“These are the dogs we’re currently working with,” he says. Dogs on either side of us fling themselves against the bars of their cages, yowling at us as we walk past.
“They don’t seem very happy,” I say.
“Oh, they’re fine. They’re just looking for their dinner.”
We walk back out into the yard, and Remo closes the kennel door behind us. “The meeting’s going to be upstairs in the main part of the house,” he says, “but we’ve still got a little time. Why don’t I take you down to the lab and show you around?”
I take a deep breath. “Sure,” I say. “Sounds good.”
There’s a cellar door that opens into the yard, the slanty kind of door that opens outward to reveal stairs leading down to the basement. I remember suddenly that my grandmother’s house had a cellar door like this and that I used to like to slide down it when I was very small. Remo opens the door and gestures to the stairs inside. “After you,” he says.
I walk down the stairs cautiously. It’s dark until Remo flicks the light switch. I’m prepared for any number of horrible things, but it looks pretty much like a regular basement. There’s a large table in the middle of the room, a sink in the corner, and a row of cupboards along one of the walls. I flinch slightly when I notice a display of knives and surgical equipment laid out on the counter next to the sink.
“This is where it all happens,” Remo says. “Now, once you’ve joined the Society and paid your dues, you’ll have access to all this. I assume you’re working out of your house now?”
I nod.
“Well, you’ll probably find this a little easier. The room’s soundproofed, and we’ve got a good supply of tools and ether, suture materials, just about everything you need.”
I nod again. “Great,” I say, in a hollow voice.
Remo continues. “Now, it didn’t look to me like your bitch has been altered in any way. Am I right about that? You haven’t started operating on her yet?”
“Uh, no. See, my background is in linguistics, and I thought I’d try a nonsurgical approach first.”
Remo looks skeptical. “What have you been doing with her, then?”
“Well, lately I’ve been working with flash cards, trying to get her to associate certain words with a set of pictorial symbols I’ve devised,” I begin. “I’ve had a special typewriter made up with these symbols, and I’m trying to get her to the point where she can type a sentence with her nose.” I stop talking. It sounds ridiculous, even to me.
Remo’s smirking. “Yeah, and how’s that working out for you?” he asks.
“Well, I admit it’s going a bit slower than I’d like.”
Remo laughs. “Yeah, I thought so. Listen, you’re not the first one to try going at it from that angle, but here at the Cerberus Society we pretty much believe that there’s no progress without surgery. If you decide to join, you’ll also have access to our library”—here he points to a corner of the basement that has a couple of bookshelves lined with three-ring notebooks and veterinary textbooks—“and I think after you do some reading, you’ll probably come to the same conclusion for yourself.”
Remo walks over to a filing cabinet that’s next to the “library.” He opens a drawer and pulls out some papers. He hands them to me.
“Here’s our membership packet. You can look it over and let me know after the meeting whether or not you’ll be joining us. Dues are three hundred dollars a year, which may sound a little steep, but it goes toward covering the cost of our medical supplies, feeding the dogs, and paying for whatever guest speakers we have.” He smiles. “Of course, we didn’t have to pay tonight’s speaker anything. We’ll give him his honorarium in kibble.”
I force a smile. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll look these over.”
Remo checks his watch. “Well, we’d better be getting upstairs,” he says. He walks toward the staircase, then stops and turns around. “I forgot to ask you,” he says. “Are you married?”
“No,” I say. “I’m a widower.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s probably for the best. We’ve found that most women don’t seem to understand the work we’re doing here. We have a little saying around here: ‘The only bitches we allow are the ones that bark.’” He laughs deeply.
I look away. Remo sees I’m not laughing.
“Well,” he says. “Meaning no disrespect to your late wife.”
“No,” I say. “Of course not.”
Remo leads me up the cellar stairs and back out into the yard. I listen to the noise coming from the kennels, and I feel a little bit sick.
Remo and I walk around to the front of the house and up the steps. Remo opens the front door, and we walk into a little entrance hall. To the right is the living room, and I can see that there are several rows of chairs set up, facing a podium. Funny to think they’ve provided Dog J with a podium. There are about twenty men standing in groups, talking.
“Come on,” Remo says. “I’ll introduce you.”
He leads me over to a group of three men. He claps one of them on the back, a big, bulky man with thinning hair, holding a clipboard.
“Lucas,” he says, “I want you to meet Paul. He’s thinking about joining our little society. Paul, Lucas here is our treasurer. He’s the one you’ll be giving your check to.”
“No, give it to me,” says another man, with red hair and very white skin. “I’ll take your money.” The men all laugh.
“That’s Aaron,” Remo says. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”
“And don’t give him your money, whatever you do,” adds the third man, a short, mousy guy with big eyes. More laughter. “I’m Tom,” he adds.
I shake the men’s hands. “Paul here’s got himself a Ridgeback bitch,” Remo says. “Turns out she used to be one of ours.”
“A runner?” Tom asks.
“Yup,” Remo says. “But they all end up back here sooner or later, don’t they?” He turns to Lucas. “You were working with that litter of Ridgebacks seven or eight years ago, weren’t you?”
“That’s right, I was. I guess this must be my prodigal daughter. She out in the kennel?”
“Nope,” Remo says. “Paul took her back home. She seemed a mite upset to be here.” The men laugh. “Paul here was real concerned for her feelings.” Remo and Lucas exchange a look I can’t read. “Maybe he’ll let you take a gander at her sometime, if you ask real nice.”
“I’d enjoy that,” Lucas says. “Perhaps I’ll come by sometime. Let’s see, you’re on”—he consults his clipboard—“you’re on Turner Street, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I say. I don’t like these men knowing where I live.
Remo sees the expression on my face and smiles. “I told you, we can’t be too careful,” he says.
“Of course,” I say.
“So Paul,” Lucas says. “Have you done any throat work on her yet?”
“No,” I say. “Um, not yet.”
“Paul’s kind of new to all this,” Remo tells them. “He’s been trying a ‘nonsurgical approach.’” The other three men burst into laughter.
“Oh, you’re one of those, are you?” Lucas says to me.
I stand there uncomfortably, not sure what to say. Remo claps me on the arm. “Don’t take offense, buddy,” he says. “We’re just joshing you.”
“We’ve all been there,” says Tom, the mousy man. “I started out that way, too. Spent three years trying to get my beagle to say ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’ Finally occurred to me that he was designed wrong, and I wasn’t going to get a word out of him unless I fixed him.”