Artie ran five miles every morning. He loved to be out before the sun was up, to come awake in the dewy streets along with his city, to feel his legs working, his heart pumping efficiently. In his head, he revised the speech for his first campaign event. He’d be officially announcing his candidacy in a week. Yesterday at the new office they’d unfurled his banner, fresh from the printer.
ART GUIDRY FOR CITY COUNCIL AT-LARGE.
ART IS RIGHT FOR NEW ORLEANS.
He’d gotten choked up when he saw it. He wished his dad could have been there. The future they’d planned for so long was finally happening.
The announcement party would be a crawfish boil in the park. He envisioned himself smiling at the gathered crowd. His crowd. They’d invited Artie’s old school friends who were lawyers and judges and real estate developers now, his mother’s Junior League contacts and his dad’s old colleagues and supporters. His father, Bertrand Guidry, had spent decades on the city council, and his machine would get behind Artie. He hadn’t seen a lot of those folks since his dad’s funeral. Two years ago, already, but the pain of that loss was hardly diminished. Now that he was entering politics himself, he longed for his father’s advice.
Art knew he’d win. He had the name going for him—his father had been widely adored, and everybody was in favor of a Guidry on the council again. He had the talent, and more important, he really believed the things he said, about education, cleaning up corruption. New Orleans deserved better. Deserved someone like him, who loved this city, wanted to help, and had the energy to take it on.
And this was only the beginning. He wouldn’t stagnate in the city council like his dad. He had ambition. He’d seen the world beyond New Orleans, understood how it worked. He’d be in D.C. one day, on the Senate floor. Sometimes in the solitude of his early morning runs, he let himself imagine it.
Toward the end of his route through City Park, he passed a playpen of puppies set up in the grass. He doubled back to check them out. The girls had been begging Artie and his wife, Marisol, to get a dog for at least a year, but it hadn’t been feasible with the new house, the renovation, and little Pearl still in diapers.
“See if you still want one when you’re five,” he’d told his older daughter, Colette.
“Daddy, I will want one when I’m five one hundred,” she had said, her little face grave.
“I think she means it,” Marisol said.
Colette’s fifth birthday was approaching and she still talked about a dog nearly every day. Pearl was potty-trained now, hadn’t had an accident in weeks. And they were finally in the house, a double shotgun in the Garden District with the new kitchen and family room they’d added on. Maybe it was the right time for a pet.
Three college-aged kids in turquoise T-shirts sat at a table next to the dogs. They had a stack of brochures. One of the young women came forward.
“They’re cute, aren’t they?” she said. “Want one?”
“What’s this?” Artie said.
“We’re from New Beginnings.” She pointed to the logo on her shirt. “We’re a no-kill shelter. Here, hold one. This guy’s my favorite.”
She handed him a squirmy fat-bellied brown animal the size of his forearm. The puppy wiggled and licked, his little paws kicking out in all directions. Artie laughed, loved him immediately. He gazed into the puppy’s hazel eyes. “Hi, little buddy, what’s your name?”
“We’ve been calling him Boudin,” the woman said. “But, obviously, you can change it, he’s young enough. We found him and the rest of his litter in a box by the Fairgrounds. They’ve already had their first round of shots.”
“He’s cute,” Artie said. “But I think I better check with my wife.”
“You could surprise her,” the girl suggested.
Artie laughed. “I can see you’re not married,” he said.
“Nope, I’m single, actually.” She twisted a lock of her hair and smiled at him.
Jesus, Artie thought. He hadn’t meant to flirt. But women liked him, always had. Men, too. Everyone did.
He handed the puppy back and shook her hand.
“Art Guidry,” he said. “I’m running for city council this November. I appreciate the work y’all are doing. I’ll talk to my wife about it. Can I get a brochure?”
“Sure.” She gave him one and made the little puppy’s paw wave goodbye.
As he continued his run, an idea began to form. He could use this. There’d been a recent scandal with the public animal shelter—a series of resignations following corruption allegations. The board was accused of siphoning money and shelter resources to private companies, hiring so-called consulting firms with public funds, and, worst of all, excessive euthanasia. He’d followed the story, horrified. A spate of no-kill adoption organizations had emerged to try to help the displaced animals.
Artie would have to do some research, make sure whatever shelter he dealt with was on the up-and-up. This would be a great visual for the anticorruption message in his platform. An actual puppy, his daughters’ little arms around it—PR gold. Boudin wasn’t a bad name, either. Clever, local. They could do a video interview, get still photos for the billboards. He’d talk to Marisol and Albertine, his campaign manager, and set it up.