Chapter Eight
Donna seemed unsurprised to see us.
If I wasn’t mistaken, she emitted a faint snort as we entered the buffer area inside the exterior gate. From this foyer-like area, we had a choice of four gates to the play areas — two for small dogs, two for large dogs.
Though her curt nod did seem to indicate moderate approval of our taking the dogs off leash, then making them wait for the release command before they whooshed across the open space of this large-dog enclosure in a blur of fur and joy.
Some dog people are against dog parks. They maintain that you never know what other dog — or human — is going to be there, presenting the kind of dog — or human — you don’t want to encounter.
True.
Though when it comes to humans, that would also mean not going to the grocery store or the library or the theater or the car wash or the museum or the restaurant or fitness class or . . . you get the idea.
As for dogs at the dog park, I figured we had several advantages.
First, Donna.
In case I haven’t made it clear, she was the grande dame of the dog park and knew all that went on. I’ve seen her, uh, persuade a human that he and his dog needed to leave immediately and not return. He did and he hasn’t.
Second, we have our own mini-pack. I haven’t taken Gracie to the park alone since the first day we went and met Clara and LuLu. A human might miss an outing for various reasons, but when it came to the dogs, it was always Gracie and LuLu, LuLu and Gracie. Most times with Murph, too.
Initially, Clara would pick Murphy up from Teague’s apartment on days he taught. Now, that’s rarely necessary, since Murph’s usually at my house.
With those three being best pals, they’re not constantly trying to break the ice with unknown dogs. Though they do let most other dogs join in.
But I’ve also seen them shut out a few dogs.
Which brings me to . . .
Third, Gracie is discerning. Much more so than LuLu or Murphy.
That statement isn’t favoritism on my part. Clara and Teague say the same thing. LuLu can be somewhat skittish around the nicest of new dogs. Murph is sure everyone loves him. Gracie picks and chooses.
Once, after a brief encounter with a new dog, she came running to where Clara and I sat atop the picnic table and stared at me, yawning and shaking herself off like she was wet when it was a perfectly dry day. Clara and I looked at each other for a beat, then gathered the other dogs and left.
Not long after, that new dog picked up a smaller dog that liked to hang out in the big-dog enclosure and shook it. Hard. The little dog recovered, but the incident rattled the community.
That cemented my faith in Gracie’s discernment.
At this moment Gracie displayed not one iota of discernment as she galloped across the open field, her tail whipping around.
As we approached, Donna gestured to Hattie that she could greet us. The gray-muzzled elder stateswoman of the dog park said hello without the frenetic energy of our three dogs, while showing more enthusiasm for our company than Donna did.
Though I’d come to suspect that was a front. If Donna didn’t want to talk to us, she wouldn’t.
“Hi Donna, how nice to see you again,” Clara said without a drop of irony. “We didn’t get a chance to do more than say hello last night.”
Donna grunted.
“Did your granddaughter enjoy the class?”
“Don’t know about enjoy. She’s taking it seriously, as she should.”
“She did such a good job with Bernie.”
Another grunt, but this one didn’t mask that Donna was pleased by the praise.
“That older man with the cute little black dog — what kind of dog is that?”
With Clara’s questions and comments, sliding from dogs to humans and back, we learned that the cute little black dog was a miniature poodle-soft-coated Wheaten terrier mix.
“More common to see them in the goldy-beige color range. She picked up the black from her miniature poodle genes,” Donna said. “Smart as the dickens. Oscar has his hands full.”
His wife had picked out the puppy last summer and started the training, but the woman died a few months later.
“He’s got no experience training or with dogs in general,” Donna said, not unsympathetically. “Couldn’t have blamed him if he rehomed Quasar. He’s doing the right thing, taking classes. Started last fall and he’s working up consistently.”
We learned similar blends of information on most of the other dog-human pairings in the class, skipping over Berrie and the Bostons.
Since we’d covered last night’s attendees with the exception of two dogs and their owners, Clara’s sideways look toward Donna prepared me. Probably Donna, too.
“Those two young dogs,” Clara said, “the doodle and the Belgian Malinois were interesting, weren’t they? Haven’t seen them here at the dog park. Have you, Donna?”
“No. Be better if we did. Both breeds need consistent exercise, especially as young as those two are. Though when it comes to their breeds . . . Closest a working-line Belgian Malinois came to that puppy’s family tree was to lift a leg on it. And—”
Clara spluttered with barely suppressed laughter.
“—Damon Swindell’s family tree wouldn’t deserve that much consideration.”
That pulled laughter from me.
“What did his family tree do—?”
I knew Donna wasn’t going to elaborate on her low opinion of the Swindell family tree before she cut off my question.
“People like him think a breed like a Malinois is a badge to cover up their insecurities. Animals deserve better. A real Malinois should have expert training. That pup needs strong training and lots of work to keep him happy and out of trouble. Not a selfish excuse for a man . . .”
Her voice dipped into a phrase of imaginative disgust.
I would have let the insults play out. Never hurts for a writer to pick up a few new phrases.
But Clara asked, “What sort of dog do you think Lucifer is?”
“Could be any mix of dozens,” Donna said. “Carolina dog, a little shepherd, a dash of terrier. Wouldn’t be surprised if that black snout comes from black mouth cur, which is itself a mix. Cute as the dickens, but that’s as close to Lucifer as he gets. At least until Damon Swindell ruins him.”
That sentiment turned all of us serious.
“Do you know much about them? The people, I mean. I hear both couples live in that new area by the golf course.” Clara had made good use of her time in town this morning with all the information she’d picked up.
“When they were first building out there, I drove around and looked at them. With those prices I didn’t dare go inside. ”
“Damon’s family’s from the southern edge of the county. Airs.” The single word described and condemned. “Understand the two women went to UK together, thick as thieves.”
When I first moved to Haines Tavern, I’d interpreted UK as meaning the United Kingdom, which had caused a couple mental disconnects, particularly why my mail carrier was in mourning about a British team losing a basketball game.
I soon learned the default meaning here of UK was the University of Kentucky, ninety minutes or so south of us in Lexington.
If the United Kingdom was the secondary meaning for that initialism, it ranked so far back it couldn’t be seen as a dot on the distant horizon.
And, yes, it is an initialism, not an acronym. Acronym is when you pronounce the initial letters as if they created a word — NASA — while initialism is speaking each letter — NFL.
Ask me how I know.
I got it wrong in my first days as the public persona of Abandon All and Kit corrected me, since the author of that book should know.
Donna added, “Those two women were the driving forces behind the couples buying places a block apart. Dragged the husbands along.”
Thinking of his handling of poor Lucifer, Damon Swindell struck me as more of a dragger than a draggee.
“Interesting. The two women remain good friends, huh?” Clara asked.
I braced for her to imply more than friendship between Zoley Georger and Damon Swindell.
Instead, she continued with, “Are they close with other people? The women or as couples. Part of a group? Other UK alums or neighbors?”
Donna moved only her eyes to look from me to Clara. “Haven’t heard anything about that.”
That was mean. It enticed with the potential that Donna had heard about something else, but she wasn’t sharing.
Bottom line? We wouldn’t get her to speculate on what — if anything — was behind the look between Damon Swindell and Zoley Georger.
“Damon’s involved in several businesses in the area, right?” Clara asked.
“So I hear. Out of the area, too. Not much interested in his business deals.”
If she’d used the phrase business affairs, we might have segued to the look between Damon and Zoley, and the encounter with the other woman Clara witnessed.
But business deals . . .
Clara tried to push and pull a little at the door Donna had closed, but not enough to annoy Donna.
She’s a wise woman, my friend Clara.
She got nowhere now, but neither did she get that door bolted and barred against potential future efforts.
“C’mon, Hattie. Time to go,” Donna announced.
We watched them leave.
Clara’s sigh revealed her frustration.
I didn’t ask if she shared my envy that Donna could say Time to go and Hattie went, while our dogs’ capacity to play remained stronger than their willingness to obey.