He looked under the shop porch, then hiked to the house to circle it, check under the porches there.
Not a sign.
He was a dog, for God’s sake, Simon told himself. He’d come back. He was a little dog, so how far could he go? Reassuring himself, he walked back to the shop where he’d last seen the damn troublemaker and started into the woods.
Now, with his interlude of peace shattered, the play of light and shadow, the sigh of wind, the tangled briars all seemed ominous.
Could a hawk or an owl snag a dog that size? he wondered. Once, he’d thought he spotted a bald eagle. But...
Sure, the pup was little, but he was solid.
Stopping, he took a breath to reassure himself he wasn’t panicked. Not in the least. Pissed off, that’s what he was. Seriously pissed off at having to waste the time and energy hunting for a stupid puppy he’d imagined braining with a mallet.
Christ.
He bellowed the dog’s name—and finally heard the answering yips. Yips, Simon determined, as the nerves banging in his gut settled down, that didn’t sound remotely scared or remorseful but full of wild joy.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered but, determined to be cagey, tried for the same happy tone in his call. “Come on, Jaws, you little bastard. Here, boy, you demon from hell.”
He quickened his steps toward the sound of puppy pleasure until he heard the rustling in the brush.
The pup emerged, filthy, and manfully dragging what appeared to be the decaying corpse of a very large bird.
And he’d actually worried a very large bird would get the dog? What a joke.
“Jesus Christ, put that thing down. I mean it.”
Jaws growled playfully, eyes alight, and dragged his find backward.
“Here! Now! Come!”
Jaws responded by hauling the corpse over, sitting and offering it. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” Judging the timing, Simon grabbed the dog and booted what was left of the bird back into the brush. Jaws wiggled, struggling for freedom.
“This isn’t a game of fet—Don’t say the f word. On the other hand, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He held the dog aloft. The stench was unspeakable.
“What did you do, roll in it? For God’s sake, why?”
With no other choice, Simon tucked the odorous dog firmly under his arm and, breathing through his teeth, hiked back to the house.
On the way back he considered and dismissed hosing the dog off. No way a hosing would combat the smell—even if he could keep the dog still long enough. He considered a bath, wished he had a galvanized tub—and shackles. An indoor bath gave him visions of a flooded bathroom.
On his porch he managed to take off his boots while Jaws bathed his face in loving, death-smell kisses. He tossed his wallet on a table when he went inside and straight up to the shower.
When he’d closed them both in, Simon stripped down to boxers, ignoring the dog while Jaws attacked jeans and shirt. Then he turned on the spray.
“Deal with it,” Simon suggested when Jaws bashed into the tile, then the glass door in a bid to escape.
Teeth set, Simon picked up the soap.
They were late. Fiona checked the time again, shrugged and continued to fill a pot with pansies and trails of vinca. She’d simply have to train Simon to respect her schedule, but for the moment having the luxury of a bit of gardening satisfied her. Her dogs snoozed nearby, and she had a rocking mix on her iPod.
If her new students didn’t show, she’d get the second planter done, then maybe take her boys for a little hide-and-seek in the woods.
The day, sunny and mild, all blue skies and pretty breezes, was meant to be enjoyed.
She studied her work, fluffed petals, then started the second pot.
She spotted the truck.
“That’s Simon,” she said when her dogs rose. “Simon and Jaws.” And went back to her pansies.
She continued to plant as man and dog got out of the truck, as her dogs greeted them—as man waded through the dogs. And took her time placing the next cell pack of pansies, precisely.
When Simon tapped her shoulder, she pulled out her earbuds. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“We’re probably late.”
“Uh-huh.” She patted dirt.
“There were circumstances.”
“The world’s full of them.”
“We had a large share of the world’s circumstances, but the biggest involved the dead bird.”
“Oh?” Fiona glanced over at the puppy, now engaged in fierce tug-of-war with Bogart. “Did he get a bird?”
“Something else got the bird, days ago from the look—and smell—of it.”
“Ah.” She nodded and, deciding to take pity, pulled off her gloves. “Did he bring it to you?”
“Eventually. After he rolled in it for a while.”
“How’d he handle the bath?”
“We had a shower.”
“Really?” She swallowed back the laugh since he didn’t look inclined to appreciate it. “How’d that work out?”
“After he stopped trying to butt his way through the shower door and eat the soap, okay. Actually, he liked it. We may have found a shaky foot-hold of mutual ground.”
“It’s a start. What did you do with the corpse?”
“The bird?” He stared at her, wondering why the hell she’d care. “I kicked it back in the brush. I had my hands full with the dog.”
“You’d better bag it and dispose of it. Otherwise, he’s going to find it again first chance he gets.”
“Great. Perfect.”
“Smells are a dog’s crack. He did what instinct told him to do.” And the human, she decided, had done just as he should—except call and tell her he’d be late. “Given the circumstances, I’ll give you the full session. Did you do your homework?”
“Yeah, yeah. Yes,” he corrected when Fiona raised an eyebrow. “He’ll sit on command—almost every time. He’ll come on command when he damn well feels like it. Since we were here last, he’s tried or succeeded in eating a TV remote, a pillow, an entire roll of toilet paper, part of a stair tread, most of a bag of barbecue potato chips, two chairs and a mallet. And before you ask, yes, I corrected and replaced. He doesn’t give a damn.”
“Learn to puppy-proof,” she advised with no particular sympathy. “Jaws!” Fiona clapped her hands to get his attention, held them out in invitation and smiled. “Come. Jaws, come!”
He bounded over to scrabble at her knees. “Good dog!” She pulled a treat out of her pocket. “What a good dog.”
“Bullshit.”
“There’s that positive attitude and reinforcement!”
“You don’t live with him,” Simon muttered.
“True enough.” Deliberately, she set her trowel on the steps. “Sit.” Jaws obeyed and accepted another treat, more praise, more rubs.
And she watched his eyes shift over to the trowel.
When she set her hands on her knees, he struck, fast as a whiplash, and with the trowel in his teeth raced away.
“Don’t chase him.” Fiona grabbed Simon’s hand as he turned. “He’ll only run and make it a game. Bogart, bring me the rope.”
She sat where she was, the rope in her hand, and called Jaws. He raced forward, then away again.
“See, he’s trying to bait us into it. We respond, go after him, he’s won the round.”
“It seems to me if he eats your tool, he’s won.”
“It’s old, but in any case, he doesn’t know he’s won unless we play. We don’t play. Jaws! Come!” She pulled another treat out of her pocket. After a brief debate, the pup loped back to her.
“This is not yours.” She pried his mouth open, took the trowel, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.” And passed him the rope.
She set the trowel down again, and again he lunged for it. This time, Fiona slapped her hand on it, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.”
She repeated the process, endlessly patient, schooling Simon along the way. “Try not to say no too often. You should reserve it for when you need or want him to stop instantly. When it’s important. There, see, he’s lost interest in the trowel. We won’t play. But we’ll play with the rope. Grab the other end, give him a little game of tug.”