Chapter Eight
Eight
I’ll admit, I’m not excited to rise and greet the following day.
In fact, when I nose Miguel and he groans and says, “Five more minutes, Harold,” I go back to my bed and give him a whole hour. Who cares if he lets me out now or later? It’s going to be the same yard with the same smells. Then I’ll eat the same kibble while Miguel’s off gallivanting in Chicago.
Without me.
Now, it’s not like my life with Amelia was filled with adventure.
After our early walk, she and I spent most of the morning in her office, where she’d clack-clack-clack on her keyboard and drink coffee and clack some more.
Sometimes she wouldn’t even pause to eat lunch at the normal time—she probably would have skipped it altogether if it weren’t for my pestering.
Still, I loved to watch her write. She put a big floor pillow beside her desk for me and would read me lines from her drafts.
“ ‘His smile was more a gift than a facial expression’…Ooh, that’s pretty good, don’t you think, Harold?”
Very good, I thought, lifting my head in affirmation. How lucky your readers are.
Most afternoons, we’d head to the bookstore, and that’s when the fun began.
Who would drop in? Would they have their dogs with them, their other children, contraband snacks?
There was even a student who came by with his cat.
Technically, cats aren’t allowed in the bookstore—not because Amelia and Miguel disliked them, but it’s dicey with the place teeming with my kind.
This fellow, however, wore a backpack with a plastic enclosure at the top, so his cat could see out.
She always seemed incredibly bored, but the rest of us weren’t when she was around.
I take it back: Life with Amelia was very much an adventure. And now it’s not.
But as I watch Miguel throw clothing into his suitcase, it occurs to me that this isn’t over yet.
He’s still here, which means I have time to prove to him that I am not too old to travel, nor would I be better off with a sitter.
I must convince him that I am a dog with the ability to go to the big city and assist in the finding of one Jonathan Middleton-Biggs.
He’s just closed the suitcase when I begin to whimper and nudge his leg with my nose. It takes a minute, but he finally gets the hint. “You must really need to use the bathroom,” he grouses as we descend the stairs and head to the kitchen.
I do not, but once I’m out the door, I muster up enough urgency to lift my leg and wet a bush so that it doesn’t look like I’ve roused him for no reason.
Then I begin the new, improved routine I’ve just devised.
Around and around the yard I go—one lap, two, another and another.
My knees now ache as much as my hips, but there’s no slowing down. Not yet.
“You’re not a mustang, Harold,” calls Miguel from the back door. Then he mutters to himself, “What has even gotten into him?”
You have, I think as I zip past him. Do I look like an animal past his prime? I think not.
He shakes his head and wanders back inside the house. I do a few more laps, then collapse on the weathered wood deck, panting far more than I’d like. It’s already warm, and I’m going to need a bucket of water as soon as I catch my breath and find the energy to get back on my paws.
My torso’s still heaving when I sense something—almost like a bug on my back, but heavier. I turn my head and realize it’s Miguel’s gaze; he’s cupping a mug in his hands and staring at me from the windows that overlook the deck. He appears…concerned.
Doggone it. Of course he does. The way I’m breathing probably makes me seem like I need to be hauled to the emergency vet, who’s twice as expensive and three times as scary as the normal one.
Though my tongue’s still dangling out of the side of my mouth, I attempt to smile to assure Miguel that I’m happy as a hairy clam.
He frowns and doesn’t move from the window—almost like he’s waiting for proof that I’m all right.
And I am. That’s why I was able to cover so much ground just now. But Miguel isn’t of the canis genus, and he doesn’t know that my recuperation is well within the realm of normal.
What else must I do to convince him?
Then I spot a squirrel in the garden box, rooting around where she has absolutely no business being.
Now, I come from a long line of hunters—but personally, I’ve only ever been a companion.
As such, I’ve never attacked anything more than a murder of crows, who then attempted to murder me for an entire season, because it turns out their memories rival an elephant’s.
Still, Amelia loved everyone, but not everything.
The squirrels continually raided her beloved bird feeder, which now sits empty.
She even bought pricey, spicy birdseed to try to deter them—apparently birds are immune to heat—but the rodents managed to build up a tolerance to the stuff.
She’d grab the broom and wave it at them, yelling her head off as Miguel stood by and laughed.
She never did hit a squirrel, and eventually she’d end up laughing, too.
But she did loathe those grubby little creatures. And I must believe she’d approve of what I’m about to do.
I start slowly, crouching as I advance toward my target.
The squirrel doesn’t see me, and even if she did, she probably wouldn’t care.
They’re pretty far down the intelligence chain.
They do, however, learn to assess threats quickly.
And because I have not once chased their lot around these parts, she’s not expecting me to do so now.
I’m nearly at the garden box, and the squirrel’s still squatting in the dirt with her back to me. She’s eating something that landed in the soil—a mulberry, perhaps?—and I remind myself to stop thinking about what she’s doing and focus on the task before me.
I take a deep breath, lunge, and—
The noise hits me first, and oh my dog, it’s terrible, like someone has punctured a balloon but also poked a human baby and combined them into the most awful, high-pitched distress call I’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing.
Reality sinks in at the same rate my teeth sink into her coarse fur: I’ve caught the squirrel.
She is clawing at my face like—well, like something trying to survive, twisting and attempting to bite me and, ouch, I think she just did.
And yet I am jerking my head this way and that, just how I used to annihilate the squeaky toys Amelia gave me.
This, however, is markedly less fun. Worse, I can’t seem to stop.
“Harold!”
Miguel’s running across the yard, holding the same broom Amelia used to wield at the squirrels raiding her bird feeder. I can only hope that Raina and the Bergers, who live on the other side of us, aren’t around to get the wrong impression. Because Miguel’s waving the broom at…me.
It works. I immediately drop the squirrel, who tries to dash away but can’t, and ends up sort of limping sideways to the fence. She slips through an opening and disappears behind the garage. I want to feel relieved for her, but I know—I just know—that she will not survive the hour.
What was I thinking? Amelia would’ve been horrified. I am horrified.
I look up at Miguel, who’s no longer waving the broom, and I feel so, so sad.
“Oh, Harold.” He’s kneeling now, and he has one hand on my back and another gently on my jaw. “Pobrecito,” he murmurs, examining my face. “That’s not like you.”
Well, it wasn’t—but now it is. And although Miguel’s being more tender with me than he has since the end of everything, that’s not comforting. At all.
“Were you trying to show me something?”
Yes, I was! I was trying to prove to you that I’m fine, Miguel! Fine fine fine fine fine! Take me to Chicago!
“I’m going to have to call the vet,” he says, standing. “I think it might be time for doggy Prozac.”
I don’t know what Prozac is, but he believes something’s wrong with me, which is the opposite of what I was going for. I hobble behind Miguel, barely in better shape than the squirrel I just mauled.
Maybe he’s right.
He’s definitely right. I’m not fine.
How will I ever fulfill my duty in this sorry state?
I’ve just hid myself under the love seat in the living room when the front doorknob starts to rattle. “Miguel, it’s me! Open up!” yells Dane.
“Dios mío,” mutters Miguel, shaking his head. He yanks open the door and squints at Dane. “You do know we have a bell? Or you could even, you know, knock instead of scaring the stuffing out of the neighbors.”
“Sorry, chief,” says Dane, running a hand through his hair. “I was just excited.”
“To…dog-sit?”
“No, dude. I mean, no offense, Harold,” Dane says to me quickly.
None taken; as much as I enjoy Dane, I don’t want to be cooped up with him any more than he does with me.
“It’s just that I brought you a little gift.” Dane pulls his backpack off his shoulder and reaches into it. Then he hands Miguel a stack of papers and a tiny piece of plastic with a metal end. “Thumb drive and the dead tree version, since I know you’re not big on computers.”
“I’m fine with computers. Not as skilled as you, but that’s only because I have better things to do than play Dungeons and Dragons all day. What is this, exactly?” Miguel asks, holding the papers right in front of his nose.
“It’s a report.” Dane bounces on his toes, waiting for Miguel to respond.
“What kind of a report? I can’t really make this out without my reading glasses.”
“Why didn’t you say so, chief?” He plucks the papers out of Miguel’s hand.
“I’ve put together a rundown on the comings and goings of one newly infamous Chicago author.
See, here’s his favorite bookstore, and then this is where he apparently likes to grab a beer, and this is his home address,” says Dane, pointing at some scribbles on the page.
“I also printed a bunch of comments from some of his, ahem, ardent fans, which might contain other clues I didn’t catch yet. ”
“Where did you even find all that?”
“Chat rooms, mostly. Also, on a forum for Chicago librarians, and a few other sources I probably shouldn’t reveal. But my dude, there’s more where this came from.”
“Where?” says Miguel, peering around the papers. “And…just, why?”
Dane pats his backpack. “Got my trusty laptop with me—and a change of clothes. And because what I’ve found might just be the start of our mission, you’ll need me.”
“Wait one second. This is a solo endeavor.”
“Nah. You of all readers should know no hero’s journey is complete without a guide.”
Miguel looks him up and down. “So, you’re…Gollum in this scenario?”
Dane wrinkles his nose. “I was thinking Yoda to your Luke Skywalker. ’Cause Yoda put Luke up in his swamp crib, and as it happens, I actually do have a place we can crash.”
“I wasn’t planning to stay overnight.”
“While I’m stoked that you’re thinking ahead, chief, what if you don’t find JMB right away?
Or if you do and you need to, I don’t know—convince him?
That could take time. And I’m not on the schedule until tomorrow afternoon, though honestly, Brenna and Riley should be fine without me if we get back late.
Sure, Riley’ll be mad that I’m not there to be her buffer—but she and Brenna are gonna have to work it out at some point. ”
Miguel is clutching his forehead the way he sometimes does when he hasn’t had enough coffee, and also after he’s had too much. “You have a bachelor pad in Chicago you haven’t told me about?”
“Nope, but I have a good buddy there, and his place is always open to me. He’s in Thailand right now. Or maybe it’s Santa Monica. Doesn’t matter for our purposes.”
“I can stay in a motel if I need to. Or just sleep in my car,” says Miguel.
“Danger, Will Robinson,” says Dane in a robotic voice. “Carjacking in three, two—”
“Okay, okay—I won’t sleep in the car. But why on earth would I take you with me?”
“Because you need me,” Dane says, like this is the dumbest question he’s ever heard. “And I need to get out of this town for a hot second before I lose my mind.”
“What about the dog?” asks Miguel, turning his attention to me. “He’s been kind of weird for a while, and he nearly killed a squirrel today. I’m not sure traveling’s a good idea.”
Nearly! As ashamed as I am, he could at least give credit where it’s due.
“That’s because he’s bored, too.” Dane leans toward me and scratches my head. “Look at the old boy—he needs another romp or three before he calls it a day. My buddy loves dogs and won’t care if he stays with us. What do you think, Harold? Wanna head to the Windy City?”
I grin up at Dane, because while Miguel may not love him, I sure do right now.
Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!