The Blessings of the Animals_A Novel

CHAPTER Thirty

I NEEDED TO GET SERIOUS ABOUT HUNTING DOWN DUBEY. I couldn’t keep another large dog, especially one that threatened my cats. I dug around on the University of Dayton’s Web site and found an e-mail address for Stuart Duberstein. Woo-hoo! I happily left a message:
Remember me? From the Humane Society—we took away all those cats from your neighbor? Well, I happen to have Booker safe and sound with me. Long crazy story. Call or e-mail and I’ll get you reunited.

I expected an immediate response and was astounded when two entire days went by.
I tried again. This time I attached a digital photo.
Still nothing. I felt a bit of panic. Damn. I’d really wanted to do a good deed. I called the music department and got put through to his voice mail. I did this four times.
BOBBY WAS AT THE FARM ONE NIGHT TO TAKE GABRIELLA to dinner, and we ended up in the kitchen together, waiting for her to return home from debate practice. Bobby looked at Booker lying in the corner next to Max, both of them gnawing chew toys. “Christ, Cam, another dog?”
“A good deed backfired. He’s not staying.”
Bobby smirked. “I’ve heard that before.”
A*shole. As soon as he left with Gabby, I called UD again. I played around on the phone menu, calling anyone in the music department, until I got an actual person. Hallelujah! The man’s name was David Perrella. “Dubey’s on sabbatical,” he said.
I put my forehead on the Portuguese tile. On sabbatical in a monastery somewhere? “I’ve sent a couple e-mails. Isn’t he at least checking e-mail?”
David Perrella chuckled. “Dubey’s real bad about that. None of us ever e-mail him.”
Well. Wasn’t that just my luck? “Do you happen to have a cell phone number?”
“Sorry, we can’t give out personal information.”
“Please. It’s important. I have Dubey’s dog.”
“Uh . . .” Now the man sounded skeptical. “Booker’s dead.”
“No, no, no, he’s not.” I told him the story.
“But . . . it can’t be the same dog. I mean, Dubey has an urn of the ashes and everything.”
“Oh, my God. That’s hideous. But this is Booker. I swear.” I fired off the digital photo.
“Holy shit,” he said. “That sure looks like him. Susan told Dubey he got hit by a car.”
“That’s an outright lie. He’s alive and well and terrorizing my cats.”
“Okay, here’s his cell number.”
I WAS THROWN, THOUGH, WHEN A CHILD ANSWERED. I guessed she was four, maybe?
“Hi. May I speak to Stuart Duberstein, please?”
“Who?”
Was this his child? “Dubey?” I tried. “Is Dubey there?”
“Uncle Dubey plays piano.”
Oh. Uncle. “Yes, he does. Is he there?”
“I play piano, too.”
I could not get the child to round up any adult for me no matter how I begged. She did write down my phone number, though, and I hoped she knew her numbers. “This is an emergency,” I said in my sternest voice. “It’s very, very important. It’s about his dog, Booker.”
“Booker is in heaven.”
“No. He’s not. I have Booker, sitting right here on my kitchen floor.”
The line went dead. That precocious brat hung up on me. I called back but got a message saying the voice-mail box was full.
I looked at Booker. “I’m trying, dude. We’re jinxed.”
I FORGOT ABOUT DUBEY AS I HEADED TO COURT WITH Helen the next morning.
We didn’t have a prayer—I knew that as soon as I laid eyes on Ginger Avalon. She would never make it as a porn star. She was petite and flat chested, with the weathered skin of a horsewoman. She wore a beautiful burgundy suit and was articulate and warm.
She said all the right things. The farm had been their father’s farm, and there’d been terrible confusion over possession of the property when he’d died last winter. She didn’t associate with her other sister much. Ginger had been in Florida, at their winter training barn, when “the atrocity,” as she called it, took place. The other sister would not be handling any of these animals.
She thanked us—most genuinely it seemed—for the care we’d taken of the animals. She praised my care of all of them, Devil May Care especially.
My photos, my testimony, were moot points, and I knew it. There was no case.
The judge ruled in Ginger Avalon’s favor.
From this date forward she would pay all the various “foster homes” a competitive board rate, until she’d collected the animals. I felt numb.
Ginger approached me. “Thank you, Dr. Anderson.” She shook my hand. “Because of some travel on the show circuit, I can’t bring him home for another month. May I continue to board him with you or should I—”
“Yes,” I said too quickly. “He can stay with me forever if you ever change your mind.”
She laughed but said only, “He’s special, isn’t he?”
An ache flared in my forearm and, without thinking, I moved my hand to where he’d bitten me. It helped to press on it, as if the wound had just happened.
When I got home from court, an e-mail had come in from Vijay. Not only was he not going to be able to make dance class yet again, but he was going to miss my parents’ anniversary party tomorrow. Well. Icing on the cake of this stellar day.
I WENT TO THE ANNIVERSARY PARTY, DATELESS AND MOROSE, but at least Gabby told me I looked like a movie star in my new black backless gown.
Gabby looked stunning herself, in a purple dress, Empire style. She’d even invited a date—Steven Choo from her debate team. Choo, as she called him, turned heads in his tux.
“Look at all these good-looking men,” I said to the debonair Davids, kissing them both.
Mom and Dad, looking as classy as they had in their Olympic heyday, greeted guests, beaming. They couldn’t have been married fifty years. They couldn’t be that old.
Shivani and Lalit greeted me with hugs, and we went through the “Where is Vijay?” routine again. I basked in their attention, especially since I realized halfway through the filet dinner that I appeared to be the only person there without a date, except for Nancy Hartigay, the eighty-year-old horse show judge, whose husband had died two years ago.
When the dancing began, I consoled myself with the thought that even if Vijay had been able to come, he wouldn’t know any of the dances. Davy and I had a blast.
I danced with my dad, who knew how to lead like a master even with his postaccident shuffle. “Congratulations, Dad,” I said as we moved like royalty around the ballroom.
He spun me out in a complicated turn and pulled me back. He gazed across the room at Mom dancing with Davy and said, “How lucky am I? That’s my gold medal right there.”
My mother’s wedding dress was on display. Beautiful in its classic simplicity—white satin, modest crew-neck collar, tiny seed-pearl highlights, full skirt—she could most likely still wear it. I stood staring at it, remembering our play weddings in the barn: one of the only times I’d been the bride was when I’d snuck this gown from its cedar chest.
“Mom? Hey, Mom.” Gabby handed me my black beaded bag. “Your purse is buzzing.”
“Thanks, sweetie.” I unzipped the purse and pulled out my phone. Not Vijay . . . but a number vaguely familiar. I answered, praying it was not some emergency from the clinic.
“This is Stuart Duberstein. I understand you left a message about my dog?”