Chapter Four
Blythe
As soon as I stepped outside, I knew I was being watched. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from at first, but the longer I stood on the porch, leaning with my back against the door and enjoying my morning pick-me-up bean juice, I started to zero in on the direction of the eyes on me.
But at the middle of the end of the cul-de-sac, there is only one road in, and it’s the same way out.
Unless someone is hiking in from the small park of woods behind us, or from the other streets that bracket this one on each side, in which I don’t think they’d have sight of me, the only option is from the street.
Process of elimination eliminates the two houses furthest away from me because one is empty and for sale, and I saw two parents, four kids, and a dog load up in their minivan and drive away from the other. Two of the seven are houses out.
Three if you count my home away from home.
House two and three, which are to my left, both have various forms of coverings on all the windows I can see. So unless they’re using thermal imaging goggles, I think I’m safe from them.
That then leaves house five and six to our right.
I have seen the woman who lives in house six. She looks to be in her mid-seventies, probably retired because her car hasn’t left much that I’ve noticed, and if she was a scary person, I’m sure Twyla would have noticed and told me by now.
House seven. I heard music coming from the backyard last night when I wheeled the garbage cans to the road, but other than they, whoever lives there has been quiet and out of sight. There is a large and fairly overgrown pine tree in the yard, but that shouldn’t look scary… does it?
As I finish my investigative short walk along the left side of the house, pretending to be looking at the bushes and flowers Trey has planted for Twyla, I keep watch of the pine tree from the corner of my eye.
I hear a few crunches and soft sounds coming from the vicinity, but there is no serious reason to think it’s anything more than just the sounds of nature.
Pine needles falling, wind blowing through the branches, squirrels or other outdoor animals running around and doing their thing.
Nobody is lurking in the shadows and watching my every move.
Just as I start to turn to head up to the porch and go inside, a crack rings out and I freeze. A second crack follows, followed by soft footsteps.
“Hello?” I loosen my grip of my coffee mug, preparing to throw it at whoever is creeping up behind me, but before I can start to move to throw it, the steps stop and my legs turn me around on their own.
It’s a dog. A very big dog.
Black fur, dark as a starless sky, covers his entire body, except for one small patch of white at the tip of his right ear. Dark eyes seem to glow lock on me and I can’t look away either.
It takes a few steps closer, then stops. Takes another couple steps, then stops again. It’s like they are sure if I’m friendly or not, and at risk of spooking it, I don’t move.
Why isn’t my heart beating fast? Shouldn’t I be afraid of this dog?
I should be, right? But why do I have a feeling of contentment instead of fear?
I am never a person who is afraid of much, other than clowns and snakes, but I like to think I have a strong sense of knowing if I should run if something isn’t safe. I don’t feel any of that right now. I feel strangely calm now that I know what was watching me.
Reaching forward, I set my mug down a few steps up, then slowly turn to fully face the furry canine who has decided to introduce themselves to me. I lower my butt and sit down on the first step and rest my right arm out straight, elbow on my knee, and let the dog sniff my hand.
A few short sniffs and his entire body seems to relax.
He’s a boy dog… or man dog… I don’t know how to tell how old he is.
Once they are out of puppy stage, dogs can be two to ten years old and depending on the breed, anyone’s guess would be better than mine.
And the only reason I know he’s a he, is because boy dog parts are just like human dog parts—a lot more noticeable than girl parts.
He steps forward again, this time as close as he can bring his front paws, then sits at my feet. With him this close, I wiggle my fingers a bit to see his reaction, and I swear he almost smiles before rubbing his face against my hand.
I’ve seen dogs smile before. Growing up, the neighbors on both sides of our house had a few different dogs over the years, and they would smile if they were happy, but this dog’s smile is different.
It’s almost like he can hear me think and he thinks that it’s silly that I’m talking to myself in my head.
His fur is course but still soft at the same time. It is very thick too. I don’t know what breed he is exactly, maybe husky or malamute based on his large frame, pointy ears, long swooping tail, and big paws, but I’ve never seen either of those in person so I can’t say exactly.
“You’re a friendly guy, aren’t you?” I ask him as I scratch the top of his head between his ears, as if he can answer me.
Bark!
No… he did not just answer me. That’s not possible.
“Are you lost, big guy?” His head shakes side to side before the movements rolls down his body.
What is happening?
Starting to question my sanity, or if I’m actually awake, I rub my eyes and realizing I’m not dreaming. This is real. The dog is real. I am real. He is sitting here, looking at me like I’m supposed to be doing something, and somehow answering my questions.
“What’s your name?”
Bark!
Well, of course he can’t actually answer that. He can’t say words.
“Is your name Buddy?” No response. Not even a head shake.
“Jake?” Nothing. “Buster?” Nope. “Charlie?” Nada. “Teddy?” Diddlysquat. “Max?” That gets me an eyebrow raise like he’s asking ‘lady, are you crazy?’, but at least it’s some kind of response I guess.
Reaching for him again, I run my hand around his neck, thinking maybe there could be a collar hidden between all the fur, but I come up empty. No collar means no name tag, no name tag means no name or phone number to call to ask an owner if their dog is missing. Well, now what?
A dark blue car turns into the cul-de-sac and pulls into the driveway of the first house, the one for sale, and a shorter woman with super curly red hair climbs out and waves when she notices me.
“Hi there!” Even her voices sounds as bouncy as her curls. “Do you live here?” She points at the house behind me as she quick steps towards us.
My new friend straightens his spine as soon as she begins heading our way. He stays sitting, but turns around parks himself directly in front of me like he is creating a barrier from her reaching me.
“Oh my!” she exclaims and comes to a grinding halt about halfway up the walkway. “Is he dangerous?”
There he goes again, letting out a huff like he is blowing out a puff of frustration at her question.
I let out a small chuckle as I pet down his back, then gently tug on his tail, silently telling him to calm down. Why I do it, I’m not sure, but it makes him lose the starch in his spine and he gets up onto all four legs and does a full body shake.
After stretching his back, front legs out straight, butt up in the air, he climbs the stairs beside me and plops his butt down, laying so his head is on my right hand which is palm down on the step.
His eyes don’t leave the previously bubbly woman, but he has seems to have laid his claim on protecting me from her.
I don’t think she would hurt a fly, but you never know these days. Some of the world’s scariest killers are moms and grannies who look innocent.
“Hi!” I wave with my free hand. “I don’t think he’s dangerous. I think he’s either stray or run away from home. He doesn’t have a collar—”
He huffs another puff of frustration. I guess he doesn’t like either of my assumptions.
“I’m Mandy. I’m the realtor selling the house on the corner.” She reaches out her right hand, but when I try to free mine to shake hers, a paw smacks my hand back down like he’s scolding a toddler for trying to touch something they shouldn’t.
“Stop that.” I scold him right back with a bop to his nose. “Be nice.”
Did you know that dogs can roll their eyes? Because I sure didn’t!
“Did he just do that?” Mandy’s jaw drops. “It’s like he knows what we’re saying.”
“I know, right!” I saw back with a laugh. “I literally just met this furball about twenty minutes ago when he came traipsing out from under the pine tree,” I point at the tree, “and it’s like he can understand everything I say. His reactions have been spooky spot on.”
“How crazy.”
“But to answer your first question, no, this isn’t my place.
I’m just housesitting for some friends.” I wouldn’t normally tell perfect strangers this, but based on the name tag pinned to her shirt, also with the matching realtor company magnet stuck to her car door, I trust she says who she says she is.
But just to be extra safe… “Do you have a business card? I’m not looking to move at the moment, but one never knows when that time will roll around. ”
“You’re so very right about that,” she says as she pulls a few cards from her pants pocket and holds one out. “Some of my biggest sales have come from referrals and my business cards found floating in a junk drawer.”
This time when I reach my hand forward, I’m not blocked by a paw. “Thanks.”
“Well, when that time comes for you, just give me a call and I will help you best as I can.”
“Sounds good.”
“Bye now.” And with one final wave, Mandy is scooting her way back to the other side of the cul-de-sac and disappears inside the house she’s listing.
Once the door is shut, I jump up, drop my hands to my hips, and stare down at the enigma at my feet.
“What the heck is wrong with you? She was just trying to be nice and drum up some future business, and you parked your hiney like you were guarding me like I was Fort Knox. That’s not cool dude. Not cool at all.”
Knowing that I should be calling animal control, or maybe the humane society, to see if anyone has reported him missing, I scoop up my discarded mug and head for the front door as I pull my cell phone from the front pocket of my sweatshirt.
But I don’t make it to the door because he pounces across the porch and parks his butt right in front of the door, blocking my way in.
“What the hell are you doing, dude? This isn’t cool.”
Spinning around where I stand, I pull up the browser on my screen and type in ‘humane society’.
I know there is one here in the city, but since I haven’t adopted a pet as an adult, I don’t have their phone number saved.
The search engine tells me that they’re currently closed, but to call a different number for after-hours animal reporting.
I tap on that number and listen to it ring over and over and over again. I double check the screen, just to make sure the caller ID is showing the correct number, but when it keeps ringing and no answering machine picks up, I give up after two minutes.
Next I try the non-emergency police dispatch number. That rings once and the line connects.
“Riverside non-emergence dispatch, how can I help you?”
After explaining to the very nice lady about trying to reach the number listed online for a possibly lost found dog, she offers to forward me to a different number.
Apparently they know of the incorrect number showing online, but unless the humane society reports the inverted digits to their browser host, there is no other way to stop the wrong number calls.
When the line starts ringing again, to the correct after-hours line, I don’t get a person again but I do get to leave a message and request a call back. I give details of the dog’s description, along with my cell number, and hang up while crossing my fingers, hoping I’ll hear something back soon.
Bound and determined to get inside this time, I turn to face the crazy animal and find him still in front of the door, but scooched a bit to his left, leaving me ample room to reach the handle and get the screen door open and make it inside the house.
Once I cross the threshold, he is up on all fours and I swear he is staring at me through the screen, begging me to let him in too.
I know neither Twyla nor Trey are allergic to dogs, and I doubt either would be angry if I told them this story after they get back from their honeymoon, but the goings on of the last hour have got me so twisted in my head.
With all his random barking and rushing and somehow answering my questions like he can understand me, I don’t know which way is up anymore.
“I can’t let you in the house,” I squat down so we are closer to eye level, “but you are welcome to stay on the porch until we find out where you live. Okay?”
Our eyes stayed locked for a good thirty seconds before he lets out another one of his infamous sighs, then lays down. Head resting on his front paws, I can feel his eyes tracking me as I walk deeper into the house, then round the corner as out of his view.
What is going on?
And why does my sweatshirt smell like cherries and pipe tobacco?