twenty-two

The two malamutes were breathtaking, but my aesthetic appreciation quickly gave way to a more primitive primate response to the sight of predators in motion. I started to say, “This can’t be good,” but the scenario picked up speed as I watched and I never got the words out. Tom and Hutchinson turned to see what I was looking at and I felt all three of our bodies go rigid as the malamutes gained traction and speed and Johnny-Come-Early bounced into view behind them like an elongated ice cube skidding across a kitchen floor.

“What the …,” said Hutchinson.

Gives a whole new meaning to portapotty, giggled bad Janet. Good Janet warned that Someone’s going to get hurt, and urged me to act.

The white cube swayed a different direction with each bounce across the dormant lawn, and every sway knocked a screech out of the vents at the top of the thing. “Ohmygod,” I said, more or less to myself. “She’s still in there.” Then, raising the volume, I yelled, “There’s someone in there!”

I felt more than saw Tom start to run, and turned just as he veered toward a potential interception point. Beyond him, Jorge and the little cat had both turned toward the noise. For a couple of heartbeats they stood there, eyes wide. Then the cat doubled in size as her fur stood straight up. She leaped into the air and spun around and ran for the brush along the fence line. The dogs were still at least thirty yards from him, but Jorge flung his arms wide. The bowl was still clutched in his left hand, and whatever he had planned to feed the cat fanned out in front of him and fell to the ground.

I turned back toward the escalating racket. The malamutes appeared to be hitting their stride, and the leading edge of the johnny caught on something, bounced and teetered, and then keeled over onto its side. The leashes slipped along the door frame and realigned the cube so that it was sliding and bouncing more-or-less floor first along the ground.

Hutchinson started to run toward the cube, and without deciding to, I felt myself moving toward the dogs’ projected path. If they dodge around Tom, maybe I can stop them, I thought. They had closed the distance by half, but Tom was in place now next to Jorge, and if the dogs kept running in the same direction, they should run right into the men’s arms. I glanced at the johnny as I ran and saw it wobble wildly and then turn ninety degrees so that it bounced along with the door on top. One of the leashes snapped free of its handle under the pressure.

The bigger malamute was now free and gaining speed, the thin cord of the once-retractable leash dragging behind. The smaller dog was left with the full weight of the johnny, and the bizarre cargo slowed perceptibly. If he stayed on this path, the dog would pass between a big pin oak and a limestone bench, and I hoped faintly that the johnny would catch between them.

Still, I ran as fast as I could, hoping to intercept the second dog just beyond the tree and bench. Hutchinson, on my right, had almost reached the bouncing toilet, although I couldn’t imagine what he planned to do if he did catch it. I glanced to my left and saw that the first dog had stopped a few feet in front of Jorge to eat the cat’s dinner from the ground and Tom was slowly approaching, clearly intent on a catch. Thank heaven for smelly cat food, I thought.

Clunk! One end of the white cube hit the tree and, half a second later, the other whammed into the bench and yanked the second dog up short. His rear end swung around from the impact and he yipped, but if he was stunned by the sudden stop, it wasn’t for long. He turned back toward where his prey had disappeared and leaped forward. The johnny shifted and, just as Hutchinson reached for the door, it pulled loose, rolled a quarter turn, and began to trail behind the dog again, leaving a wake of fluorescent blue liquid.

I was in place, and the still-hitched dog had virtually no momentum. I called up my most commanding voice and yelled, “Down!” I’d like to say the command worked magic, but in fact the mal did not lie down. He did hesitate, though, and that was all I needed. I pulled a handful of treats out of my pocket and tossed them on the ground. The dog snarfed them up and looked at me with an expression that seemed to say, “If that’s it, lady, I’m outta here.” I reached into my pocket again and came out with the nearly empty tube of fish paste. Hoping it would be enough to hold the dog’s attention long enough for Hutchinson to open the johnny door, I squeezed a fishy inch of glop onto the only thing I could find—a dry leaf. I held it toward the dog and down it went, leaf and all. The dog was still eyeing his buddy, who was now fastened to Tom’s sturdy leather leash and walking toward us.

I heard the johnny door swing wide and bang against the side of the structure, then a thin, scratchy, “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

Hutchinson gave me the handle of the formerly retractable leash that still had a dog on the other end. He turned to help what appeared to be a seriously angry Smurf climb out of Johnny-Come-Early. The chemical stink coming from the johnny and the woman nearly knocked me down. Just be glad it was a fresh, clean one, I thought.

“Wow,” said Tom, gaping at the sputtering blue woman. He offered me a folded handkerchief in exchange for the leash handle in my hand and said, “I’ll manage the dogs. Why don’t you help her.”

The hankie removed the worst of the blue disinfectant water from the woman’s face, but did nothing for the rest of her body or her rapidly declining emotional state. Hutchinson had run off but reappeared with a bottle of water, which he held toward her.

“Oh oh oh! Get it off me!” she said, her voice somewhere between rage and despair. She held her hands in front of her and Hutchinson opened the bottle and poured water over her hands.

“What happened?” Marietta Santini took in the scene and quickly figured it out for herself. “Oh, honey, come on. Let’s clean you up.”

“My dogs.” The words came out like a whimper.

“They’re safe,” I said, gesturing toward Tom and the malamutes. The man must have been saying something fascinating, because the two dogs were sitting in front of him, apparently listening. Their owner told us where her crates were, and let Marietta lead her toward the training building.

I started to tag along to see if I could help, but Marietta looked at me over her shoulder and said, “Oh, I came over here to get you. The cops want to talk to you.”