Barney's heart gave
out shortly after that episode. All four of us Barneses cried
for days.
We
acquired Gretsky more as a diversion than a replacement. With
time and luck, maybe that special rapport would come.
Meanwhile--aspirin. I rummaged
around in the kitchen junk drawer for two Bayer. Then I downed
them with water straight from the tap. Mercifully, Gretsky had
gone off on his own silent mission.
Initially, I did everything right--obtained
a list of reputable breeders, called a few, asked lots of questions.
Then
I did everything wrong. All we wanted
was that silly Irish setter personality, not a living art object
worth hundreds of dollars. So after school one day, my son Garry
and I answered a local newspaper ad. A Lancaster-County farmer
had bred his own two setters. He described them as "hunters"
rather than show dogs and priced them accordingly.
Both
the man and his wife agreed that Gretsky's mother possessed a
sweet, affectionate disposition, but his father was . . . husband
and wife exchanged a glance, "We almost got rid of him,"
said the woman. One more litter, said the husband's nod. The
condition of their living room conveyed that they needed the
money. I cheerfully handed it over.
As
I drove out their lane with our beautiful red puppy snuggled
in Garry's lap, Daddy Dog pranced through the rain alongside
our car, head held high like the champion he reputedly had been.
Surely that glint in his eye was just pleasure over his freedom.
It was.
I glanced at the kitchen phone.
Linda once mentioned that anyone in the beginner's
class was free to call and discuss specific problems, so
technically I wouldn't be imposing upon our friendship. Of course,
right that moment Gretsky seemed to be behaving himself.
Wrong. Our Great One scooted past
me with something light blue in his mouth and his daddy's glint
in his eye.
My underwear!
The little scamp had stolen a pair of my panties. Head throbbing,
I set off after him.
We circled the living room coffee
table. He zigged when I zagged. I lunged. With four legs to my
two he merely trotted to avoid my grasp.
Prancing lightly, knees up like
a Lippizaner, he exited the living room and proceeded down the
hallway past our two kids' bedrooms toward the added-on TV room
just beyond.
"Come on, Gretsky, give,"
I begged as I lumbered after him.
He glanced back as he entered
the family room where a sofa rose like an island centered in
front the television. We both knew he could do laps around
it until I fell flat on my face.
- To close off his escape, I
shut the door behind us. Then I laid a wooden chair barrier style
between the back of the sofa and the bookcase.
Gretsky gracefully leaped over
it on his way by.
I extracted a broom from the closet,
planning to swipe the dog's hip in the vain hope that he would
pause long enough for me to retrieve my unmentionables.
The broom fanned the dog's rear
from a distance of eighteen inches, but Gretsky's eyebrows straightened
with dismay. He oozed forward like Secretariat eyeing the stretch.
I promised myself never to miss the clothes hamper again.
"Drop it," I demanded
through a very tight throat.
A fast glance and another leap
over the chair.
I climbed over the back of the
sofa forgetting entirely about keeping my sneakers off the upholstery.
The four-legged Great One faked
right and bolted left. From my high position on the seat cushions
I thrust the broom in front of the on-coming dog. He stopped
just long enough to entice me to the floor then rounded the broom,
flew over the chair, and stood with his back to the wall like
a gunfighter covering every option.
I flopped onto the sofa, arms
folded over my heaving chest, and glared at him while I caught
my breath. Gretsky refused to meet my eye.
Instead he sidled over to the
door, which unfortunately had bounced half an inch out of the
totally-latched position. Our canine Einstein easily nosed the
door open wide enough to shoulder his way out of the room.
"The hell with you,"
I shouted down the hall after him.
I rubbed the back of my neck and
contemplated the phone resting on an end table. Linda really
had invited her students to call anytime with questions.
Did 'Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!'
qualify as a question?
"Would it be possible to
schedule another private session?" I asked as soon as my
friend and I had exchanged hello's.
Her response was so uncharacteristic
that my own problems fled from my mind.
"Sorry, Gin. I just . . .
no. Sorry," she told me with a quivering voice.
"What's wrong?" I asked
with apprehension.
Linda took a slow, ragged breath.
"Karl's dead," she said.
"Tibor did it."
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