Читать книгу Second Chance - Elizabeth Wrenn - Страница 12

SEVEN

Holding the surprisingly heavy and wobbling crate, I smiled weakly as Bill backed out of my driveway.

‘Okay, Heloise, we’re on our own,’ I told her. Matt and Lainey had already dashed inside, the door slamming behind them.

I hauled the crate into the kitchen, trying hard not to bump against the doorframe or swing her around too much. But she was standing, or trying to, inside the crate, which made her boat rock even more. Finally, I set the crate down on the tile floor.

‘Let’s let her out!’ said Matt, his workout bag over his shoulder.

‘Are you going to the rec center?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Are you going to let her out?’

Lainey arrived, saw Matt’s bag, and said, ‘Wait for me, Matt. I want to go too.’ She ran upstairs.

‘Mom?’ said Matt. I looked at him. ‘The dog?’

‘Uhh, I think I’ll wait,’ I said, as Lainey came thunking down the stairs and into the kitchen. ‘Let her get used to the place a bit first from in there.’ I glanced around for Hairy.

Lainey pulled on her brother’s sleeve, her gym bag in her other hand. ‘Let’s go, Matt. We wasted the whole day getting the stupid dog and now she’s just going to sit in the stupid box.’ They left together, leaving the wooden door open, the storm door closing behind them.

‘Be home for dinner,’ I shouted behind them, closing the door and returning to the kitchen. I squatted in front of the crate. ‘Hello, little girl. Welcome home.’ Inside, Heloise cocked her head. We both were motionless for a minute, the silence washing over us like a tonic. Heloise wasn’t barking or yipping or even whining.

I sat at the desk and looked at her packet of information. Forms for vet visits, and monthly reports, heartworm tablets, and a dozen or more information sheets that I shuffled through without really reading. Finally I found something interesting, Personal Information Sheet for ____. Heloise was handwritten in the blank.

Her parents’ names were Kaylor and Raspberry, also handwritten in blanks. I scanned down the page till I found what I was interested in. Heloise’s birthday was January 19, a little over a month after mine. I looked at the calendar on the wall and counted. She was ten weeks old.

Heloise whimpered. Still seeing nothing of Hairy, I figured he was snoozing in the sun somewhere. Heloise barked. ‘Hush now, girl.’ I squatted in front of the crate again and this time her whole body started wagging. ‘Way-aait. Way-aait.’ As I pinched open the metal grid door, Heloise shot out like a pea from a shooter, straight for me. I realized, too late, that if I’d been kneeling she wouldn’t have knocked me over so easily. I looked like a ready-to-be-roped calf, my legs in the air, Heloise standing on my chest, licking me under the chin. I giggled like a schoolgirl as she covered my face with her sweet puppy breath and wet kisses.

‘Okay, girl, that’s enough,’ I gasped. I remembered Bill mentioning at one of the meetings that these dogs were bred to be very bold and confident and we weren’t supposed to let them jump up on us or be out of control. So much for that one. But she was so cute!

‘C’mon, girl.’ I sat up and lifted her above me, kissing her round belly. I guessed she weighed about the same as two small bags of flour, roughly ten pounds. I set her on the floor and heaved myself onto my feet. This would have been easier twenty years and thirty pounds ago. Heloise abruptly sat and chewed an itch on her haunches. Then she was still, legs splayed in a decidedly unladylike posture. She looked up at me, her liquid-chocolate eyes shouting, ‘That was fun! What’s next?’

‘Here, girl.’ I walked across the kitchen, calling. ‘Here, Heloise! Come!’ She sat for a moment, looking like she was expecting another roll on the floor and would wait, thank you, for that.

‘Here, girl, c’mon!’ I cajoled, slapping my jeans.

She cocked her head briefly, then bounded over to me, her tail a waving flag of anticipation and delight.

‘Good girl!’ I said, patting her side.

‘Hey, girl, look here.’ I showed her the water bowl. I’d set it on a flowered plastic tray to try to contain some of the splatter I knew was inevitable. She lapped some water with gusto, her whole body participating in looping her tongue under the water then flipping it up into her mouth. Finally she stepped back, dripping like a moose, dribbling water in a neat line outside the tray. I grabbed a paper towel and started to wipe it up, but Heloise immediately began biting at the paper. Still squatting, I scooped her up under my arm and wiped the water with the other hand as she squirmed. Suddenly a very bizarre sound filled the kitchen. Heloise and I both froze, my hand still on the paper towel, motionless on the floor. A low, guttural yowl, like a tremulous violin note in a suspense thriller, emanated from behind us. From her trapped position under my arm, Heloise twisted her head around my elbow to look behind us. Still squatting, I turned and looked, too. Hairy stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his excessive fur looking more excessive than ever.

His eyes were locked on the now-writhing yellow mass under my arm. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the hair around the cat’s neck swelled, making him look even more of a puffball than ever. Another low, meowing growl issued from deep within him. I understood him perfectly: What–the–hell–is–that?

Heloise, for her part, was anxious to meet her new playmate. Either she wasn’t naturally aware of what raised hackles meant, or she was too dumb to care, or she was certain her charm and exuberance would win him over. I suspected the latter. How could she know that Hairy was not only unimpressed by charm and exuberance, but that he actually held those qualities in contempt? But Heloise was more than willing to have a go. If I hadn’t dropped the paper towel and grabbed her with both hands, she would have squirmed out and made a dash for Hairy, who had now upped his warning to hissing and his sirenlike intruder alert, usually reserved for moths and crickets in the house.

‘Okay, guys,’ I said, my voice some weird mix of amusement and dread. ‘Hairy, meet Heloise. Heloise, Hairy.’ I got a firm grip on the puppy and put her in Hairy’s direct line of sight, but held her tightly. He hissed again. Heloise squirmed wildly in an effort to get to him. Bill had said to proceed slowly with the introduction and trust my instincts. My instincts made me fear for Heloise’s safety. I didn’t want her to get a claw in the eye, although I had taken Hairy to the groomer for a nail trim just two days earlier in preparation for our new arrival. But I also wanted Hairy to learn where his escape routes and safe hiding places were. And I wanted him to know he might have to run. I didn’t know if he even knew how to run.

I put Heloise back into my one-armed football hold and carried her across the kitchen. Hairy’s fine white fur was now perpendicular to his body, and he arched menacingly. The arching surprised me. I’d thought his stomach too big to lift. But he was actually kind of graceful in this modern dance of warning. Still fully arched, he pivoted slowly in place as we passed into the living room, a radar tracking the enemy. I slowly lowered Heloise toward the wood floor, still clutching her vibrating torso.

‘Get ready, Hairy!’ I called. Hairy had moved to the middle of the kitchen. His hair was beginning to relax and his back was no longer arched. Oh, dear. I could tell from his superior expression that he assumed I had fulfilled my duty and removed the offensive material from his kitchen. Little did he know that offensive material would be residing with us for over a year.

‘Okay, calmly, dear,’ I told Heloise, for all the good that would do as I let her paws touch the floor. My hands still on her sides, her little legs immediately began churning under her. I held tight. Heloise squirmed and flailed, desperate to be released. Hairy’s fur immediately engorged again. He looked like a furry blowfish. I let go of Heloise very slowly. For a few seconds, her slipping paws against the polished wood floor took her nowhere. Hairy watched her, a look of confused amazement on his face as he viewed her spastic ballet. Then he discerned that Heloise was, in fact, making slow but sure progress toward him. As she hit the tile floor of the kitchen, and traction, Hairy flicked his tail, and in three decidedly graceful moves for a fellow of his girth, jumped from floor to chair, chair to desk, desk to counter. Heloise was still a churning ball of slobber, headed in his general direction, so he continued his upward ascent, now in a not so easy jump and clamber, nails clawing on metal, to the top of the refrigerator.

His sides heaving with the exertion, he assumed a vulture pose, staring down at the yipping and leaping Heloise. Because he’s a Persian, and because Persians have no nose to speak of, Hairy always had a sort of angry, disdainful look, but this was indignation of the highest order. As far as I knew, Hairy had never been on top of the refrigerator in his life. He’d never had to be. He ruled the roost just fine from the floor and furniture.

I did feel kind of sorry for him. There didn’t seem to be anything for it but to let them do their thing. But Hairy hadn’t had that much exercise since … well, ever. He was the most sedentary of cats. Jabba the Hutt comes to mind. But my lack of affection for Hairy didn’t rule out a modicum of compassion for the poor, wheezing cat. His life was now unalterably changed. He and Heloise would have to work it out. Or Hairy would be spending the year atop Mt. Kenmore.

I grabbed Heloise, clipped on her leash, and headed for the backyard, leaving Hairy to recover his pulse and dignity. I slipped on the boots that I’d shed in the mudroom, opened the door, and Heloise immediately forgot about Hairy as she pulled me, lurching down our two back steps, into the backyard.

‘Oh, how fabulous!’ she screamed in body language, her ten pounds pulling with the strength of a small tractor. ‘We have a backyard!!’ The sun was now shining and much of the snow was melting. From what remained, I cleared an area with my boot, and, nose to the ground, Heloise spent a minute sniffing the wet grass. Finally she squatted, and, as instructed by the manual, at that very moment I began exuberantly giving the command to eliminate. ‘Do your business! Do your business, Heloise! Do your business! Yay! Good girl!’ As she peed, she stared dubiously over her shoulder at the lady cheering her urinary success. When she finished, I began what Bill said was the most effective training device: praising.

‘Good girl!! What a good girl!! Good girl, Heloise!’ I went on and on as she wagged happily into my arms.

Well! Look at that. She was already on her way to being housebroken. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so hard after all.