Someone knocks on the door on Sunday morning, and JR starts barking again. It’s not that early, but between getting sued, the failed walk-by with Janie, school starting up on Monday, and the Inherent Unfairness of the Universe I slept for crap, and I wouldn’t have minded the opportunity to at least try to sleep in.
You know it’s bad when you’re hoping it’s Jehovah’s Witnesses, but when I look out the window, there’s an oversized cream-white BMW in our driveway. It’s Greg’s car — Greg’s latest car. To me it looks like the automotive equivalent of a pimp suit, but I’m sure he’d argue that it just “presents the right image.” Greg argues everything. He’s my uncle, Mom’s brother, and our lawyer. I’m not surprised he’s here, but I still get a really bad feeling as I look down at his pimpmobile.
I hear a fresh explosion of barking downstairs. It’s JR, of course, but I’ve never heard him like this before. Even a floor away, the barks sound raw and angry. I throw on the same clothes from yesterday, with a clean pair of socks, and head down the stairs. By the time I reach the first floor, the barking has stopped, and I can hear Mom and Greg talking in the kitchen.
I walk through the doorway, and there’s Greg, overdressed as usual. JR is nowhere in sight.
“Jimmer,” Greg says, nodding.
“Hey, man,” I say, and nod back.
I’m not sure about this — it’s not the kind of thing that’s big in what’s left of our family — but I think he might be my godfather. That would be appropriate, considering what I know about his mobbed-up clients. And apart from the family stuff, I’ve already seen a lot of him this year; he was my lawyer, too.
He turns back toward Mom to continue talking. Mom looks businesslike. You can see that she’s been up for a while. She’s already washed, already dressed for the day, already fully caffeinated. Greg is her older brother, but I guess it’s still a meeting with her lawyer. Mom is not the kind of person to ever fail for lack of effort.
“I need some time with the animal,” Greg says, and that snaps me back. The “animal”? Like he’s a wombat or something.
“His name’s JR,” I say. “And where is he?”
“Out back,” says Mom. “He’s not a big fan of his legal representation.”
Greg lets out a small laugh, and we all head toward the back door and straight through. Mom’s in front, I’m next, and Greg is last in line.
“Careful where you step,” Mom calls back to Greg.
JR is in a spot near the back corner. He’s sitting down when I see him, but as soon as Greg appears behind me, he stands up and starts barking. He looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him. He’s pointing his mouth up and really going for it. His jaws snap shut in between loud, rasping barks, and his eyes are wide open and staring at Greg, who has the good sense to stay halfway in the door.
Mom makes a beeline for JR. For a second, I think maybe I should hold her back, but he barely notices her. Even as she reaches him, his eyes stay on Greg.
“He doesn’t trust grown men,” she shouts over her shoulder. “Bad history.”
She grabs JR’s collar and gives it a hard tug. “Hey!” she says.
I’m surprised at how rough she is, but it gets his attention. JR makes a sound like “Mmrrruhhh?” A few more small tugs and he’s quiet. His eyes still flick over toward Greg, but his mouth is just hanging open.
“Come on over here,” Mom says.
She’s talking to me. She thinks I can help keep JR calm, but I’m not so sure. I am still technically a dude.
“Charming,” says Greg, behind us.
“I’ve never seen that before,” I say, not taking my eyes off JR. “I mean, he barks at me sometimes, but not like that.”
“Like I said, he has a problem with adult males,” says Mom.
“You think?” says Greg.
I reach JR and stand on the other side from Mom. He doesn’t seem to mind, so I reach down slowly and scratch him behind the ear. He’s calmer now.
“You can come on down,” Mom says.
It makes me think of a game show. Greg takes the back steps slowly and then starts across the lawn. JR barks a few more times, but not like before. It seems like that storm has sort of passed.
“That’s probably close enough,” I say, just to be sure.
“You got him?” says Mom, loosening her grip.
She looks at me; I look down at JR; JR looks at Greg; Greg looks at us. It’s like a four-way gunfight is about to break out.
“Sure,” I say, digging my hand in under his collar. I can feel his neck muscles against my knuckles, and they’re looser now, not as tensed up. “Got ’im.”
Mom lets go and walks back toward Greg.
“So,” says Greg, exhaling loudly, letting out some breath that’s probably been in there for a while. “He’s a rescue?”
“Yes,” says Mom. “I got him from that big shelter just south of here.”
“Yep,” says Greg. He nods and JR follows the motion with his own head, up and down, like he’s agreeing. Then he snaps off another bark, like he changed his mind.
“Shush, boy,” I say, giving his collar a tug.
Greg’s looking at him carefully, like he’s trying to guess his weight. He’s fully in lawyer mode now, and you can see he has mixed feelings about the rescue thing. I want to ask: What’s wrong with being a rescue? But I’m not an idiot and I already sort of know. A rescue has had it bad; a rescue can be mean. But it’s a good thing, too. You know, sympathetic. I’m sure Greg knows that. It cuts both ways. For a while, we’re all looking down at JR and JR is looking up at us.
“What’s his name again?” says Greg.
“Johnny,” says Mom, choosing the friendliest option, the one that she uses.
“Hey, Johnny,” says Greg.
JR cocks his head, closes his mouth, then lets it fall open again. He recognizes his name.
“Good dog,” says Greg. I’m sure it’s not the first time JR has been patronized. “And the, uh, incident, it was here in the backyard?”
“Yes,” says Mom, unable or just not trying to prevent a sour-lemon expression from flashing across her face.
All of a sudden, my heart starts pounding. I need to tell him! I can tell him right now about Mars jumping the fence, cornering him. I can show him right where it happened. And Mom will vouch for me. This isn’t court or anything, but I can still make, like, an official statement. I don’t know why I’m so nervous about it, but I have to do it. It’s the only thing I’ve got.
As all of these thoughts are rushing through my head, Greg slips something out of his pocket.
“Let me get the dog first,” he says.
I panic for a second. “What do you mean, ‘get the dog’?”
Greg holds up his digital camera, and I feel like an idiot.
“Could he move?” says Greg. “Could one of you move him over there? I want to get the tree in the background.”
It’s like picture day at school. JR doesn’t understand what’s going on, but between Mom and me, we don’t have much trouble getting him into a more photogenic spot.
“Nice,” says Greg as he takes the first picture.
JR blinks at the flash, then looks at the camera a little more closely, trying to figure out what just happened. Greg takes another shot.
“Even better,” he says.
JR blinks again. He’s much calmer now, but I can’t tell if he’s gotten used to Greg or has barked himself out.
“Is that, like, his mug shot?” I say.
“They already took that,” says Greg. “But we can take our own, too. All ends up in the same place.”
“Wait,” I say. “They were here? Who was here? They took pictures?”
Greg lowers the camera and glances over at me. He looks a little surprised. Maybe he thought I knew already, or maybe he’s deciding how much to tell me. His mouth isn’t moving, though, so I look over at Mom.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, but I don’t buy that.
“When?” I say.
She shakes her head: It doesn’t matter.
“Who?” I say. “Was it yesterday?”
I wasn’t here, but someone had to let them in, so when? “Was it yesterday?” I repeat. She told me she found out right after I left. I assumed she meant a phone call, but now I’m thinking they came here. They came with their lawyer, hammering hard on the door and demanding to take pictures. If that’s how it happened, they’re lucky I wasn’t here.
“It doesn’t matter, Jimmer,” she says. My name is a signal to drop it.
“But …” I say.
“It was yesterday,” says Greg.
He’s either saying that because it’s true or to shut me up. I’m not sure what to say next anyway. But someone was here, in our house. Some lowlife, some parasite. And I’m sure they got JR all revved up and took pictures of him barking like a maniac.
“And where did it happen?” Greg asks, and that snaps me out of it.
Now I have to say it, and I’m angry anyway. I mean, where it happened is the whole thing. I think Mom even wants me to tell Greg, because she doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns to me and says, “Jimmer?”
My lawyer, my uncle — my luncle — turns and looks at me. “Lay it on me,” he says.
So I launch into it. “He claims he was still on the other side of the fence and our dog jumped up at him, right? Stuck his head over the top of it and bit him?”
“Yeah, that’s basically —” Greg starts, but I don’t really need confirmation. That’s what Mars’s mom told mine.
“Well, that’s bull!” I say. “That’s over there.” I point to the side of the fence closest to us. “But he was over here.” I point to the corner.
“Did you see him there?” says Greg. He has switched back to his neutral lawyer voice, which annoys me. He should be on our side!
“No,” I say, “but that’s where JR was, and he was freaked and wouldn’t move for a long time.”
“JR is the dog,” Mom says to him. He nods.
“And,” I say, loudly, to get his attention back. “And there was a fresh footprint right there.” I point again.
“A footprint in the grass?” he says.
“A footprint in the dirt,” I say. “Definitely his sneaker, too.”
He looks down, but the dirt is flat and slick.
“Rainstorm,” I say.
I can see him mulling it over.
“Yep,” he says. “God’s cleaning service.”
His tone has changed again. Neutral lawyer is gone, replaced by folksy lawyer. I’m sure he’s used that line on a jury more than once. I’m glad he’s thinking along those lines.
“So that sucks,” I say. “But I saw it.”
“So you’re saying he let himself in?” he says. “And then, what, back out again?”
“Yeah, he hopped the fence. He’s been coming over for years, and for the last few of them, since he’s been tall enough, he’s always hopped it. So do I. It’s easier. So, yeah, he hops the fence, backs JR into a corner, and sticks his hand in his face. JR isn’t as freaked out by younger guys, but you see how excited he gets. You can’t just … He’s a rescue….”
I still feel like I need to explain that last part, like why it doesn’t have to be a bad thing, but Greg waves me off. “Right,” he says, “and a big one. I understand.”
“Dr. Sanderson says he’s getting much better,” Mom says. “Even right now he’s so much better.”
“And then he hopped back over,” I say. “And that’s when I saw him. But he already knew to watch out for the dog crap in the yard because he’d just been in here. See? See?!”
Something occurs to me and I rush over to the fence post closest to where Mars was standing. If he used his hurt hand to hop it on the way out, I figure there might still be some blood on the post. It’s like CSI: Stanton. But there’s nothing. God’s stupid cleaning service. My luncle is watching me. He probably knows what I’m looking for, and he sees me not see it.
“Yeah,” he says. “Provocation’s tough to prove, regardless. He’s come over before, and then there’s the height of the fence to consider…. Let me get some more shots. We’ll talk inside.”
“But I totally saw it,” I say.
“All right,” he says, his voice more unreadable than ever. “We’ll talk inside.”
Greg is supposed to be on our side, but it feels like I just lost him.
“Do you still need him?” Mom says, meaning JR.
“No,” he says.
“Come on, boy,” I say. “Biscuit.”
He looks up at me.
“Pizza roll,” I add.
He follows Mom and me toward the door. Greg steps to the side and JR gives him one last look, one last bark.
“Watch your step,” Mom repeats from the top of the steps.
Or don’t, I think. Mom and JR head inside, but I stop in the doorway. Greg takes a few pictures of the fence: the spot where Mars claims JR jumped up at him. He lowers the camera and is about to put it in his pocket, but he raises it again and takes one quick shot of the corner where I found JR. He barely even aims, but I see the flash go off and I head into the house.
Mom and I are already waiting at the living room table by the time Greg comes inside. JR is over in his spot, still licking the biscuit off his lips and probably wondering where that pizza roll is. Greg takes a seat like he’s sitting down to dinner. JR’s head pops up and then disappears again, like a periscope. I think that’s pretty good, considering the racket he made before.
“Well, hell,” Greg says.
“Yep,” Mom says.
“Yep,” I say.
“Listen,” he says to Mom. “There’s something you should know. The former owner, the guy who had him before you —”
“The guy he was taken away from?” says Mom. She has a look of total disbelief on her face. Mine is just total confusion.
“Yep,” says Greg. “Well, they got him to file a deposition.”
“You’re serious?” I say.
He looks at me in a way that makes it clear that he is. Now I understand where Mom’s disbelief came from. The psychopath who kept JR chained to a tree, covered in ticks, has filed a deposition. Greg doesn’t say what’s on it, but he doesn’t really need to. I can guess what it says already: dangerous dog, always biting, chained up to protect the public.
I push my chair back and stand up, but I don’t have anywhere to go. They watch me as I sit back down. I bet that guy’s just like Mars’s family. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re related, and I’m 1,000 percent sure they’re promising him a cut of the money. Money we don’t even have, but try telling them that. I bet all they see is my mom dressed up nice, coming from work or going to it.
“It’s safe to say that this guy is ‘not unknown to the court,’” says Greg. “But that deposition is still strike two.”
Right, I think, because even the absolute worst people still count more than any dog. Mom must understand it, too, because she just nods.
“And you know they’re asking for some significant damages,” he says.
“For what? I gave him the frickin’ bandages for free!”
Greg looks over at me.
“Bannnn-daaaaa-gessssss,” I say, drawing it out. “It wasn’t even that bad a bite.”
I can tell that there’s something else. I can see him deciding whether or not to clue me in. Mom calls Greg “maddeningly vague,” and she’s being nice.
“They’re claiming possible nerve damage,” he says.
“Wait, what?” I say.
“Which is either smart or true,” he says.
“Neither one of those sounds like Mars,” I say.
“Still and all,” he says. “The complaint says a ‘persistent tingling in his hand and wrist.’ Or something like that. It’s kind of the classic, because it’s hard to prove but just about impossible to disprove.”
And right there, I can see the genius of it. I wonder if it was Mars’s idea or their lawyer’s. Not for a second do I consider the possibility that it might be true. I could see using a line like that to get out of gym or something, but this is serious. This is real. I am so mad at Mars right now, I could tear him in half. This whole thing bites on so many levels.
“But —” I start. Suddenly, I have a million more things to say, like how Mars wouldn’t look me in the eyes downtown and how there’s no way that bite requires a sling, so if he’s lying about that … But Greg raises his hand in a stop sign and says, “Doesn’t matter.”
I really wish people would stop saying that to me.
“End of the day,” Greg says, “that boy was bitten, and they got someone else, even if it’s not much of one, to say the dog’s a biter. And he’s a Rottweiler, which is, you know, one of those species: a ‘bully breed.’ Would be worse if he was a pit bull, but it would be a whole lot better if he was a Lab or something.”
That doesn’t seem fair. JR is afraid of his own shadow half the time. He’s the opposite of a bully, so why should his breed matter? Mom starts to say something, but Greg gives her a stop sign, too. That makes me mad, because this is our house and she’s my mom and this is all insane.
He takes a deep breath. “Bottom line,” he says, and we lean in.
Right at that moment, I remember something. It’s not like it is on TV. Greg doesn’t think that way, and courtrooms don’t operate that way. There’s not going to be any high-tech crime-scene investigation or any dramatic last-second testimony. He just said it: That scumbag former owner filed a deposition, which means he’s not even going to be there.
“We’re going to go ahead and try to settle,” he says. There it is. “They may not agree right away, may want to go to court. Or they might jump at it. It’ll come down to the money, either way. This is the way to play it.”
I lean back. This show is over.
“Good news and bad news,” he says.
We let him choose.
“Good,” he says. “Homeowner’s insurance should cover most of it. I’ve been coordinating with the company, looked over your policy, and it’s not too bad. Policy limit’s a little low for this, but hopefully that won’t matter.”
Now it’s Mom’s turn to lean back. I know she was worried. I know she was thinking we’d lose the house. I was worried about that, too. “But the rates will go up, regardless,” she says.
It’s not a question, so Greg doesn’t answer.
“Is that the bad news?” I say. I’m just hoping.
“Bad news,” says Greg. “The judge will decide what to do with the dog.”
“What do you mean, ‘what to do’?” I say, but that’s not really a question, either. He means whether to have him put to sleep, and I know this is my fault. It’s my fault because Mars is my friend. Or he was.
“How can they just —” I say. I can’t say it for some reason.
“Same as the money,” Greg says, shrugging a little. “A dog’s just property. I know you don’t see it that way, but in the eyes of the court …”
I look away and Greg waits for me to look back. I guess he figures I need to hear this.
“If they agree he’s dangerous, presents a threat to public safety … You want my advice,” he says, “get yourself a new dog.”
I don’t want his advice.
“Maybe try something smaller this time….”
“We already have a dog,” I say.
“Take it out of the judge’s hands,” he says. “Show some responsibility. Might help.”
Now he leans back. He might as well. He’s laid it all on the table.
I look over at Mom. She looks serious. “I can’t believe they’re doing this,” she says. “I’ve known them for ten years. I’ve always been …”
It seems amazing that I’ve known Mars for that long. I try to remember the first time he came over here, and come up with an image of him sitting in the front room, maybe first or second grade, fishing the last Dorito out of the bag.
Greg looks over to the far end of the room, where the top of JR’s head is just visible. Mom and I both follow his eyes. Look at that, I want to say, he is already so much better with people — so much! I want to say that to Greg, but I don’t. It’s another one of those things that cuts both ways.
“Seems like a nice enough dog, and it’s a nice thing you did, getting him from the shelter like that,” says Greg. “Still, I think you need to seriously consider it.”
Mom looks up. “I don’t think that’s something I can do,” she says.
“Me neither,” I say, not like anyone asked me.
Greg pushes his chair back and stands up. The last thing he says is: “Judge might do it for you, regardless. I am sorry.”
It’s not even noon when he leaves, but the day already feels like a total waste.
I turn to Mom: “Why did you say ‘don’t think’ you can?”
She looks over at me, but her eyes are a million miles away.
“What’s that?” she says.
“Unbelievable,” I say and walk out.