Chapter 64
I BARELY SLEEP THAT NIGHT, worrying about Carlos coming back with a sledgehammer.
The next day, I still haven’t heard from Metcalf, and every little creak and noise spooks me, even in broad daylight. And Hailey texted about another late night at Alison’s. Way too much time for me to be alone here. Then I get a great idea. I’m taking the dogs to Disneyland.
Well, it’s not really Disneyland. But as far as the dogs are concerned, it might as well be.
“Kids, this is your lucky day,” I say as I load the two of them into Amber’s car. “We’re on our way to—ta-da!—the Canine Club!”
The Canine Club, according to its website, is a different kind of doggy park. Way different. For one thing, it’s private. Makes sense. If you live around here, you don’t want your pet sniffing around just any old doggy butt.
Like the Kennelworth dog spa, where they went for grooming, the Canine Club is upscale. Yearly dues are two thousand dollars. And that’s only if your dog passes the new member interview.
From what I gather, it’s like a private New York City nursery school, with pretty much the same criteria for applicants: good grooming, friendly disposition, plays well with others, up to date on shots. Growlers, biters, and whiners are rejected.
Off the record: Bulldogs, boxers, and Bernese mountain dogs are rejected as well because the club frowns on unnecessary slobbering.
(I get it. I know what I’m like after a few martinis.) In a generous gesture of noblesse oblige, the Canine Club does allow rescue dogs and mongrels. But they must meet the same criteria.
And if your pedigreed pup makes it past the interview, there are more hoops to jump through: Your dog needs a recommendation letter from your vet, references from two other dog-owner members, and a clean, incident-free police record.
So if your neighbors ever lodged a complaint that Daphne, your beloved shih tzu, dug up their rose garden, you and Daphne are history.
Luckily, Jane and Austen are full-fledged members in good standing. When we arrive at the main gate of the Canine Club park, we’re quickly checked in. I’m given a beeper so I’ll know when our forty-five-minute playtime is over. Only twenty dogs are allowed in at a time.
I look around. Did I say Disneyland? Make that the Taj Mahal.
When I unleash the dogs, Jane dashes over to an apple tree scratching post with low-hanging branches, and Austen jumps into the bone-shaped pool.
Soon the two of them discover rubber tubes to run through, unlimited tennis balls to fetch, doggy toys and slides and squishy pillows as far as the eye can see.
At least one of the park planners must have had a sense of humor.
“The ultimate installation,” according to their website: several bright-red hydrants scattered around to make the park “more fun and interactive.” Really?
Is peeing supposed to be interactive? I guess all these years I’ve been doing it wrong.
Half an hour later, Jane and Austen begin to slow down.
The park has planned for that as well—there are several close-to-the-ground padded doggy benches for them to rest on, all way more comfy than the wooden one I’ve been sitting on.
But we adult dog owners have been given other perks, like state-of-the-art Wi-Fi.
A free do-it-yourself photo booth. And at five o’clock, they open a dog-friendly people bar.
Coming here was a good idea. I feel more relaxed than I have in days.
Several of us are sitting on these benches, smiling at each other and watching our dogs frolic.
But one young man several benches down from me has barely looked up from the newspaper he’s holding.
I try to figure out which of the twenty dogs is his, but I can’t. He hasn’t been watching any of them.
Then my beeper goes off. Our playtime is over. I fetch Jane and Austen, who seem happy but tired and pleased to be heading home.
As I load the dogs into Amber’s hatchback, I see the young man walking to his car.
Still no dog. Oh, well, I think. Maybe they let people in the neighborhood come here even without pets.
It’s lush and green and a great spot for reading.
I bet he’s just trying to get a little distance from a nagging wife, a whiny toddler.
And yet… that doesn’t feel right.
Then something flashes through my mind. Something my beloved FBI colleague Coveleigh Ravenstock once said when he was stressing the importance of trusting your gut: The major difference between humans and animals is that when an animal senses something is not quite right in its universe, it never says to itself, Oh, it’s probably nothing.