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“Dewey!” I called, sprinting after him, his lead dragging on the ground. “Dang, dang, dang!”
He galloped past Wren, who stood outside on the sidewalk in front of her yoga studio. How did she not hear the ruckus? Her face was tipped upward to the sky, hands extended out, palms up. She appeared to be sunbathing, yet fully clothed, and in some sort of trance.
Sprinting past her, I yelled, “Wren! Track down Honey Puckett at the hardware store! Tell her Dewey’s on the run! And if you have time, can you watch the shop? No one else is there! Please and thank you!” I didn’t wait for a reply or to check if she’d heard me. I channeled my inner Forrest Gump and ran.
Despite Dewey slowing to a quick, plucky trot, I couldn’t catch up. He hopped on and off every bench. He paused at every planter, munched, then looked back at me—before booking it into the middle of the stopped traffic on Main Street. Lucky for the goat, the lines of vehicles were paused for a red light.
I ran toward him as he dashed around the front of a rusted, blue farm truck. The farmer in the cab tooted his horn. The yellow lab sitting in the passenger seat barked out the window at the sight of Dewey. When the light turned green, the several cars crept slowly, honking. I lost sight of Dewey. As I weaved myself between the cars and across the two lanes of traffic, relief washed over me when I saw the goat feasting on a red rose bush growing in a whiskey barrel in front of the Craisy Daisy flower shop. Dewey’s tail wagged with delight. Creeping behind him, I closed the space between us. But the stupid goat must’ve heard me. With a twist of his head, he peered at me. The playfulness in his eyes didn’t give me much hope. Before I reached him, the chase started again.
“Dewey! Get back here, right now!”
Everyone who passed us stopped to stare, point, and laugh. I wanted to scream at them. Tell them, So funny! and Thanks for the help! But sarcasm wouldn’t help me. Besides, I was running on low steam and borrowed breath. I needed to reserve both.
“Someone, please grab his rope,” I said, my lungs squeezing.
Riding his vintage bicycle in our direction, Donny Thomas dinged the metal bell on his handlebars. “What the heck?” I heard him shout.
“Mr. Thomas! Grab. Him.”
“He yours?” Donny Thomas slowed his bike and clambered off. He set the kickstand as Dewey halted in his tracks. The goat’s breathing was labored, as was mine.
“Yes,” I clutched my tight chest, walking toward them. “Well, no, he belongs to the Puckett’s. He ran away from me during an appointment.” Dewey turned his head in my direction, and I paused. Oh, please don’t run. I called out to the goat. “Hey, Dewey. Good boy.” I made kissing noises, clicked my tongue, and bent down on my knees. Curious, Dewey watched me and stood stock-still.
“Mr. Thomas?” I said.
He peered over at me. “Yes?”
“What do you have planted in your bike basket? Anything with fruit or vegetables?” Wheezing, I crossed my fingers, hoping he had something to offer. Donny Thomas was known for growing a tiny garden in his front basket.
“Spring mix lettuce, brussels sprouts, and carrots. Why do you ask?” he answered.
Dewey stood in between us, his head traveling back and forth as if listening. He must’ve worn himself out, but if I approached him too fast, I might kick-start his gallivant. My lungs wouldn’t endure much more exertion.
“Can you pick some and try feeding the goat? I’ll pay you for them!”
“Do you think it’ll work?” he asked.
By now, half the town had emerged from their shops and businesses, watching the circus I’d created.
“I think if you entice him, especially with a carrot, you can distract him long enough for one of us to grab hold of his lead. Whatever you do, don’t spook him.”
I watched Donny pick a handful of lettuce, a few plump brussels sprouts, and pulled a carrot from the soil, the entire time moving in slow motion.
Dewey called out loudly, “Baa-haaa-haaaa!” and took a few steps toward the bike. With a long snout, he tested the air with his nose.
Yes, my plan might work.
“Okay, now what?” Donny asked.
“Set them on the sidewalk. He’s interested. Hopefully, he’ll approach them and start eating, and while he does, I’ll sneak up and snatch the rope.”
“Okay,” Donny said. He bent and set the veggies in a pile on the ground. “Do I move away or stay?”
“Don’t move, even if he approaches you. Stand very still.”
I took slow, deliberate breaths, attempting to get my lungs in check. The wheezing subsided. Thank goodness.
Dewey showed more than mere interest in the goodies Donny dropped. Being a typical goat, always browsing, he walked straight to the veggies and started chomping.
Not moving a muscle, Donny watched me intently.
I prayed to the goat gods to keep Dewey occupied with his loot. The street noise and people milling about masked any sound I might’ve made as I snuck up behind the snacking animal. The end of his lead was merely a few feet from me, but then a horn blared at an intersection. Dewey’s head popped up, the carrot greens dangling from his mouth. I froze. A second later, he ducked his head and went in for another mouth full, and as soon as he did, I snagged the lead and held the sucker with all my might. With his face buried in veggies, Dewey never noticed.
“Steely, move slow, and don’t approach him from behind!” A woman’s sweet voice called to me. Honey Puckett. I was thankful and humiliated at the same time. “I want you to say, in a quiet, sweet voice, ‘Hey, Dewberry.’” When she said the words, Dewey glanced over at her, gave her a short “Baa-haaaa,” and snatched a mouthful of lettuce greens.
I followed Honey’s instructions and tiptoed out to the side of him. Taking a deep breath as best as I could, I let out a slow release. “Hey, Dewberry.” My voice was a tender whisper. I wanted to scream at the beast, but I denied myself the satisfaction.
He swiveled his head, his mouth working the lettuce side to side, and stuck his head back down.
“Okay, he sees you have the lead. Now, take two steps more to the left and keep calling him dewberry. Trust me on this one,” Honey instructed.
I did. “Hey there, dewberry.”
“Baa-haa-haa!” he answered in reply.
“On my way, Steely. Hold the lead tight.”
She came around us and approached him from the front.
“Dewberry, were you a bad boy?” Honey said in a soft yet stern voice. She took hold of his harness and scratched his head.
Relief washed over me, and I realized my hands were trembling from the anxiety. Tears pricked my eyes.
“It’s okay, Steely,” Honey said, holding her hand out toward me. “Hand his lead over.”
I reached over and gave her the looped handle. “I am so terribly sorry.”
She smiled in her usual friendly manner. “Are you kidding me? I’m the one who’s sorry. My goat’s a total jackass.”
Her phrasing caused the folks nearby to laugh, and a few of them clapped quietly. I heard someone call me the goat whisperer as we headed back to the shop.
––––––––
THE FIRST APPOINTMENT set precedence for the rest of the afternoon.
I ran late for every client. I worked straight through lunch. I had one disaster after the next. Wet dogs on the loose. Overflowed tubs. I used all the clean towels and had to tumble dry dirty ones, an absolute no-no in Daniel’s world. Speaking of Daniel, I seriously missed him and wished he was here. I took a quick break and sent him another apology in a text message. I typed out an apology to my father, saying how sorry I was about the embarrassing photo in the newspaper. Then sent one to my sister, telling her I’d be by soon to visit with her.
By the time I staggered toward the lobby for my last client, I looked like a drowned rat who’d been in a bar fight with a bobcat. But as I passed the stairwell to my apartment, Cuff bounded down the steps and announced Ramen had vomited on my pillow. Can this day get any worse? I thought, jogging upstairs.
At least I am feeling better, Chiquita.
“You’re right, little buddy,” I said, patting him on the head.
After cleaning up Ramen’s mess, I fetched my last client from the lobby, Maisy, Mr. Peters’s standard poodle. Leading her back to the groom room, I noticed a steady stream of water flowing into the hallway floor drain. After the day I’d already endured, I didn’t run. I didn’t pick up my pace. I strolled into the groom room, walked Maisy over to the overflowing tub, turned the water off, and loaded Maisy into a holding kennel.
“I’ll be with you in a jiffy, girl,” I said, keeping my composure.
I could either sit on the wet floor and cry, or buck up by tossing some dirty towels down to mop up the water. The first option would get me nowhere. The second would put an end to my nightmare of a day. I spilled the basket of dirty towels on the floor and lost myself in the work.
Lucky for me, it’d only been two weeks since Daniel groomed, shaved, and shaped Maisy’s gorgeous black coat, so she only required a quick bath and toenail trim. My favorite part of Maisy’s groom was her blowout results. Her soft coat resembled plush, dark cotton.
Sporting a pom-pom tail, she pranced beside me down the hallway, and we stopped at the front counter to select her bandana bow. A sunflower print on a red background. I hooked her lead to the wall railing.
Mr. Peters rested in a chair with his head back against the wall, his newsboy cap covering his eyes. Running the hardware store kept him busy. I approached with caution since Patrice lay across his lap.
“Psst ... Mr. Peters?” I said, softly tapping his shoulder.
His hat fell to the floor as he bolted upright, and he grabbed Patrice with both hands. “Who? What? When?”
“It’s Steely, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you, but Maisy’s finished.”
Noticing he had his shotgun at the ready, he set it on the chair next to him. “I guess I dozed off. Sorry about Patrice. But given my old life, she makes me feel safer.”
He was referring to his gambling days. According to Gertie, who gambled alongside him, he kicked the habit years ago. I wondered if he ever resolved his debt issues. I reached down and retrieved his hat, noticing his bowling ball bag under his chair.
“Actually, we’ve grown kind of used to having Patrice around.” I tried to ease his mind. “Is it a bowling night?”
He shrugged, appearing disappointed. “Well, it was. But Gertie texted and said she didn’t feel well. I don’t bowl without a partner. So, I guess I’ll go home, put in a TV dinner, and watch a movie.”
I held out a hand to help him up. He accepted. “Except for the TV dinner part, your plans sound nice and quiet. After my day, I could use a nice, quiet evening.”
“I look forward to our bowling nights. It’s my only fun these days,” he said, adjusting his cap.
I pointed over at Maisy wagging her pom-pom tail. “I did a good job on her today.”
Nodding, he whistled. “Yes, ma’am, you did.”
I moved around behind the counter so we could finish up. “Since it was only a wash today. The charge is twenty-six, Mr. Peters.”
“Ms. Steely, I’ll say you’re lying if you breathe a word to Daniel, but Maisy’s never looked so great,” he said and handed me cash.
I smiled. His comment made my entire day. “Thank you.” I gestured, zipping my lips, and winked. “Your secret’s safe with me.” As I counted out his change, an idea occurred to me. With Jackson on duty, Daniel in Austin, and the dogs sleeping off their nacho binge, I had a free evening. Throwing a ball and knocking down pins sounded therapeutic. And bowling with Mr. Peters might distract my worries over the case.
“I haven’t bowled in years. But I’d be happy to take Gertie’s place.”
“Really, Ms. Steely?”
“Sure, growing up, Gertie taught me how to bowl. I bet I can roll a strike on my first try.”
Grinning, he clapped. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Practice starts in forty-five minutes.”
“If we leave now, we can stop by and grab Gertie’s shoes and ball. You’re welcome to leave Maisy in the office with Cuff and Ramen. They’ll be fine.”
His usual frown turned upside down. “The rest of the Gutter Nutters will envy me.” He shuffled his black Oxfords, breaking out in the Tango. “Hot dog, I’ve got myself a date!”