Chapter 9 Sourdough
NINE
Sourdough
Mabel
Suffice it to say, by Sunday afternoon, I had not finished that bureau out in the workshop.
Moxie was quarantined upstairs in the bathroom.
Between my computer research and Winona’s advice, I’d come up with what I hoped would be least stressful on Moxie for introducing her to the house and Tonks.
As such, for the past two and a half days, she, her cat bed, her litter and her bowls had been in my bathroom.
I went in for play and cuddle time, but all the research said small, safe spaces at first for cats so they could get used to scents and sounds, and then you could start giving them the full enchilada.
In the meantime, Tonks and I were getting to know one another.
The first thing I noticed was that three weeks in that shelter had been traumatizing for my gorgeous girl.
She’d been glued to me since I got her. She even slept on my feet with me in bed.
Nevertheless—yes, from research—I’d learned huskies were escape artists. So three times a day, with Tonks on a lead, we walked the perimeter of my open space four times going one way, and four times going the other.
I did this hoping to show her her new home, also to help her with sounds and smells, but further demonstrate what her play area was going to be. I didn’t need to rescue her only to have her take off and join a pack of wolves.
Onward from that—yes, because of Mr. Grouch—we had a half an hour of physically demanding (for Tonks) playtime each day.
I’d learned she knew her name, “stop,” “no,” “sit” and “down,” but she sucked at “stay” and was hopeless at “heel.”
Though, she was hell on wheels with fetch.
It didn’t matter if it was a tennis ball, a frisbee, or one of those braided things with knots on the end (mm-hmm, I went a little crazy at the feedstore), you threw it, she’d chase it and bring it back.
Sometimes she even caught it in mid-throw!
I knew she was special.
Tonks and I had managed (with the door closed) to spend some time in the workshop so I could do the detailed sanding on the bureau. But with her coat, and her curiosity, I didn’t want to do any staining or finishing until I was assured I had control over her, and she understood her boundaries.
Tonks and I were seriously bonding, but I was despairing because Moxie was locked up. She seemed chill (one could say my bathroom, such as it was, was better than a cage at a rescue), but it was no fair Tonks was getting all the fun, and Moxie was still, essentially, in prison.
But the websites said you should take it slow (even as long as two weeks), so I was hoping this sacrifice for both of us would end up being worth it.
That morning, I noticed my sourdough starter was getting out of hand, so I spent the day alternately cleaning, doing laundry, checking my bids and adding new ones on items that intrigued me in online auctions, walking Tonks, hanging with Moxie and making three loaves of bread.
One loaf, I’d take to Abigail. One, I’d keep. The last, I’d give to Hutch.
It wasn’t a peace offering, because as far as I was concerned, he was the one who should offer the peace.
But no matter how much I loved my carbs, no way I could eat that much bread before it went stale.
Loaf three was in the oven when Tonks lost her mind barking and howling.
I looked at the microwave clock.
Hutch was right on time.
I got Tonks’s leash, clipped it on her collar (it was challenging to find one that complemented her glorious copper fur, I settled on light blue), headed out to the front porch and watched Hutch park his truck.
I then watched him angle out of it, and with the grace of a man who knew exactly what every inch of his body could do (something he’d demonstrated magnificently in my bed), I continued to watch as he walked toward me and up the steps to the porch while Tonks barked at him.
He ignored Tonks.
“Glad you didn’t make me hunt you down,” he said as greeting.
God, this guy was a dick.
I made a decision while offering him Tonks’s lead.
This made the dog shut up and cock her head in curiosity.
“I’m letting Moxie out of kitty prison while you two do your thing,” I told him. “I want her to get a good look around, leave her scent, smell Tonks’s, so when I finally get down to introducing them, it might go better for us all.”
His brows were knit. “Moxie is in kitty prison?”
How did he even make saying the word “kitty” hot?
Strike that.
Ultra hot.
And why couldn’t my one-night stand be some faceless mountain man who lived in virtual hermitude, lazing around, writing songs, occasionally gracing The Link with his presence, and as such, I’d never see him again, and not this guy, who I was going to have to put up with training my dog.
“It’s what my research told me to do, quarantine her so she can—”
“After I read your application, I put those two together and there were no issues. If you’re worried about Tonks, put her in her crate.”
Uh-oh.
“I didn’t get her a crate.”
This time, his brows shot up. “You didn’t get her a crate?”
I squared my shoulders and stated, “I’m not putting her in another cage.”
“Mabel—”
I raised a hand, palm out his way. “No. No discussion.” I dropped my hand. “Yes, I’ve read about it. Yes, I know they say it’s actually a good thing and makes them feel safe. I just…” I swallowed. “Can’t do it.”
His voice had gentled, for the first time (outside of bed) reminding me of how he sang, when he said, “They’re your animals, Mabel.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Though, I urge you to reconsider down the road,” he said carefully. “It actually is a safe place, and it’s not the same when they’re home. They can see and smell home, and you, which is another home for them. You with me?”
I nodded.
“Go let Moxie out,” he ordered. “We’ll get to work.”
“Right.”
“C’mon, girl,” he murmured to Tonks as he turned to walk down the steps.
My dog looked back at me, but she went with Hutch.
I went into the house, right up the stairs, opened the bathroom door, and Moxie, who had decided my bathmat was more comfortable than her cat bed, something, as far as I knew, she hadn’t even sniffed, was curled on the mat.
Her head came up.
“How about some explore time?” I asked.
Her head tipped with curiosity.
But I left the door open and retreated to sit cross legged on my bed.
It took a few minutes, but she came out sniffing.
Then, for the next fifty-five minutes, I trailed her all around the house, trying not to hover, as she explored upstairs and down. During this time, the bread finished baking, and I took it out to cool.
I’d scooped Moxie up, and with a lot of cuddles, scratches and apologies from Mommy, I put her back in the bathroom before Hutch knocked on the door.
I opened it.
Tonks yodeled at me.
I crouched and gave her head a good rub.
“How’d it go? Were you good for Hutch? Did you show him how smart you are?”
Dancing in my hold, Tonks howled her answer to each question.
“I knew you’d do awesome,” I replied.
“She did,” Hutch confirmed. I looked up at him. “She’s sharp and alert.”
I straightened.
When I did, he said, “We need to discuss schedule.”
“Right. Come in,” I invited, getting out of his way.
I closed the door behind him and unclipped Tonks’s lead. She danced some more, did a few whirls, howled a couple of times, then headed to her water bowl and very noisily slurped some up.
I was hanging her leash on the hook by the door when Hutch asked, “Are you baking bread?”
“Baked. Sourdough,” I replied as I walked to the writing desk. I opened one of the drawers at the back, pulled out my checkbook, nabbed a pen, bent over it, and clicking my pen, I asked my checkbook, “Do I make the check out to Hutch Hutchison or Double H Dog Training?”
“You aren’t paying me.”
I lifted up to turn to him. “Do you prefer Venmo or PayPal or something?”
“You aren’t paying me.”
“Sorry?”
And a repeat, but this time with strained patience, “You aren’t paying me.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I—”
He interrupted me. “I’ll be back tomorrow.
Same time. I’ll work with her for forty-five minutes, then I want you out with me for the last fifteen so I can show you how you should work with her on the days I’m not here.
I’ll be back Wednesday and Friday, same thing, her and me for forty-five, all three of us for that last fifteen. ”
“Okay, but about pay—”
“She’s got basic training, but not all of it. We’ll start with ‘stay’ then move to ‘heel.’ But I don’t want to confuse her with too many new commands at once. I want to see how long it takes her to master one before we get complicated.”
“You’re the expert, but—”
“And that’s it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“And maybe tomorrow, you might let me finish a damned sentence,” I snapped.
He was making a move to leave, but my snap brought him back to me.
“You wanna waste the time and effort to write me a check, be my guest,” he stated. “I’ll just rip it up.”
I threw an arm toward the front yard. “This isn’t only your time. It’s your expertise. You should be compensated for it.”
“Yeah, it’s my time, my expertise, and I should be able to say how I spend it.”
This was, regrettably, true.
“Fine,” I bit off, and stomped to the kitchen island to grab a loaf of bread I’d already wrapped tightly in cling film. I walked back and offered it to him. “So here, make me feel better. That’s my payment.”
He stared down at the bread like I wasn’t offering him a scrumptious loaf of homemade sourdough, but instead, I’d baked a pile of Tonks’s offerings to nature and wrapped them in Saran Wrap.
“I don’t eat white bread,” he said.
I was shocked.
“You don’t eat white bread?”
He looked from the bread to me. “You speak English, do you understand it?”
Do not ever forget, Mabel, he’s a big, old jerk!
“Never?” I pressed. “You never eat white bread?”
“I eat clean.”
“What’s clean?”
“Lean meats, lots of vegetables, some fruits, and when I get my carbs, they’re whole grains, beans or starchy vegetables.”
“You never cheat?”
“If I cheat, it’ll be on a beer, bourbon or a good whiskey.”
Okay, his body said this was the gods’ honest truth.
But…
Whoa.
“I, well…”—I hugged the loaf to my chest—“I’m impressed.”
Something came over him, maybe surprise, maybe skepticism, before he asked, “You’re impressed?”
I shrugged. “I like food. Food is yummy. I like cooking it, baking it and eating it. But I still can be impressed someone makes the lifestyle choice, and sticks to it, to be that healthy.”
He studied me closely, muttering, “Right.”
Tonks lost her mind barking and howling.
Both Hutch and I moved to the window Tonks was barking at and peered out.
A shiny, black, dual cab Ram truck was pulling into the front of the house.
And in it, I saw my landlord and both her grandsons.
In all that was happening, I’d forgotten that Hutch told me he’d “deal” with Mrs. Matthews.
I had a feeling he’d “dealt” with Mrs. Matthews.
And now I was going to deal with her.