Maybe Jason has begun to doubt his own abilities and has begun to settle for more modest goals.
I can hear dogs barking as soon as I get out of the car. I enter a rectangular wooden building and am met by a smiling young man behind a desk who asks if I am here to pick up Clarence.
I clear my throat and look around the room. It has the hosed-down look of a vet’s office, but I can hear opera music in the background. I am hardly a fan (the golden oldies on Cool [KOLL] 95 are my speed); nevertheless, I hear the familiar Toreador song and realize I’m hum ming along with it. Maybe this is the key to my own spiritual development. I am tempted to confess to being Clarence’s master if it will give me the opportunity to escape. Somehow, I am having difficulty asking for Jason. All of a sudden I feel as if I am here to get my hair done.
“No,” I stammer, “I’m just here to talk to, uh, Jason for a minute. Is he free?”
The young man, who has the smile of someone enjoying a drug high, looks at his watch.
“You’re in luck,” he says, beaming at me.
“He’s just finishing a class right now.”
Three p.m. right on the money. School’s out. I hear excited howls over the music. Why should this class be any different? Time to boogie.
“Great,” I say.
“Can I go on back?”
“I better take you,” he says, standing up and extending a hand.
“I’m Harvey,” he says. He, too, is dressed like a McDonald’s manager. We look as if we each work a different shift, but otherwise we could be father and son.
“I like your tie,” he says.
Target’s,” I admit.
“I have four or five almost just like this,” I say, shaking his hand which, like mine, is small for his size. I glance down at his tie. It is striped like my own. No flower jobs for me and Harvey. We’re from the old school and proud of it.
The fact that we are dressed almost identically must be reassuring to Harvey, for without another word, he leads me back through a kennel where there must be fifteen dogs in small cages. I get claustrophobic just looking at them. Every time I have had to board Woogie, he loses weight. I might get a little depressed myself. No table scraps here. Harvey yells over the din, “You interested in a class?”
I am captivated by a toy collie in the corner. He looks so friendly I want to take him home, but another dog would break Woogie’s heart. A man might as well bring a mistress home to live alongside his wife. For an instant, I think Harvey means for myself.
“Sort of,” I say ambiguously.
“How often do they have them?”
Harvey leads me through a back door into an area that has several empty pens.
“It depends on the interest.
Jason will have a class with as many as five. But fewer students than three, and there’s not much interaction.”
I smile and get a sinking feeling. As I have feared, this is for real. The music, which has been so loud I can barely hear, ceases, and I respond, too loudly, not believing I’m having this conversation, “We learn best from each other all right.” Actually, there are not a lot of role models for Woogie in our neighborhood. My law-abiding neighbors keep their dogs penned and don’t let them outside except on leashes. When I take Woogie for a walk after work, he gets a free shot at all the flower beds, hydrants, and trees he wants. My hometown of Bear Creek in eastern Arkansas had no animal control law (or if it did, it was unenforceable), and I can’t bring myself to accept the notion that central Arkansas insists upon such trappings of big-city life. However, the first time I have to bail Woogie out of the pound I suspect I will be convinced.
We exit the building, and I look to my left and see a man about my age squatting down in the dirt, talking seriously to a cocker spaniel. Jason, I presume. I strain to hear what he says, and catch the words, “… having too many negative thoughts. Clay.”
Clay, a buff-colored fatty with wet, friendly eyes, wags his tail at the mention of his name. He looks pretty happy to me. Negative thoughts have a way of energizing me, too. Some of us in the animal kingdom may not be educable.
“Jason, this man would like a word with you,” Harvey announces, not particularly loath to interrupt work in progress.
Jason looks up and gives me a glance that makes me glad I am not Clay’s owner.
“There are no bad dogs,” he says.
“Only bad owners.”
I am not quite so optimistic about four-footed creatures, but I hold my tongue, figuring this conversation will be difficult enough. I introduce myself: “I’m Gideon Page.” I look around, since Jason does not rise to shake hands. I notice I am standing in an enclosed yard that actually is quite pleasant. Three large elm trees provide shade over half the area. Even in midsummer it would be possible to survive out here if one were of the canine persuasion.
“I need to get back up front,” Harvey announces cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the lack of communication rapidly settling in between his boss and his boss’s visitor.
He walks back into the kennel, while Jason scratches Clay behind the ear. At least the man seems to like his pupils, which is more than I can say for a lot of teachers
“I know who you are. Giddy Page!” Jason suddenly hisses, still squatting on his heels like some Eastern mystic.
“I’d swap every lawyer in this country for one of these,” he says, stroking Clay’s back like a lover.
“Who have you lawyers ever made smile except criminals and greedy corporate thugs? You’d scrape the paint off your mother’s toes before she’d been dead an hour if you thought you could sell it. Why, this lovely creature,” he said, looking soulfully into Clay’s eyes, “brings more pleasure to people in five minutes than your profession has brought throughout the entire existence of its long, depraved history.”
How does he know I hate to be called Giddy?
“Mrs. Chestnut wants her five hundred bucks back,” I say, deciding that Jason is one of those people who plays defense as little as possible.
“She isn’t at all satisfied with the work you did on Bernard Junior.”
Jason leans backward to look up at me, and I realize the man is terribly deformed. I thought he was squatting on his heels, but, in fact, he is standing as upright as he will ever be. He is a dwarf, as humpbacked as anyone I’ve ever seen. As vitriolic as his personality is, it’s impossible to feel sympathy for him (as if he gives a damn), but I do understand his attitude a little better. No lawyer has ever loved him. The canine population (if Clay is any example) would elect him president by acclamation if they could vote. I’m not sure the country would be worse off if a couple of million lawyers suddenly decided to emigrate.
“Bernard Junior was a rare jewel,” Jason says, glaring at me. Clay emits a low growl as he senses his teacher’s distaste for his visitor.
“Bernard Junior had the soul of an angel. He was all heart. Mrs. Chestnut is an old prude. Just because he liked to lick himself didn’t mean he wasn’t advancing metaphysically. Pit bulls are so full of life and vigor that it would be a crime to expect to curb habits that have been programmed genetically. You think we humans wouldn’t do the same if we were physically able? Jealousy. Pure jealousy. Mrs.
Chestnut was green with envy, and you can take that to the bank.”
I think of mrs. Chestnut’s delicate, sweet old face, and realize I have some doubts about Jason’s sanity.
“I don’t think a judge would come to the same conclusion.”
“Of course not! Judges are lawyers! Talk about a conflict of interest, Mr. Giddy Page. I’ve never heard of one so brazen.” No longer growling. Clay rolls over on his back to let his teacher work on his stomach. His eyes seem to roll back in his head in pure ecstasy.
I feel uncomfortable looking down at Jason and squat down on my heels to get at eye level with him. He is wearing green swimming trunks over black tights, sandals, and a T-shirt with a picture of Lassie.