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Although the drive to Miguel’s is a short one—at least according to the boss—it feels long because of the oppressive silence in the van. And we don’t go directly there. First, we pull into a fast-food place. Soon, we have two buckets of chicken that pretty much smell up the whole van.
I have a small lake of drool in my crate by the time we pull into the driveway, and my stomach is rumbling. True, I got treats at the cert trial, but not that many, and I skipped breakfast.
Miguel limps out to meet us, his weather-lined face cracked into a broad grin. I breathe in his scent. Same smell of pipe tobacco—infinitely better than cigarettes—wood smoke, garlic, yeast, and dogs. And, to a lesser extent, horses.
He slides the van door open, snaps my leash on, and opens the crate. “Doodle, mi hombre, que tal?” He rubs the back of my neck.
I thump my tail. Always love to see Miguel. If anyone has that mysterious “it” the boss goes on about, Miguel’s the one. Not only that, Miguel seems to be the only human not upset right now. The boss still radiates unhappiness, and sadness wraps around Molly like a blanket.
“I guess I don’t need to ask how it went,” Miguel says, studying their faces. “What happened?”
The boss shakes his head. “Scent confusion’s the only explanation I can think of.” He avoids looking at Molly, but she turns her head away all the same.
Annie drives up with Chloe, and soon everyone is headed for the house.
Molly takes me for a stroll over to a growth of weeds by the fence so I can relieve myself. Then, I follow her up a set of brick steps, onto a wood porch that runs the width of the house, and through the door into the mouth-watering scents of fresh bread and, of course, chicken.
In all the time I was at Miguel’s for training, I never once came inside his home. None of us dogs did. Our place was in the kennel. Now I see that Miguel has a small but cheerful living room with a couch and two chairs that are covered with brightly patterned blankets facing a table with a small TV. Across from the entryway is an even smaller eating area which opens to a kitchen. In a little alcove behind the dining room, a computer sits on a desk.
Molly goes over to it. “Okay if I check my email?”
The boss starts to protest, but Miguel waves her on. “Go ahead,” he says.
Everything looks clean and freshly painted, which is no surprise since, when I stayed with him, Miguel was always quick to haul out the paintbrush. No smell of paint, however, which is good because paint fumes kind of make me sick.
“That’s a lot of chicken,” Miguel says, as the boss plops two buckets on the kitchen counter alongside a pack of diet ginger ale. “Are there people coming I don’t know about?” His tone is friendly, teasing, but the boss just shrugs morosely.
Miguel takes out a brown bottle of beer. “It’s just one test. And if it were me, I’d consider the source.” He opens the bottle and tilts it up for a sip.
The boss eyes Miguel’s beer, like a dog watching a tasty morsel of food. He carries the pack of ginger ale to the fridge, sticks it inside and stands in the open doorway, fingering one of the brown bottles. Then, abruptly, he twists off one of the ginger ales, shuts the door, and grabs some ice from the freezer, which he clinks into a glass.
Never understood the human fascination with ice. Cold drinks aren’t my thing, unless it’s water, of course, and then not as cold as ice makes it. And hot drinks—don’t get me started. Room temperature’s the way to go as far as I’m concerned, especially when the cold drinks are things like beer and diet ginger ale.
Annie, whose eyes were fixed on the boss the whole time his were fixed on the beer, jumps as her phone begins to buzz like a giant, angry insect.
“Annie Harmon,” she says in a pleasant voice.
Jerry’s voice squawks from the speaker, loud enough that even the humans can hear. The boss and Miguel exchange a look. Molly leaves the computer and takes a seat at the table, clearly listening as well.
“I thought I’d tell you that Gunther got his NABBS certification this morning. He had no problem distinguishing the dead bugs from the live ones.”
Annie’s eyebrows raise and her mouth drops in astonishment. “Um, that’s great, Jerry. Congratulations.”
“So you were wrong about his nose. I’m just lucky that we took him back to Sid’s before you did real damage.” The anger in his voice makes me nervous, even though I know that these voices that come over the phone aren’t anywhere near enough to see, much less smell. I sit up and scratch my shoulder. Much better.
“I —” Annie begins, but then seems to choke on the words. She clears her throat.
“And you can bet that I’m telling everyone I know to avoid Miguel’s. Sid told me that neither of you really know what you’re doing, and I can see he’s right.”
Annie shakes her head, still not speaking. She blinks and swipes at her eyes.
I can’t help but whine. Molly glances at me. “Hush,” she says softly. “Relax.” But nothing in the way she sits, stiff with tension, makes me want to relax. I scratch again.
“Anyway, I just wanted to tell you. It was wrong of you to interfere with Gunther. He’s a perfectly good bed bug dog.” With a click the phone goes silent.
Annie snaps her phone shut, but she stands unmoving, her eyes not focused.
“The jerk,” the boss says.
Miguel takes another sip of beer, a hard expression on his face.
The boss says, “That’s rich. Sid gets Jerry to blame you even though you gave Gunther hours of free training.”
“Yeah.” Annie sounds glum. “But I put in those hours for Gunther’s sake, not Jerry’s. I hoped if I could get him on track, Jerry would relax and treat him better.”
Miguel gives her a pitying look. “The hardest part of the job,” he says softly, “is not being able to rescue dogs from bad owners. We can train the dogs, but the humans?” He shakes his head.
I think about my second boss, and have to agree.
“I can’t believe he passed his trial. I would’ve sworn the poor dog was out of his depth.” She exhales a long, shuddering breath. “Well, I guess I screwed things up royal. Now I see why you’re so cautious about new clients. If you want to fire me for losing you business —”
“Don’t be stupid,” Miguel says, his voice as hard as the glint in his eye. “The day I take training advice from someone like Sid . . .” He rises, shaking his head. “Trust me.”
I always trust Miguel, although in this case I’m not exactly sure what about.
He grabs a stack of paper plates and plops them on the counter next to a bowl of potato salad, and beside it, wrapped in foil, a loaf of warm bread whose tantalizing fumes already waft throughout the house. “Help yourself.”
Oh, that I could.
Before long, everyone has a plate of food—every human, that is, and they crowd around the little table in the dining room. Chloe and I watch, drooling, from the kitchen floor, both of us alert to any morsel that might drop.
Dinner is pretty much a quiet affair. For once the humans don’t talk their heads off. But for all that silence, no one seems to eat much. Chloe and I could remedy that in a hurry.
“I don’t get it,” Annie says after awhile. “Gunther passes and Doodle fails. I would have bet hard cash on the just the opposite.”
Molly, who has been working on the same piece of chicken since she sat down, swallows and looks up with interest.
Miguel traces a line of moisture around his bottle. “Like I said before, consider the source.”
“What do you mean by that?” the boss asks. He’s eaten even less than Molly.
“I’d trust Sid about as far as I could throw him, and he’s bigger than me. So if he’s running a trial and the results are the opposite of what everyone expects, I say look to the source.”
The boss shakes his head. “Don’t see how anyone could rig it. Unless the judges are crooked.”
“Who sets it up?” Miguel asks.
“The chief evaluator. A cop from Fairfax. Pete somebody. He’s done dozens of certs.”
Miguel shrugs, and no one speaks for some time.
Hey. Things are looking up. Molly tears off a piece of her chicken and folds her napkin over it. Then another. And then, she adds a piece of bread. She slips the napkin in the pocket of her jacket.
And finally, the sound we dogs have been waiting for—the scrape of chair-legs against the tile. Everyone gets up.
“Can I feed Doodle?” Molly asks.
“Sure. I haven’t brought in his food.” The boss tosses the keys to Molly. She clips on my leash.
As soon as we’re outside, Molly feeds me the contents of her napkin. Delicious! Then she gets my kibble and dish from the van and feeds me right there. Nowhere near as tasty as the chicken, but I eat it with relish. As Miguel used to say when he’d give us treats, “hunger makes the best sauce” which I think means food tastes better if you’ve had to miss breakfast.
After I eat, Molly takes me over to one of the big buckets of water that sit under a faucet just inside the barn’s entrance. While I lap, she flips open her phone, but then snaps it shut, going suddenly still.
I stop drinking and listen. Voices. A bark rises in my throat, but just in time I realize it’s Annie and the boss. Their footsteps crunch on the gravel, the boss’s voice urgent.
“I know Miguel thinks something’s fishy going on with Sid —”
Fish? I test the air. I don’t think so.
“—and he trained him, you know?” the boss is saying. “So while I don’t know a more honest man, maybe Miguel doesn’t want to believe Doodle could fail.”
Smart man, Miguel.
“And, anyway,” the boss continues, “he misses the point. Even if this cert isn’t completely legit—and I still don’t see how it can be faked—it doesn’t matter as far as my business is concerned. Because Sid has convinced half the available clients in the area that certification means competence. We’ve been hanging on by a thread—all those loans to get started, and barely enough income to take care of them and Molly’s school, which isn’t cheap even with her scholarship. And now, if we lose even a small chunk of our business because we don’t have this cert, I’m not sure how long we can hold out.” He sighs and the footsteps stop. Molly stands so still I can’t even hear her breathe.
“I think Doodle’s problem was scent confusion. Maybe when he trained for pot, he forgot about distinguishing between live and dead bugs.” He’s silent for a moment. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, Molly did a great thing clearing Kenny. How can I get after her for that? She’s such a good kid, got such a great heart. I just wish she could have cleared him without jeopardizing the business, without ruining a twelve-thousand dollar dog. You know?”
Molly, listening, now looks stricken, as if she’s lost her best friend. I whine softly and she whirls towards me. “Shh.”
Annie doesn’t answer right away. “I think,” she says at last, “that Molly’s lucky to have you as a dad. Whether you’re right or wrong about the scent confusion. I’m not at all sure that’s what’s going on, and even if it is, Doodle isn’t ruined. Wouldn’t take long to refocus him in training.”
Ruined? I’m not following this conversation at all.
“Doesn’t matter. Without enough new customers in the next few months, I’ll be ruined,” the boss says in a grim voice.
No one speaks for a moment. Then, the boss clears his throat. “Sorry to dump that on you. I really appreciate your coming today. And the pudding was great—sorry I wasn’t able to eat much.”
Annie says, “Completely understandable. I may be crying on your shoulder tomorrow.”
A car door opens. “Come on, Chloe, jump in. Good girl.” The car door shuts and I hear the whine of the window going down. “Josh, don’t give up on Doodle yet. He’s smart, and frankly, I’d trust his nose over any results that involved Sid.”
Couldn’t have said it better myself.
The car vrooms to a start, but Molly doesn’t move even after the sound of the wheels and footsteps on gravel have faded and we’re left in silence. Instead she stares, at the barn door. Oh no. Tears have pooled in her eyes.
I think I’ve mentioned that I’m not the touchy-feely sort that so stereotypes humans’ images of dogs. Do the work, get paid has been my motto from the get-go. But Molly . . .
I lick her hand until she bends over to touch me, then lick the tears off her cheeks, tasting their saltiness.
“Oh, Doodle.” She kneels down on the straw, and buries her face into my fur. I stand strong on all four legs and support her weight as she cries, her tears warm against my fur. Finally, she gives a last convulsive shudder, and releases me.
“Oh, Doodle. What are we going to do now?”
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