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I smell a rat. That's a phrase that humans use to mean something isn't right, at least that's what I gather from the TV shows Molly watches, but I mean that I smell a rat, a live one, and he's not very far away.
At the front of the stage, a woman dressed up in a long flowing dress and a glittering, long-sleeved jacket, takes hold of the microphone. Her hair is pulled back and held with some kind of clasp that sparkles under the lights, and she wears big, thin-framed glasses that take up half her face. “We'd like to welcome everyone to the Northern Virginia Regional Holiday Pageant,” she booms. “What a turnout! We have choirs and, of course, children—” she sweeps her arm holding a skinny stick toward the back of the stage where I'm standing beside Molly—” from twelve of the area's schools, prepared to put on a wonderful program.”
I watch the stick carefully, but it doesn't seem like she's going to throw it.
“Just as a reminder,” she continues, “no flash photography.”
The sound is too loud for my ears, but everyone knows humans have deficient hearing compared to dogs. And don't even mention their sense of smell. Take it from me, there could be a dozen rats onstage and not one of these people would have a clue if they had to find them using their nose.
The woman still talking, says, “—start out with renowned soloist Hugh Bernhardt and the combined city-wide Methodist choirs singing two selections from Handel's Messiah.” She turns and starts waving the stick at a small orchestra seated in front of a larger choir.
The orchestra starts to play and then a short, balding man shaped like a tick—his body widens out from the little head on top—sings, “There were shepherds abiding in the field. . .” Behind him, taking up one whole side of the stage, is a large choir full of robed people. They lift their folders, watching the short man attentively.
Not sure what abiding means, but I'm sure that a rat is a' hiding, and not too far away.
I blink trying to see it through haze from the bright stage lights. I'm a sheep. Not really a sheep, of course. I'm a labradoodle who works as a bed bug detection dog, which means I have a finely tuned, highly trained sense of smell. Which it takes to pick out a live rat underneath all the scents of sweat and food, (the chocolate peanut butter candy in the pocket of a boy standing next to Molly, for example). But in this Christmas pageant, I'm supposed to be a sheep. So, here I am onstage beside Molly and her best friend, Tanya, who are dressed as shepherds in long robes, wearing odd scarves held on their heads with thick ropes. I have what are supposed to be sheep’s ears—no sheep scent on them at all— tied onto my head. Why anyone would prefer a sheep to a dog is beyond me, but it seems to be a Christmas thing. Sheep are silly creatures. I've always felt a little sorry for the Border collies who have to work with them day in and day out, although to be fair, all the Border collies I've known seem to love it.
Beside me, Molly shifts her weight, squinting at the audience, maybe looking for her mother, who said she would try to make it tonight. I hope she's out there—too many scents to tell for sure, even for my keen nose. She has a habit of disappointing Molly, partly because she's a cop and always has to rush off when her phone buzzes, and partly because she disappeared for most of Molly's childhood. According to Molly, tonight is a big deal because it will be the first time that her mother has ever come to one of her programs. If she shows up, that is.
From the choir comes a burst of music. “Glory to God,” they sing. We stand and listen. When they finish, the glitter-coated woman announces a different choir—on the opposite side of the stage—will perform a group of Hanukah songs. When that group finishes, some of the children’s classes—not Molly’s—do a bunch more pieces, some with soloists, some just the class. This is turning out to be a long program. Standing around on stage seems to be my only job, and frankly, they could have used a real sheep rather than a highly trained dog to do that.
Finally, the glitter-coated woman goes back to the mike and announces that the children's choir will now perform “The Friendly Beasts” and “Away in a Manger.” She points her stick at us—I've long since given up on the idea that she'll throw it—and Molly and Tanya and the rest of the kids around them all begin to sing.
“The Friendly Beasts”—love that name—turns out to be about how all the animals (well, not all—notice dogs aren't mentioned) give gifts to a baby. I first heard it when Molly and Tanya practiced it after school. Molly sings in a clear voice that's every bit as pleasant as her scent, which I happen to prefer to any other human scent. Tanya's voice, several times stronger than Molly's, sounds like it could belong to someone on one of the boss's many CDs. Everyone at Tanya's church says what a great singer she is, and one reason we're here is that she has a big solo coming up.
Right at the part in the song about the sheep with the curly horn—never seen sheep with horns, myself—I notice a motion at the back of the stage, near where the backdrop ends and some steps lead down to the grass below. The rat!
Without thinking, I lunge toward it, ripping the leash from Molly's hand. Dodging one way and then another to miss kids dressed as shepherds and angels, I reach the stage wall just as the rat drops down onto the grass below. I leap after it. It scurries for the cover of a thick evergreen bush. I hurtle forward and grab it a split second before it makes it. Several good shakes and it's all over for the rat. In this, rats are preferable to possums. When rats are dead, they stay dead. You can never count on that with possums. Just sayin'.
Holding the rat in my mouth, I trot back up the steps to return to Molly, but everything has changed. First, a bunch of flashes coming from the audience makes it hard to see. Evidently, someone didn't hear the glitter-coated lady's reminder. And then, no one's singing. In fact, all the kids are talking and seem to be pointing at me, maybe admiring my catch. I drop the rat at Molly's feet, quite proud, if I do say so myself. Won't ever see a sheep catch a rat!
But Molly grabs the leash. “Doodle!” she whispers, her voice angry and her face flushed. And then, whoa, her eyes well up with tears. “Why'd you do that? You ruined—” Before she can finish, the glitter-coated woman marches up and grabs Molly's shoulder.
“Get. Him. Offstage. Now,” she says between clenched teeth, her skinny stick pointing at me. She glares at Molly, then, her face paling, down at the rat. “We'll have to get someone to get rid of that . . . that . . .”
Take my rat? I don't think so. I snatch it up just as I feel the pull of the leash. Molly, her back to me, marches rapidly across the stage and down the steps. More flashes from the camera. So we're done with the program?
The boss—Molly's father—and our friend Annie are waiting for us on the grass below, the boss’s mouth set in a grim line. If that didn't tell me he was angry, the way he takes the leash, with a little extra yank, signals it loud and clear.
“Drop it,” he says, looking at the rat with disgust.
I might have mentioned before that “drop it” is one of those commands that somehow has become automatic. So, even though I don't really want to, I release the rat. It plops to the ground by my feet, just as the children onstage start singing “Away in a Manger”.
“Hey, Molly. That's what we love about dogs, right?” Annie grins down at me. She’s wearing a bright sweater and has a ski hat pulled over her head showing only a narrow fringe of her blond hair. She works for my old trainer, and we—the boss, Molly and me—got to know her when we were practicing for the certification trials—which turned out to have lots of complications. Since then, she and the boss spend a lot of time talking on the phone and “texting,” a mysterious way of talking that I don't understand at all. All I know is that the boss is usually happier when Annie's around. Not at the moment, however, judging by the way he glares down at me.
If Annie can see the tears running down Molly's face, she gives no sign of it. “I once had a dog I'd worked with for the better part of a year stop in the middle of the ring during a retrieve, drop the dumbbell, and roll over three times before picking it back up and bringing it to me.” She laughs in that hearty way people do when they're trying to relieve a tense situation.
“He ruined the pageant,” Molly says, despite Annie’s effort. “Doodle, how could you?”
Ruined the pageant? I glance back at the stage, where the children are singing. Looks like they're still doing it. And, if we're going to place blame here, I think the rat might be the one to point the finger at.
“I knew this wasn't a good idea,” the boss says. “Adding Doodle to anything is a recipe for trouble.”
Lost me there. Recipes are for cooking, right?
“But there's one less rat in the world and that's a good thing.” Annie pats the boss's arm.
“One less rat. Maybe a whole bunch less clients,” the boss says darkly. “People will think I can’t control my dog.”
Annie shakes her head. “Who will know? He wasn’t wearing a vest. It was just a little comic relief. Ms. Tightbottom up there will live.”
Ms. Tightbottom? I can't quite remember the glitter-coated woman's name, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't that.
The boss smiles weakly at this, and his hand on the leash relaxes. “Good one,” he says.
But Molly is unmoved. I try to give her hand a lick, but she jerks it away. My tail droops. She yanks off her scarf, then pulls off her robe and folds it all into a bundle.
Which reminds me of those silly ears on my head. I paw at them, but Molly, usually great at noticing when I want something, ignores me.
And then, over the speakers—still too loud, of course, comes a familiar voice.
“Tanya's solo.” Molly swipes at her eyes and turns toward the stage where a bright light shines on her friend.
Tanya's dark skin gleams under the lights as she sings about children seeing someone in different colors. Doesn't make sense to me, but the melody is haunting and Tanya's voice makes it more so. I'm seriously tempted to join in with a few howls of my own, but with the boss fuming and Molly still near tears, it somehow doesn't seem like a good idea.
No one moves until Tanya finishes, and then the audience bursts into applause, adding a good number of whistles and shouts.
“At least Doodle didn't ruin her song,” Molly says, which makes me glad I didn't howl after all.
The glitter-coated lady waves her stick and all the people onstage sing a few more numbers, ending with one with that loudly wishes us all a merry Christmas.
I'm not sure what that means. Christmas seems to be a big deal for humans, but I've always either been in a kennel on Christmas or, in the case of my second boss—the bad one—stuck listening to him snore after he passed out on the couch.
Onstage, the glitter-coated lady once again is at the mike. “Thank you all for coming,” she booms. She waves at the people on the stage. “You all did a marvelous job.” Then she points to the audience. “Don't forget, we have one more performance on the 21st. Be sure to tell all your friends and family about it. Spread the word! And, as a reminder, all performers need to be here one hour early. Take care driving home. Happy Holidays!”
Everyone in the audience stands up, the musicians start packing up their instruments, and the kids and choir members begin filing down the steps—turns out there are some in the center of the stage as well as on both ends.
Molly has her head bent over her phone. She taps a key, and then her mother’s voice can be heard. “Molly, sorry. Had a break-in over on Wythe Street. Sorry I won’t be able to make it tonight. I told you it was iffy because half the force is sick. But I’ll make the next one for sure. Talk to you later. Bye.”
Molly pockets her phone, her shoulders sagging as they so often do when she’s thinking about her mother.
Annie, watching her, says, “Who was that?” I guess she didn’t hear the message. Not surprising, because dogs have much better hearing than humans.
“Mom,” Molly mumbles, her eyes on the ground. “Had to work.”
The boss and Annie exchange a glance. Then, Annie says, her voice full of forced cheerfulness, “I guess we’d better get to the Franklins’ or we’re going to have to park a mile away.”
The party! I’d forgotten about it. The Franklins—Tanya’s family—are giving this big Christmas party. At first, it was just going to be for their family, a few people from their church, and the boss and Molly and me. Molly was really excited about it. Mrs. Franklin talked about having a live nativity scene—not sure what that is—with me as a sheep—the curly coat thing again.
But then, when we were in the mountains visiting Molly’s grandparents, Molly got into trouble for not keeping me on a leash—which turned out to be the least of our problems, but that's another story—and the boss put her on restriction, which meant she couldn’t go to any parties. Or anywhere but school, as far as I can figure out. But then Tanya got invited to sing a solo at the pageant and the Franklins changed their plans and invited a whole bunch more people, including everyone from their church to come over afterward to celebrate. And the boss, partly because Mrs. Franklin pleaded with him, decided Molly could go after all, because she couldn't miss a party in her best friend's honor.
“Which reminds me.” Annie turns to Molly. “I’m parked beside your van. Let’s transfer your stuff now, so we don’t have to do it at the Franklins’.”
Before Molly can answer, the boss says, “Uh-oh,” his eyes on a woman striding towards us. “Let’s go. Don’t want to talk to her.”
He takes off at a rapid walk and I trot to keep up. But he doesn’t get very far before a voice calls, “Mr. Hunter. Wait, please.”
Reluctantly, he stops and turns around.
Why, it’s the glitter-coated woman. She draws herself up, head high, but sounds a little breathless as she speaks. “Mr. Hunter. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Claudia Thistledown, the director of the pageant?”
She says this like a question, and the boss nods.
“I wanted to make certain that you will not bring that dog to the next show. I was—” Mrs. Thistledown nostrils flare slightly and her eyebrows shoot up, “—mortified, simply mor-ti-fied by his behavior tonight. Simply unbelievable. In all my years as a conductor and a director, I have never . . .” She shakes her head and glares down at me. “I do not understand why Ms. Mandisa thought it would be a good idea to have him on stage.”
What? According to Molly, it was Tanya and Mrs. Franklin’s idea to have me be a sheep. Ms. Mandisa, Molly’s teacher, just went along with the idea.
But neither the boss nor Molly corrects Mrs. Thistledown. The boss’s lips compress into a tight line. “Understood,” he says. Whoa. I feel his anger flowing through the leash.
“Good.” Mrs. Thistledown adjusts her glasses and gives us all a haughty glance before marching away.
“Ms. Tightbottom it is,” Annie says softly, when Mrs. Thistledown has gone. “Think she takes all this—and herself— just a teensy bit too seriously?”
But neither the boss nor Molly answers her. Their gloom makes me anxious and I have to scratch. And scratching reminds me of the silly sheep ears attached to my head. I paw at them again. This time, Annie notices.
“Tired of being a sheep, Doodle?” She unties the string and pulls them off. I give my head a satisfying shake. Into the pool of gloom that surrounds the boss and Molly, Annie says, “Molly would you like to ride with me? I’m parked way in the back.” She points toward the parking lot.
“Okay,” Molly says, brightening a little.
I nudge Molly’s hand to remind her that I usually go with her, but she yanks it from me. And then she turns and walks away with Annie, without a backward glance.