I Kissed a Dog

chapter 2

Monday, June 13, 2011 – The Oregon Coast

When my dog, Buddy Boy, communicated with me for the first time, following what I now refer to as “the incident,” AKA coma catastrophe, I decided a smaller community was the best place for someone with my disability, or talent, to put down roots following high school and a few unsuccessful years of city living.

What I think about my special ability changes day to day, all depending on what type of trouble I end up in because of it. So far, it’s been a pretty good summer, but it’s only the second week in June. A lot can happen before September. I’ve found that out over the years.

Luke Snider loves my talent. I’ve saved him tons of money since I started working for him. At first, like everyone else I’ve told — Mom, Bob, Melanie, and Jordon — he doubted my ability. After I diagnosed his male tiger with depression and provided the solution, he was real appreciative. He knows the entire story. The other employees understand that I have a unique connection with the animals, but they give me a pretty wide berth.

The animals have shown me how they (humans) gossip — about me.

It’s something I’ve come to expect and accept. True, my ability isn’t quite as threatening as mind reading. Yet imagine if a friend (or enemy) was complaining about you, your dog overheard, and could show you the unpleasant scene’s images and audio. Pretty uncomfortable.

Yesterday had been beyond uncomfortable, but gossiping coworkers were always preferable to a near mauling. The naughty lion would be getting a serious scolding today, and I could count on Rhonda to spend more time complaining about me than working. I’d choose confronting a lion over dealing with her any day.

Cracking the window, the fresh ocean air poured in, refreshing me. I found myself replaying that fateful spring day when my life came to a screeching stop and made a U-turn toward a traumatic death. The unforeseen events from 2002 were etched in my memory:

Free from our final class, I glanced at my BFF, Melanie, and I decided a little girl-time on my fifteenth birthday might be fun. “Hey, want to walk home with me?”

“I would, but my mom wants me to help her at the grocery store. When’s your party?” Melanie said the party word loud enough to turn a few heads as we made our way into the crowded hallway.

Great, now I’d have to deflect the interest directed my way. “Uh, I’m not sure. I’ll let everyone know.” I made sure to say everyone in a way that demonstrated my inclusive nature, all while knowing there wouldn’t be any big birthday bash.

An event involving boys would never gain Bob’s approval. My mom would find the idea uncomfortable, her tag word for anything she wanted to avoid, which was pretty much everything.

“Call me later,” Melanie commanded, before digging into her locker.

I knew if I didn’t, she would. Melanie wasn’t just persistent about parties.

Leaving her to sort through the mess in her locker, I hurried outside, eager to embrace the sunny spring afternoon. Celebrating my birthday by taking the longer route home, through a small, wooded area, seemed like a safe way to rebel against my stepdad while enjoying the scenery.

Taking the long way wasn’t my parents’ idea of safe or responsible behavior. Bob was near neurotic about my walking alone. He’d seen too many crime scene photos. My mom went along with him to avoid creating any waves. She was vigorous when it came to maintaining an environment void of any unnecessary discomfort.

I refused to let their paranoia infect me. It was like a plague to be avoided at all costs. Doing something they wouldn’t approve of was how I inoculated myself from their fears. I didn’t push the limit too far, just enough to maintain my independence.

Flinging their warnings aside, I marched through the school’s manicured lawn toward the tree line where the brush parted and a trail waited.

I turned onto the narrow path. I could hear a baseball game starting back at the ball field and school buses chugging away to nearby neighborhoods — safe sounds. Basking in the moment, I took several graceful spins and celebrated my few minutes away from prying eyes.

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees’ canopy, giving the path an other worldly appearance. Birds chirped and the wind rustled the leaves. Talk about a fairytale scene. At the trail’s end, the foliage parted, revealing a suburban Troutdale neighborhood, and a huge growling dog.

I wasn’t familiar with the breed, but recognized, at first glance, its eyes were full of suspicion, and its lips were curled back and trembling, revealing two gleaming canines.

A five-foot fence, just to the left, would have to serve as my escape.

I lunged toward it.

Snarling, the dog charged forward, planning to intercept me.

I scrambled over the railing, thankful for my long legs and above average height. My gratitude was cut short when, to my displeasure, I landed with a painful thud on concrete. My head spun as I tried to right myself. Instead of standing, I collapsed — this time plummeting into the icy depths of a stranger’s uncovered swimming pool.

My head thudded against the wall.

Little pins of light blinked behind my eyelids, giving way to murky darkness.

Several disjointed thoughts managed to linger in the moment before blackness swallowed me whole. Happy Birthday, Chloe. Today you die. Cause of death: Attacked by a dog; drowned in a pool. Not so cool.

I’d always heard that near-death experiences were strange. People have no idea just how strange. Being in a coma for seven months can also be considered more than extraordinary.

Lucky me, I experienced both.

To everyone’s surprise, I woke up with total recollection of the events leading to my coma.

After all the ooing and ah-h-hing over my miraculous recovery subsided; my parents relented and told me the whole story. I learned from Bob I’d been under water for about fifteen minutes; they’d restarted my heart three times. I should have been brain dead, if not dead-dead. They were advised several times to pull life support, even referring to me as a vegetable. In other words, I was a goner. But here I am breathing, talking, and doing all the stuff alive people do.

When I finally left the hospital, after suffering through every test imaginable, I was at last able to accept and celebrate I was alive. I recall having difficulty believing that there were no lingering side effects. I’d read Pet Cemetery like five times, and dead things never came back to life right.

Despite my worries, I couldn’t wait to see what the future had in store for me. As long as it didn’t include more danger — or dogs — I’d be just fine.

It was after I saw my very own, man’s-best-friend, Buddy Boy, I grasped the entire truth ¯ things would never be fine again.

Danger and dogs have continued to haunt and harass me since that historic day, and considering my commute to work takes over an hour on Highway101, I have tons of time to reminisce and often end up revisiting my perilous past.

Once at work, the impressions from the animals are my main concern, making it difficult to sort through my own thoughts. When people question why I don’t move closer to the wildlife park, I’m able to tell the truth — the long drive relaxes me; it helps me process my past and plan for my future.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, I smoothed a stray ringlet behind my ear. I wished the early nineties spiral perms would come back in style. My long curls were the source of many compliments, mostly from women with super-straight hair.

It’s funny how women, me included, are never satisfied with their looks. My eyes, emerald green, are my best asset, although a few men might tell you otherwise. Not that they’ve seen more than me in a swimsuit sunning myself. Lean and lithe, but with a fanny I consider too rounded, I move with grace. However, I’m clumsy. That’s right; a graceful woman prone to accidents, yet another “gift” I unwrapped following my coma.

The cell phone’s buzz tugged me away from my self-appraisal. “I’m on my way, Luke,” I confirmed, trying not to sound snippy. He made it a habit to check in at least once during my drive to Plum Beach.

“Of course you are. When is my Dr. Doolittle ever late? By the way, you took off yesterday before I could check on you; did you get my messages last night?”

“Yes, I’m fine, and you’re right about one thing: I’m never late,” I replied dutifully. It was a childish game we played; making small talk when a ton of sexual heat sizzled between us.

As one of the last known virgins over twenty, I still notice that my employer is an attractive man. Who wouldn’t? Six feet tall, sun-streaked hair, and sea-blue eyes make him the all-American dream boy. Mom is always quick to remind me, during our Sunday evening phone calls, how attractive and established Mr. Snider is. She also points out the fact that he is single.

“Not true, Chloe, you were not only late, but also missed work with that flu bug.”

“Six months ago, for two days. Everyone else milked you for a week of sick time,” I reminded him. Ensuring he appreciated my integrity, I rubbed in my superior work habits every available opportunity.

“See you.” He hung up, ending our everyday debate.

I was relieved. He’d avoided quizzing me about my latest incident in The Lion’s Den. I doubted anyone else would be as considerate.

Outside the passenger window, the Pacific Ocean glimmered in the Monday morning sunlight. The water shimmered inviting me into blue depths for a swim. I was a certified sun-lover. Weather like today reminded me of new beginnings. Maybe this would be the day someone or something would bring a little spark of excitement to light up my life. A girl could wish, right? Dealing with angry lions wasn’t the type of excitement I was seeking.

The siren and flashing lights behind me were the first indication that this might be the day.

As always, I’d left home in plenty of time to account for any unexpected issues. Waiting for the patrolman, his paunch leading the way, to reach my window wasn’t the spark I’d been hoping for.

“Good morning, Miss. I’m Officer Tate. Do you realize you have a broken left tail light and you were going seven miles over the posted speed limit?”

I decided to keep it simple and avoid any sarcasm.

“I didn’t realize …”

Woof! Woof! A dog barked from the cruiser, sounding fierce. My guts clenched in response. Dogs always had that annoying affect on me.

“Pipe down, Barney!” Officer Tate hollered back.

Woof!

The dog didn’t seem to be minding his manners. I decided to see what had Barney all riled up.

Relaxing my mind, I listened. The process worked better if I could look into an animal’s eyes, but I could still glean enough from the barks to get a picture. My brain did its special thing and the images started flowing. Barney was in pain. A tumor, the size of a small apple was growing near his testicles. Ouch!

“Sir, did you know your dog is sick?” I decided to be direct. He could contact Luke if he needed confirmation.

“Excuse me? What are you talking about?” He took a step back, looking like he’d seen a ghost, or worse.

“I don’t have time to explain; I’m going to be late to my job at the Plum Beach Wildlife Park. I work there diagnosing animal problems.” I hoped I sounded half-believable. I wasn’t sure how else to describe what I did without going into a drawn out explanation about my special skills. It was doubtful he’d believe me. If our roles were switched, I wouldn’t.

“Your dog has a definite tone to his bark,” I improvised. “That tone makes me think he might have some sort of a tumor, near his groin.”

“I’m familiar with the park, and Luke Snider. I’ll make sure to check it out. Heard you all had a problem yesterday, something about the lions?”

“Problem solved,” I said, refusing to elaborate. “Thanks for getting Barney looked at. He’ll appreciate it.” I hoped my free diagnosis would earn me the honor of keeping my perfect driving record intact.

“You go on now. Take care of that taillight and slow down. There are too many campers and trailers out here. And watch out for frisky lions.” He winked.

“Thanks!” I called, my voice syrupy with false cheer. “You have a good Monday.”

Eager to forget my brush with the law, I switched on the radio, tuning in the local station. I was just in time for the news.

“At last night’s press conference, Police Chief, Robert Daily, admitted for the first time, a connection between the two male victims. Both men were found in their respective homes, stabbed.”

Groaning, I changed stations. I needed cheerful not dreadful.

“Plum Beach may have its very first serial killer. Police aren’t confirming —”

So much for my sunny morning disposition — getting pulled over, even though the results were positive, and now murder and mayhem so close to home, gave me warning willies. I should have known after yesterday that my good streak wouldn’t last.

It never did.