Anthony was knocking on the men’s room door. “Cal, are you okay?” he said. “We’ve got to get back to work. Everybody’s waiting.”
“And burnout doesn’t go away,” Dr. Freeman said. “If left untreated, the symptoms can be severe. Body aches, stomach distress, addiction, obesity, panic attacks, and increasing isolation. The effects can be devastating and sometimes irreparable. Some of my patients come to me too late, after they’ve lost friends, family, home, career, bank accounts. Everything.”
“Everything?” Cal said. He knew he was fucking up but he didn’t know it was about everything. Shit. The crib, the cars, the clothes, the bitches, the primo weed. No way he was going to lose all that.
“Well, this has really been informative, Dr. Freeman,” the radio host said. “And I think this was a wake-up call for a lot of our listeners. Thanks for coming in.”
“Thank you for having me.”
Cal breathed in hope like a hit off a bong. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, a chance to get his swagger back and be his old self again, and he wasn’t fucked up in some general way, he had a specific condition—burnout—and burnout had a treatment and maybe he couldn’t go to group therapy but he could sure in the hell buy that book.
Anthony was still knocking on the door. “Cal, we’ve got to get going. Cal? Everybody’s waiting.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kill on Sight
July 2013
When Isaiah was in his teens, he worked for Harry Haldeman and wondered even then how the man could stay in a state of perpetual indignation; his fierce dark eyes glaring through the Coke-bottle bifocals resting on his great beak of a nose, his snow-white hair sticking up like a toilet brush. Isaiah thought he looked like an orchestra conductor. Harry’s wife, Louise, said he looked like an eagle wearing glasses.
“Pit bulls,” Harry said, “my favorite subject. Here you’ve got a high-energy, high-maintenance dog and pound for pound one of the most powerful creatures on the face of the earth and some goddamn teenager buys one because he thinks it makes his dick bigger. Some cities have banned pits altogether but what they ought to do is ban the goddamn teenagers. Did you know pit bulls are abandoned by their owners more than any other dog? We’ve got five or six right now and we’ll get another one before the day is over.”
Harry, Isaiah, and Dodson were walking through the canine cell block at the Hurston Animal Shelter, past one howling, mewling, sulking, dejected, pissed-off dog after another, the cacophony of barking louder than Dodson could turn up his car speakers. Dodson was walking against the wall as far away from the dogs as he could get without becoming part of the paint.
“It’s a goddamn shame,” Harry said. “People get a dog, can’t take care of it or they’re too stupid to shut the damn gate and the dog has to be put down. People are idiots. I’d rather be with dogs any day of the week. Ask Louise.” Harry had an encyclopedic knowledge of dogs. He’d written a book about dog body language and bred grand champion bloodhounds. He judged at dog shows all over the state and had been supervisor at the shelter for sixteen years. He’d seen thousands of dogs of every size, type, breed, and crossbreed.
“Take this fella here,” Harry said. A fawn-colored pit bull had its paws up on the chain link of its kennel and was barking relentlessly like it wouldn’t stop until it was let out, fed, yelled at, played with, talked to. Anything. Dodson looked a little panicky, hurrying ahead to get past the dog. “Fella brought her in yesterday,” Harry said. “Tells me he got the dog to protect his sports car while he was at work, it was some sort of classic. He left the dog in the garage all day. Well, I guess the dog got fed up because the fella comes home and the car’s convertible top was torn off, the seats were ripped up, and the running boards were chewed right off the car and you know what this idiot said? I didn’t expect the dog to do something like that. I didn’t expect the dog to do something like that. I said how would you feel if I locked you in a garage all day? Wouldn’t you want to destroy my car? Go buy a burglar alarm, you cheap bastard. Time to feed the birds.”
“I like birds,” Dodson said.
Harry peered into a wire cage at five baby crows in a salad bowl lined with paper towels. They had no feathers yet, just patchy fur with gray skin showing through. They were waiting to be fed, squalling with their beaks wide open. Harry fed them cat food on an ice cream stick. “You know,” he said, “you may find this hard to believe but there was a time when the pit bull was the dog least likely to bite you. It’s true.”