24

“He should have a name.” Alice says this around a mouthful of spaghetti, as if slipping the concept of naming the dog around food disguises the larger concept of keeping him. The dog, for his part, sits at a distance, but his eagle eyes are alert to her right hand with the upraised fork. He isn’t begging per se, but he is certainly interested in their mealtime.

Ed tears a hunk of Italian bread off the loaf on the table, butters it liberally with the fake spread that Alice buys because it’s supposed to be healthier for them than the margarine she used to use. He doesn’t respond, but she knows he’s thinking. She waits patiently, familiar with the signs of Ed’s thought process. He never voices his internal debates. Finally, just as she’s taken another forkful of spaghetti, he sets his fork down. “What do you want to call him?”

“I don’t know. Something different. I wish we knew what he was called.”

“Then we’d know where he came from.”

“How about Silver? Because of his color.”

“Nah. What about Butch?”

“Never. Carlton?”

“Carlton? Why Carlton?”

“I like the name.”

“Oh no. Not Carlton. I just can’t see me owning a dog named Carlton.”

“Then come up with something.”

Ed just shovels another bite of spaghetti into his mouth. “Buddy. It’s a good name. Watch.” Ed swallows the spaghetti, scrapes his plate with the chunk of bread. “Here, Buddy.”

The dog is by his side in an instant.

“See? Maybe that’s really his name. He comes to it quick.” Ed puts the plate on the kitchen floor. The dog happily licks the plate with a dainty tongue, scouring it for any hint of sauce.

“Ed. I’m shocked at you.” Alice leaves a tiny bit more sauce and a scrap of sausage on her plate. “Okay. Buddy it is.” She takes up Ed’s sparkling plate and gives the dog hers.

“Well, I’m shocked at you. Letting a dog lick your plate. How uncharacteristic.” Ed grabs both now virtually clean plates and sets them into the dishwasher. “I guess if we’re going to keep him, we need to get a license. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Alice is glad that her back is to him. She was expecting an argument. She was prepared for it, loaded, as they say, for bear. Ed has left her with her figurative powder dry and it is all she can do to stop from laughing out loud. “Sounds good.” Alice bends over the dog to stroke his muzzle, to keep her surprised smile from belonging to Ed.

*   *   *

Nothing is ever cut-and-dried. That’s what Ed thinks as he leaves the town clerk’s office without a dog license. Buddy needs proof of a rabies shot before he can get a tag. Now he’s got to find a vet, make an appointment, spend who knows how much, and then, only then, can he get the ten-dollar tag. No wonder people become scofflaws. “What do you say, pal, want to live outside the law?” The dog is more interested in the scents surrounding the trash can outside the town hall.

They used to take those two ornery cats to the Moodyville Vet Clinic over on Route 101. It’s been a long time since the last one moved on to mouse hunt on a higher plane, and Ed wonders if the place is still there. This time, he thinks to call Alice and tell her he’s going to be late for lunch.

“Well, we probably should get him checked out anyway. See if you can get squeezed in today. If not, I can take him, as long as you can make an appointment that isn’t on my day at the library.”

“Do you want me to pick you up?” Ed holds the cell phone tight against his cheek. He still doesn’t believe that you don’t have to shout into them. “There’s no way I’m going to remember your schedule.”

There is no hesitation in Alice’s reply. “Yes.”

By the time Ed pulls into the driveway, Alice has called ahead to the clinic and gotten an appointment, which she knows will please Ed, who hates to wait for anything. Fortunately for them, there was a cancellation. Buddy is relegated to the backseat as Alice takes her place in front. He rests his chin on the seat back, suggesting that there is room for him between them. When neither of the people invite him to move up front, he settles into the left-hand seat to watch the scenery go by.

The Moodyville Veterinary Clinic is a much different place from the one where they used to take the cats. The boxy cedar-shingled building with the two chain-link runs outside has evolved into an architecturally designed animal hospital with tended gardens, and if there are runs, they are well hidden behind a flourishing boxwood hedge. The practice has clearly grown, and now there are four vets on staff instead of just old Doc Creighton, whose family has been so long in this town that there’s a road named for them. Creighton’s name is still on the masthead, along with those of his daughter and two others.

A staffer hands them a clipboard with a form on it. “Do you have insurance?”

Ed wonders if he’s accidentally brought the dog to a people clinic. “Insurance?” His question is lost as the staffer grabs a ringing phone. Since when is there health insurance for animals? Is this in Obama’s health-care package? Is that why people are so bent out of shape? Alice takes the clipboard and checks off “No” to that question.

They really don’t know anything about him, and it shows. The form is mostly empty except for their names and contact info. Name: Buddy. Breed: Shetland sheepdog? Age: unknown. Last vaccination: unknown. Any health problems? unknown. Microchipped? Alice looks up from the form and points to that question. “What if he is?”

“Then we find out who he belongs to.” Ed takes the clipboard from Alice.

There is no animal smell in the waiting room and barely any in the exam room where young Dr. Creighton meets them after a tech does all the routine things like weight (thirty-two pounds) and temperature (normal). Buddy takes it all like a champ. Like a dog quite used to being vetted. The clipboard with the microchip question is now in Dr. Creighton’s hands and she is asking questions that Ed lets Alice answer because it isn’t unlike being in the pediatrician’s office with a child. A mother should answer those questions. Fathers should stay in the background.

Good appetite. Healthy bowels. No coughing. Playful. He sleeps on the couch; is that a bad idea? The whole time the vet is asking her general health questions, Alice is stroking Buddy, her fingers raking through the thick fur of his ruff. Little drifts of loosened hair float into the air.

Ed waits for the vet to ask where they got him. And if she does, will she insist on seeing if he is chipped? She opens Buddy’s mouth and looks at his teeth, runs her hands down his sides and under his belly, where she spends a little longer palpating. She takes a look inside his ears and into his eyes. Ed watches as the vet’s hands glide down the length of his back. She gives him an attaboy thump. “Good boy.”

Buddy seems to agree. He nuzzles the vet’s face.

“He has a little scar on his belly, which I think must have come from surgery. If he’s been anaesthetized, he might have a chip. Do you want me to see?”

Alice doesn’t answer. She wraps the leash around her hand, holding it tighter.

“He’s not chipped.” Ed puts a hand on Alice’s shoulder. “The people we got him from didn’t chip him.”

Under his hand, Ed feels Alice’s relief.

Ed gets the feeling the vet’s not buying his story, but she isn’t going to press the issue. She administers the rabies and distemper vaccines, draws blood for a heartworm test, and shoots a little medicine up Buddy’s nose for kennel cough. “He’s a lovely dog. You’re very lucky. His former owners certainly took care of him.”

“Yeah, they did. Till they couldn’t do it anymore.”

Two hundred and twenty-five dollars later, Ed, Alice, and Buddy head home. This time, Buddy sits in front.

*   *   *

Mack has never lived with two people at once. There have been visitors, even overnight guests, but never two people under the same roof, sharing a bed and bumping into each other in the hallway. He watches Ed and Alice as they go through their days. Her tongue language includes recognizable words like dinner; his, the word no. Ed says no to Alice a lot. Mostly when she asks him a question. “I don’t know.” “No thanks.” “How should I know?” When they talk to each other, the sentences are short, and even a dog can tell that it isn’t conversation as much as routine fact finding. The interesting thing is that when he is alone with either of them, their tongue language is smooth and flowing, filled with nuances and that chirpy sound that humans make when they are amused. Suddenly, they are using a word with him that he recognizes is what they want to call him. Buddy. That’s okay. It’s a familiar term and he’ll respond to it if that’s what they want.

What’s hard is that they spend very little time in the same room. Buddy/Mack, still new to the double responsibility of two humans, goes between the television room and the kitchen, staring first at Ed, then at Alice. They should be in the same place; that’s what his herd-dog requirements ask. Then Alice moves to the television room and Ed disappears into the bathroom. Buddy/Mack waits patiently, sitting just inside the archway so that he can monitor the television room and the bathroom. Ed comes out, and he wags his tail in relief. Okay, now he can move Ed into the same room as Alice. But Ed slips past him, giving him a pat on the head, going into the bedroom to watch the other television.

This is the first day that Alice hasn’t been at home with him. Buddy/Mack recognized the word work, so he thinks that she may come back tonight smelling like food. That’s what Justine always smelled like when she told him she was going to work. Food. Buddy/Mack licks his chops in anticipation that maybe tonight these new people will present him with a treat from work. After their daily ride, Ed has also left him alone in the house while he is outside. Buddy/Mack would like to tell Ed that he’s perfectly dependable about staying in the yard, but he has no way of letting Ed know that. So he jumps onto the couch, circles, and buries his nose beneath his tail. He’ll doze a little, one ear positioned to catch the sound of returning humans.

Since choosing to remain here to wait for Justine, Buddy/Mack has not slept. He has only dozed, and the lack of deep sleep is beginning to wear on him. Afraid that he’ll miss hearing Justine’s arrival, and a little nervous about being in the care of strangers, he hasn’t allowed himself the healing sleep of the content. He has not dreamed running dreams. He hasn’t dreamed chasing dreams. He sleeps the primordial sleep of his ancestors when hunting alone, always on the alert.

Today is the first day that he feels himself go into a deep sleep. Buddy/Mack isn’t conscious that he’s entered into REM sleep; he just knows that he is in a safe place and that he can finally slide into the relaxed sleep of a sheltered dog.

Buddy/Mack sighs, letting go of all the tension of the past few days. He tucks his nose deeper beneath his tail and falls asleep, his new stuffie tucked under him.

He is certain now that if Justine comes, she’ll wake him up.