Animal Behavior Read online

  Alex reached out and patted Mrs. Sutton’s hand. “Perhaps, Mrs. Sutton, there are other ways you can show your obvious love for Marie Antoinette. What about a simple bow right here?” Alex stroked the fur between the dog’s ears. “Maybe some daily grooming and a walk around the block so she can show off her beautiful coat.”

  Mrs. Sutton narrowed her eyes.

  “Let’s give it a try right now,” Alex suggested.

  He picked up the doggie dress, unceremoniously ripped the pink satin ribbon from the closure on the back and gathered up a little tuft of fur between Marie Antoinette’s ears. The dog lay motionless while Alex crafted the satin ends into a perfect bow then stood and cradled the dog in his left arm like a fluffy football. He turned to Mrs. Sutton. “Do you have a leash for her, Mrs. Sutton?”

  Mrs. Sutton left the room and came back with a thin pink leather leash studded with rhinestones. Alex took it from her and clipped it to Marie Antoinette’s matching collar and placed the dog on the floor and crooked his arm for Mrs. Sutton. The three walked out the door and the crew followed them into the bright southern California sunlight.

  Paul filmed twenty minutes worth of Marie Antoinette prancing around the block, her ears perked up and her feather boa of a tail wagging. Back in Mrs. Sutton’s living room, they prepared to film the wrap up. Marie Antoinette glanced up at the fuzzy mic cover, twitched her ears and and dropped her head back on Alex’s leg.

  Alex looked into the camera. “For many of us, our pets are like our children. We feed them and care for them. We love them. But most of the time, dogs are happiest when they’re just being dogs.”

  Alex scratched a spot at the base of Marie Antoinette’s ear. As if cued, the little dog stood on her hind legs, placed her front paws on his chest and licked the side of his face. Alex smiled into the camera, “This is Alex McKenzie. Until next time, be your dog’s friend. Be your dog’s alpha.”

  Alex held his gaze in the camera for a beat and nodded. Paul and Josh lowered their equipment and began packing up. Charlene moved furniture and knick knacks back into place and thanked their hostess.

  Mrs. Sutton shouldered her way around Charlene to where Alex stood by the front door and wrapped her pudgy fingers around the star’s wrist. “Alex, thank you so much! It’s like a miracle!”

  Gently extricating himself from the woman’s grip, Alex forced a smile and nodded. “Not at all, Mrs. Sutton, I think you’ll both be much happier now.”

  Alex and Charlene were half way up the walk when they heard to squeak of the screen door. “Alex! Oh Alex! Please wait!”

  Charlene glanced over at the vet and his annoyance was obvious. He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, forced his face back into a smile and turned toward the house again.

  Mrs. Sutton huffed up the walk, waving something in her hand. “I can’t believe I almost forgot! I would have just kicked myself. I found it on the computer. My daughter Susan—she lives in Denver—she was out visiting and when I told her you were coming, she showed me how to look you up on the internet.”

  Still wearing his insincere smile, Alex raised both brows as if to say, “Well?”

  “We were so excited when we found this! I didn’t know you were an author too!”

  Mrs. Sutton held out a hardcover book with a tattered dust jacket. Alex’s face fell. She thrust the book and a pen into his hands. “If you could just make it out to Mayola. M-A-Y-O-L-A.”

  Alex flipped open the cover, scribbled on the title page, and passed the book and pen back to Mrs. Sutton. Charlene intercepted the handoff. The cover read Anticipating Canine Behavior in a Clinic Setting—How To Avoid Bites During a Routine Exam, by Alex McKenzie, DVM.

  Turning the book over, Charlene looked at the author’s photo on the back cover. The black-and-white photograph showed a rail-thin man standing in a veterinarian’s examination room. His narrow shoulders were rolled forward. His hair was straggly and thinning and he wore thick eyeglasses. Charlene glanced back and forth from the photo to Alex’s clouding face. The photograph could have been of Alex’s brother—his slightly older, thinner, much-less-handsome brother.

  Alex ran his fingers though his thick, wavy hair. “It’s been a pleasure, Mrs. Sutton,” he said, and turned and strode to his car. Charlene handed the book back to the grinning woman and hurried to the curb. Alex was already behind the wheel, revving the engine, when she reached the convertible. I guess I’ll open the door myself this time, she thought.

  Charlene barely had time to fasten her seatbelt before Alex pulled away, tires squealing. She glanced over at him, moving just her eyes. Alex’s hands were strangling the steering wheel. The muscles in his jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth.

  “I don’t remember that book in your bio,” Charlene finally said.

  Alex swallowed and his Adam’s apple slid down and up his razor-stubbled throat. “Small printing,” he said, “It’s mainly for veterinary students.”

  He wound his way through the residential neighborhoods on the way to the freeway and Charlene stole another glance. “That picture of you on the back cover—you look really different.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Yeah, but you look—older. I mean, it’s just that…”

  “That was before,” Alex interrupted.

  Charlene’s brow wrinkled. “Before? Before what?”

  Alex slowly turned his head and stared at her. There was a long silence and Charlene glanced uneasily out the windshield. The sports car maintained a perfectly straight trajectory. She saw a stop sign and the corner. The traffic from the cross street was heavy and fast. When she looked to her left, Alex was still glaring at her. Her head swiveled back and forth between the stop sign and the staring television star.

  Charlene instinctively placed her palm on the dashboard to brace herself for the inevitable car crash. Instead, the car glided to a smooth stop. Alex had never taken his eyes from her.

  “Just before,” he said—emphasizing each syllable and pausing between the two words.

  He gunned the car across the intersection and eased onto the freeway. Charlene let out a shaky breath and sank back in her seat. She folded her trembling hands on her lap and stared at them in silence the rest of the way back to the studio.

  Chapter Three

  Four Days Later

  By the time they’d crossed the Minnesota border, the Jeep had taken on the funky air of dog breath and fast food wrappers. Gwen cracked the window and let the fresh fall air swirl into the car, hoping it would help her stay awake on the last leg of the trip.

  She’d made good time, but half a week of eight-hour driving days had taken its toll. They’d stayed in crappy motels and she hadn’t gotten more than a couple hours of sleep at a time. The steady diet of drive-through junk and salty diner fare had left her bloated. Her back was sore, her nerves were raw and she was looking forward to a quiet night in a clean bed.

  The road blurred as she passed through mile after mile of farmland, little towns and cookie-cutter suburban settlements. She was grateful for the clusters of oak and maple trees showing off the reds, yellows and oranges of autumn. Soon after she turned north, the highway shrank down to two lanes and tall pines loomed up on both sides. Familiar signs and landmarks tickled Gwen’s memory, turning her foul mood into excitement.

  She’d traveled this route a hundred times as a kid, spending weeks at a time at Grandpa’s cabin. They’d fished in the nearby lakes, hiked in the forest and spent rainy days inside playing cribbage while he smoked his pipe. In the evenings they’d sit out back around the fire ring and watch the bats swoop overhead. They’d have “dinner on sticks”, as Grandpa called it—fire-blackened hotdogs for the main course and toasted marshmallows for dessert. The recollections flooded Gwen’s mind in full sensory glory. She could imagine the crackle and pop of the burning logs and smell her grandfather’s cherry tobacco.

  She felt the tears gather. She should have visited him more often when she lived in Minnesota and written hi
m after she’d moved. But after her father—Grandpa’s only child—had died, it was just too painful—maybe for both of them.

  It seemed like a lifetime ago since she’d visited the cabin. The last time she’d been there was the summer before her junior year in high school, but she remembered every bend in the road. A grouping of glacial boulders marked the entrance to her new home. She glanced at the weathered sign at the foot of the driveway, “Chaney Acres”. Her grandfather had painted the letters himself many summers ago and with all the trust in the world he had held the post steady while a scrawny twelve-year-old Gwen shakily pounded it into place with a sledge hammer.

  John Chaney had been a kind man who’d always loved her unconditionally. As she guided the Jeep through the pines, she felt that he was still watching over her.

  * * * * *

  Before Gwen had hauled the last box from the Jeep, Jezebel was snoring softly on the braided rug in front of the fireplace. Stepping over the snoozing dog, Gwen opened the flue and touched a match to the kindling that sat ready in the hearth. She stood back and watched the fire catch. As the flames licked up the neat stack of quartered logs, she realized that her grandfather must have set them there last spring.

  He was always planning ahead, always preparing. Gwen wished she’d inherited some of his pragmatism. She was lost in the memory of John Chaney teaching her how to build a one-match fire when the wall phone rang and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Once she’d composed herself, she couldn’t help but laugh. No doubt John Chaney had prepaid all the utilities for the next twenty years.

  She had to remind herself that this is her house now. Still, it felt strange answering her grandfather’s phone. What if it were some old friend who somehow hadn’t heard that he’d had died? She ran through a few more what-ifs before answering.

  “Hello,” she said tentatively.

  “I hope I have reached Miss Chaney?”

  The male voice coming from the receiver was deep and foreign. His words sounded as if they were formed somewhere behind the uvula and spat out with gusto.

  “Yes, this is Gwen Chaney.”

  “Miss Chaney, I apologize if I’m disturbing you. This is Sergei Markov. I was a friend of your late grandfather. I am very sorry for your loss.”

  So it was “Sergei the Giant”, as her grandfather loving called him. Sergei Markov had come to the U.S. twenty years ago from Russia via professional basketball. He’d played for three years—long enough to fulfill his contract and collect millions of dollars. He’d used some of the money to buy a small farm just east of the Chaney property.

  “Hello, Mr. Markov. My grandfather spoke of you often.”

  “And you, Miss Chaney.”

  “Please call me Gwen.”

  “And I am Sergei.”

  There was a long silence and Gwen wasn’t sure if he was waiting for her to take a turn talking or if she was supposed to repeat “Sergei”, so he’d know she’d gotten it. Finally she did both.

  “Well, Sergei, thank you very much for calling.”

  “Are you indisposed, Gwen?”

  “Indisposed? No, not at all.”

  “I wish to bring you a welcoming gift, but I did not just drop by so as not to frighten you.”

  She bit back a laugh. Maybe his height wasn’t just one of her grandfather’s exaggerations. Maybe he really was Sergei the Giant, stomping around scaring small children and causing un-chaperoned women to swoon with fright. Poor guy!

  “That’s very considerate of you, Sergei, but we’re neighbors now. You’re welcome to stop by anytime. I look forward to meeting you—” She intended the rest of that sentence to be “sometime”, but he forgot his manners and interrupted.

  “I shall be at your home in thirty seconds.”

  Gwen thought his ETA was a translation error, until—half a minute after hanging up—she heard a knock at the door. Jezebel growled, lumbered to her feet and trotted, with hackles up, to her mistress’s side. “Easy, Jez.”

  Pulling back the curtain Gwen saw an enormous man—well, the flannel-clad chest of an enormous man to be accurate—filling the pane. She caught a flash of polished metal as he slid his cell phone into his pocket. Gwen thought he must have been standing at the bottom of the driveway when he’d called, waiting for her to give him the green light.

  When she opened the door, Sergei was down on one knee unlacing one of his work boots. Its mate was sitting on the porch behind him. The word “boat” came to mind. Not a little canoe, not even a yacht. This thing was a full-blown cruise ship, complete with an all-you-can-eat buffet, a casino and a couple of movie theaters. Clearly custom made.

  Still grumbling, Jezebel tentatively poked her snout out the door. Sergei glanced up and scratched her behind the ear. The two regarded each other for a moment then the dog slowly walked back to her rug and flopped down. He finished removing his second boot and placed it neatly by the first, and stood slowly and brushed off the knees of his jeans. He had a wild mass of loose black curls, large, dark, deep-set eyes and the shadow of a beard. His shoulders were impossibly broad and he had to be just north of seven feet tall.

  He nodded deeply, almost a bow, and picked up a picnic basket that rested near his enormous stockinged feet. A glazed pottery plaque on the lid read, Luna Farms. “Hello, Gwen,” he said gently, as if working hard not to frighten her.

  “You must be the plumber,” Gwen deadpanned.

  His heavy eyebrows pulled close together and he cocked his head to one side. “No, I am Sergei Markov. I am your neighbor. We just spoke on the phone not one minute ago.”

  Gwen winked at him, and after a beat his face was thoroughly consumed with one of the most brilliant smiles she’d ever seen. He threw back his shaggy head laughed loudly. Looking back down at her, he shook his head and wagged a finger. “Your grandfather, he told me you were one with the humor.”

  “It’s good to meet you, Sergei,” Gwen said, extending her hand, “Please come in.”

  Sergei shifted the picnic basket from right to left to return the handshake. Her fingers completely disappeared in his. Gwen stepped back from the door to let him in. He had to duck to clear the doorframe.

  “You didn’t have to take off your boots,” she told him.

  “Cow shit,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Of course,” was the best Gwen could come up with.

  Sergei set the picnic basket on the kitchen table and glanced at the living room area. He nodded toward the little marquetry game table by the fireplace.

  “That is where you grandfather and I played chess on many nights—played chess and drank wine.”

  Moved by the depth of sadness in his voice, Gwen reached up to touch his arm just above the elbow. “Your friendship meant a lot to my grandfather. You brought him a great deal of comfort.”

  Sergei breathed deeply and blinked as if trying to will away John’s ghost. Then he turned back toward the kitchen and gestured to the basket. “I have brought you a gift for welcoming you to your home.”

  As curious as Gwen was about her gift, she felt connected to Sergei by a shared love for her grandfather and didn’t want to break the spell quite yet. “Wine first?” she asked.

  “Wine first,” he answered with a nod.

  They stood together in front of the floor-to-ceiling wine rack that took up half of one of the bookcases flanking the fireplace. “Anything strike your fancy?” she asked.

  Sergei pulled a bottle out from its perch, read the label, then slid it back. He repeated the process a dozen times before he found what he was looking for. “Here is the one.”

  “Shiraz,” Gwen said with a nod.

  “It will be perfect with your gifts.” Sergei grabbed the wine opener from the mantle. “Shall I?”

  Gwen nodded. Sergei pulled the cork intact, snagged two wineglasses and followed his hostess back to the kitchen. “To John Chaney,” he said solemnly, raising the glass.

  “To John Chaney,” she repeated

  They didn’t let t
he wine breathe and neither of them bothered with the proper swirl and sniff of wine sampling. Each took a healthy slug.

  “And now, your gifts,” Sergei said, motioning for Gwen to sit down.

  She took a seat at the kitchen table as he flipped open one half of the hinged basket lid. A blanket of delicious aromas dropped over Gwen. Her mouth began to water and she realized that she was ravenous. She glanced over at Jezebel who raised her head, sniffed the air and dropped her snout back to her paws with a soft groan.

  Sergei pulled a small, sky-blue plate from the basket. A wedge of creamy white cheese sat at its center, covered with plastic wrap. He pulled back the film, broke off a chunk and passed it to his hostess. He tore off another piece and pitched it across the room. The golden retriever caught it before it hit the floor.

  “From my cows,” he said, eating a chunk himself and washing it down with more wine.

  Gwen popped the cheese into her mouth and was pleasantly surprised by its complexity. It was firm but not dry, creamy with a bit of a bite. “Mm,” she mumbled and snatched another chunk.

  Sergei smiled and pulled out a square dish, covered with aluminum foil and enclosed in a cozy fashioned from a red-and-white gingham towel. “Shepherd’s pie,” he said, unwrapping the dish. “But it’s not really pie at all—no crust. The potatoes and carrots, the onion and herbs, all are from my garden and the cow, is from my cow.”

  “Plates, man! For the love of all that is good and holy, plates!”

  Sergei smiled and grabbed two dishes from the open shelves lining the wall. Gwen slid out the long drawer built into the kitchen table and pulled out forks, a serving spoon and cloth napkins. They dealt out their place settings, and Sergei spooned generous helpings onto each plate. Gwen forked greedy mouthfuls, thinking it was heaven sent.

  Sergei peered over the edge of the basket. “There is more,” he said, “But first…”

  “More wine!” Gwen said, surprised that she was already feeling a bit buzzed.

  “Yes, more wine.”

  Sergei brought another bottle to the table and poured. He settled into the chair across from her while Gwen added more shepherd’s pie to her plate. Her hunger had quieted some, and she ate her second helping if not like a lady, exactly, then at least like a human.