The Dog Park Read online

  “I do,” I said, a little surprised. Although I’d heard Victory mention a dog named DeeDee in the past, with her four children and the political job and being a consultant on the side, she had little time to chitchat about pets.

  “My kids just showed me the video,” she said.

  It took a minute to process. “Oh, my dog and the toddler?”

  “Yeah, your dog saving the toddler. The video is called ‘Superdog’ and with that leash, he sure looks like it.”

  “How did you know it was my dog?”

  “There was a link to a follow-up video, and it shows you talking to the mom. I don’t know who put it up.”

  “Vinnie,” I said. “He’s a neighborhood kid who shot it.” My laptop was on the counter, and I clicked on a search engine and typed in Superdog. Sure enough, there it was.

  “My kids are in love with your dog. They say DeeDee needs a brother or sister. They also say the video has a thousand hits.”

  “Seriously?” I peered at the screen. 1374 views, it said under the first shot—Baxter in full run, his starred leash forming a straight line behind him.

  I heard kids talking in the background.

  “They want to know what kind of dog it is,” Victory said.

  “Goldendoodle. A mini.”

  She repeated my words to her kids. I heard more children talking.

  “We are not getting another dog,” she said away from the phone. Then in a lowered tone, she continued, “Out of curiosity...where did you get that dog?”

  And that was the question that also arose in the next call (from a neighbor up the street) and the next (another client) and the next (Sebastian’s buddy). They’d all seen the Superdog video. They all wanted to know the story behind it. And then inevitably, “Where did you get that dog?”

  I watched the video about twenty times—Baxter a flash as he bolted across the street, a blue-gold streak that became a yellow blur when he collided with Clara, the white delivery truck speeding by a nanosecond later.

  I tried calling Sebastian. Baxter was his kid, too, and all that. But of course his phone was off. I didn’t even get to hear his voice, because he utilized an automated message, required by his job. He was off somewhere in that “small conflict.”

  Didn’t matter. I was going to enjoy it all by myself.

  The next morning, another call—from my broadcaster client, Pamela Nyman, one of Chicago’s most well-known newscasters. She now had her own morning show, and her producer had hired me to select outfits to wear on set. We’d kept working together since then and I’d shop for events for her.

  “Jess,” she said, her voice hurried. “Glad I got you. Do you remember when we were at that store on Halsted? I was bitching about the videos we sometimes have to show?”

  “Something about a bear?”

  “Yeah. That one was a bear who put his head in a garbage can and got stuck. The beast was stumbling around with the can on its head.”

  I laughed.

  She groaned. “Fine, it’s funny, but it isn’t noteworthy. Sometimes I just can’t believe I have to act interested in it. Anyway, I may be coming around to these videos. I got to work this morning, and they told me we were running one.” I heard talking in the background. “We’re about to run it now, in fact. And guess whose dog is in it?”

  “Oh, geez, is it Baxter?” I got a quickening of excitement.

  “You got it. I recognized him from that time we had a dog date.” Pamela had a Yorkie who Baxter had hit it off with immediately. “And the video really is adorable. Remarkable. But I wanted to make sure you were okay with us showing it. I can ask the producer to kill it if you’re not comfortable.”

  I thought about it. I should probably ask Sebastian first, but he was unreachable. Anyway, it would be fun.

  “Hell, yeah,” I said. “Roll with it.”

  “Great! We’re not showing the whole video, like the part you were in—though I saw it. You were running like a mad woman.”

  “And screaming like one,” I said. “This is hilarious. It just happened yesterday.”

  “That’s how these things go,” she said. “And that Baxy is damn cute. You’d better get ready.”

  “For what?”

  “Craziness. If you want it.”

  “I want it,” I said without hesitation.

  There was a shout in the background. “Gotta get on set,” Pamela said before she hung up. “Turn on the TV.”

  “Baxter!” I yelled. He was in the laundry room, which was his current favorite locale to roll around with the stuffed blue earthworm.

  He came trotting out, worm hanging from his mouth, while I scrambled for the remote.

  “Watch, Baxy,” I said, pointing to the TV and scrolling fast to find Pamela’s network.

  Baxter looked in the direction of the TV, but generally he didn’t seem to know how to focus on it.

  He dropped onto his back and, holding the stuffed blue earthworm with both sets of paws, began chewing on its head.

  I found the channel and saw Pamela. She was dressed in a purple dress I’d found for her at Barneys that fit tight to her great figure and highlighted her chestnut brown hair.

  “Well, we like to bring you the occasional animal video,” she said with a smile (one so good-natured you wouldn’t know that she generally disliked such videos). “Usually these are humorous, often they’re cute, but it’s not all the time we get to see an animal save someone. In this case, a child. Watch.”

  There was Baxter with the streaming gold stars. There was my voice shrieking at him to stop. And then the speeding truck and Baxter head-butting Clara, knocking her out of the way.

  “Amazing,” said Pamela’s broadcast partner, a handsome man with a helmet of black hair. “That dog saved that kid’s life.”

  “He did. And we’ve learned that the dog’s name is Baxter.”

  “Baxter, the Superdog,” the male broadcaster said.

  “Baxter, the Superdog,” Pamela repeated.

  5

  By the end of the morning, I’d had at least twenty phone calls, most from friends or colleagues who’d seen the video.

  “My kid loves it!” said a friend from Manhattan. “She’s carrying around her phone and showing it to everyone in her class.”

  The breeder from whom we’d gotten Baxy called, too. “We are getting calls and emails constantly! We don’t have enough litters to satisfy them all.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Are you kidding?” she said. “This is great. It’s the best business we’ve ever had. We’ll just raise rates. And we’re sending you a finder’s fee for each one who has seen the video and buys a dog.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

  “We have to do something! You’ve tripled our business in one day.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. You know we’re picky about our owners. We only want people who are really serious about caring for the dog. But yeah.”

  “So if I think someone’s a good fit, and I make them happy by recommending one of your goldendoodles and they buy one, I’ll get a percentage?”

  “Absolutely. We know another family with a smaller but similar business. They have excellent dogs, and we’ve been wanting to partner with them.”

  I remembered the price we’d paid for Baxter and did the math. “Wow,” I said. “Hey, thank you for giving us Baxter. He means a lot to both Sebastian and me.”

  I realized as I said it that she didn’t know we were divorced. And suddenly I didn’t want to tell her, didn’t want her to worry that our divorce caused a lack of devotion to Baxter.

  “You know with your percentage,” she said, “we could also donate to your favorite charity.”

  A charitable organization leaped to
mind. One I hadn’t thought of in a long, long time.

  “The Amalie Project,” I said. Just saying the words flooded my body with memories. I felt flush with embarrassment, humiliation and ultimately triumph from having climbed out of that space.

  “The Amalie Project,” the breeder said. “What’s that?”

  I couldn’t believe I’d blurted it out. “Uh...they help women in need.”

  “Great! We’ll give something in your name. Aside from your fee.”

  “Oh...no, that’s okay.” I didn’t want my name on the donation. My name had been associated with the Amalie Project once. Back in New York. “I’d rather it go to a rescue shelter.”

  As much as I wanted to support the Amalie Project, as much as it had helped me, I did not want to go back in any way.

  6

  Labrabullies. That’s what Sebastian and I took to calling the two black Labradors who sometimes showed up at the dog park. Their heads were as big as basketballs, their girth like round oak barrels. The owner, a fiftyish guy, usually sat on a far park bench, sipping coffee and working furiously on his phone. As a result, the walk of the Labrabullies was a combination amble, saunter and swagger. They didn’t run. They didn’t have to. They intimidated. And there was really no one to stop them. The owner rarely noticed until one of them had nearly taken a limb off another dog.

  Most dogs dropped when they saw them. They pretended to be part of a tree stump or to feign a stroke.

  But not Baxter. Instead, he always trotted around them, orange squeaky ball in his mouth. He did this despite how we tried to direct him elsewhere, how I pulled him into the long grassy area to play fetch, normally one of his favorite activities. And always, the Labrabullies would lunge and snarl at him, try to take away his ball. And yet the next time we saw them, Bax would do it again. He simply couldn’t seem to stand the thought that the bullies didn’t like him. There was no way to explain to Bax that they were equal-opportunity haters.

  So it wasn’t surprising when Baxter headed toward the Labrabullies that day he was on morning TV. What was different was his direct approach. Maybe it was subconsciously knowing that he was Superdog that caused Baxter to not just approach the bullies in a circular fashion that day but to charge over to them. Maybe it had been the tackling of the little girl, which he had not been punished for in any way.

  “Hey, Baxter!” I shouted. “Come!”

  He feigned deafness.

  When Baxter reached the bullies, per regular custom, they charged at him, growling. Baxter threw in a sneak move and dropped his ball, then took a few steps back, so they could hoover it. The Labrabully with the dingy red collar tossed it to the one with a gray collar, who ran it to a wading pond and dunked the ball like bread in olive oil, then began to eat it. The red one stood by, ready to take over if needed.

  Baxter headed toward the eating bully, while some other dogs moved along with him. Rather than egging him on, the other dogs seemed to be trying to herd him away, to telepathically say, Let it go, pal. It is so not worth it.

  I ran toward him from across the park. “Baxter!”

  Baxy ignored all of us, trotting toward the bullies. Once there, without warning, he swatted the one with the gray collar with his furry paw. A ferocious snarl arose from the bully, a column of hair standing up on his back. The owner noticed for once and he ran, too, dropping his coffee en route, then grabbing one of his dogs before it locked its jaws on to Baxy.

  “Sorry, sorry,” the owner said to me.

  “It’s his fault, too,” I said, grabbing Baxter and picking him up.

  After I scolded him (“Baxter, when I say ‘come’ you come”), Bax retreated to a bench, sitting under it for about ten minutes. But then he was over the trauma, and he emerged from under my legs, looking around. I thought he was checking out the scene for the arrival of some of his pack—Daisy or Miss Puggles—but when he was twenty feet away from me, I noticed he was running for the bullies. And they were running for him.

  “Baxter!” I yelled. “Come!”

  I heard the Labrabully owner swear. “Damn it, Boomer, Capone! C’mere! Time to go.”

  But the Labrabullies answered to no one. When they reached Baxter they started pacing around him, looking exactly like large animals do when they’ve found a good appetizer.

  My phone started ringing in my pocket. I ignored it. “Baxter!”

  The bully owner and I were at a fast trot toward the dogs now, the bullies closing their circle, their stalking faster.

  But then Baxter dropped. Not like other dogs usually do at the sight of the bullies, trying to be invisible. Baxter went onto his back, showing his sweet belly and then writhed around as if to say, It’s okay, smell me.

  Which is exactly what the bullies did. No lunging, no more snarling. By the time the owner and I reached them, the three were cozied up to one another, the bullies nudging Baxy with their noses, as if they loved him, finally ready to play.

  “Jesus Christ,” the owner muttered, chuckling and looking down at the dogs. “I’ve never seen them like this.” He looked at me. “You got a special dog.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking a breath of relief at the sight of Baxter batting a paw at one of the bullies who replied by simply ducking his nose, ready to take another punch.

  “What’s that collar he’s got?” the guy said.

  “I made that collar to piss off my ex-husband.”

  This caused him to laugh.

  I told him about how Sebastian hated it and always tried to replace it with something plainer.

  “He’s crazy,” the guy said. “That’s a good-looking collar.”

  “Right?”

  “Heck, yes.”

  I told him about the leash, how both had been in the video. He hadn’t seen it, so I explained the video.

  He pulled it up on his phone. He laughed and laughed, then played it a second time, actually holding it out for the bullies, who sorta seemed to watch it for a bit.

  “You want me to make you one?” I said, immediately wondering if I’d taken the whole bully diplomacy a little too far.

  But the guy just said, “Sure! Could you do one in red and another in blue?”

  “You got it.” We exchanged information. He took off the red collar of one of the bullies, and I eyeballed the size.

  My phone started ringing again. I pulled it out of the pocket of my jeans. More surprise.

  The screen read, Mom.

  There is nothing more irritating than a person raised in a loving household, one who has been provided everything, but who finds something lacking in that setting. Nothing except being that person.

  I knew this because I had always greatly disliked myself for feeling the lack of love from my parents, Simon and Muriel Champlin. They were so in love with each other that they were nearly oblivious to everyone else. It was clear how much they adored each other, and it was understandable. They were exceptional people who were exceptional together. And when two people love each other like they do, it’s an exclusive thing. They tried to spread it to me. They tried. And they did love me in their way. But I always knew I didn’t have what they did, that they couldn’t feel toward me the way they did toward each other.

  So my mother and I didn’t speak with any regularity. But now she was talking quickly and excitedly. “I saw Baxter on TV!”

  My parents lived out east, in a college town with a historical race course, and the only time they’d met Baxter was during a short holiday visit a year and a half ago.

  “You saw it on TV or the internet?” I asked. My mother rarely watched TV.

  “It just ran on our news here.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. I turned it on to see the weather. Your father is hoping to do some work outside tomorrow.”

  My parents w
ere both artists. My father had been an urban planner first, then he became fascinated with remnants of demolished government and legal buildings. He eventually brought the materials home and retrofitted our garage to become his studio. He crafted large, avant-garde items—a huge witness stand from chunks of cement, a Doric column from cobbled shards of copper, the scales of justice from molded scrap metal. The town purchased the scales of justice to decorate the front of the courthouse. Now such pieces were all my father did, and he got paid well for them.

  My mother was a completely different artist. Technically trained and meticulously detailed, her oil paintings and mixed-media pieces were delicate, lovely. But there was also something savage within them—red streaks hidden deep in a meadow, a blade in a child’s profile. My mother said she was exploring. My father, she said, had been the only person in her life to allow that exploration. It took her years, but finally a gallery in New York was interested in her. They represented her, helped create an audience for the double-edged quality of her art. She became a working artist. But she always catered to my dad, always put him first.

  So now it made sense that my mother was watching the news only to check the weather for my dad, who lately took much of his work outside in decent weather.

  I explained to my mother about the Baxter incident, how Vinnie shot the video and posted it, how it ran on Chicago’s morning news. And now my mother was telling me it had been shown on her local newscast.

  My mother asked me about the collar and leash, and I told her I’d sewn the stars on it, told her about the sale I’d just gotten from the Labrabullies’ owner.

  “Good for you! They’re gorgeous!” My parents were happiest when I was being creative, the way they were. “We have neighbors who just got two Irish setter puppies. Would you make the same collars for them? We want to give them a gift.”

  “Sure, I’d love to.” It was always a treat to feel a sense of cohesiveness with one of my parents (even if only about dog accoutrements).

  “Honey,” my mom said, her voice holding a little trepidation, then trailing off at the end. Finally she said, “I know this Baxter thing is fun, but is it okay? I mean are you okay?”