Cormac: The Tale of a Dog Gone Missing (12 page)

“Now, please!” My heart beat like I’d done a fifty-yard dash. The next half minute on hold was longer than a day.

“This is Tara Mitchell. May I help you?”

“I’m calling about my dog. The girl…ah—”

“Tiffany Hale.”

“Yes, Tiffany said you had a Golden Retriever, a dark-red male…”

“We don’t give out information about animals on the phone,” she said, her voice flat, final.

“Excuse me, but I’ve called this place often the last two weeks asking about my dog,” I said, feeling the anger begin to burn in my chest and belly, firing up as if from a blacksmith’s bellow. “Each time I phoned I was told you didn’t have a dog to match that description. But now you’re saying—”

“We wouldn’t have told you that. We would’ve told you that you had to come down here and look at the dogs.”

“No one told me that. Not once.” I exploded. “And right now I don’t really give a damn about all that. I want to know about the dog Tiffany Hale admitted you had. I demand to know.”

“Sir, I will not listen to your profanity. And I will not provide any information on the phone about a dog that we might or might not have ever had here.”

“Look, lady—”

“Sir, I’ve already—”

“Listen! You will tell me what you did with the Golden Retriever you had, or you will tell my lawyer. He’ll be calling you back in thirty seconds.”

“Frankly, I don’t care if you bring the district attorney down here in person, sir.” I can hear the woman’s voice today as clearly as on that day when she said, “I’ve been doing this job for four years, and I know what I have to do and I know what I don’t have to do. I do not have to tell you anything.”

“We’ll damn well see about that!” I growled into the phone.

“And I told you about your cussing!” The line went dead. The woman had hung up.

I phoned Todd Coverdale, my finger shaking so I could hardly press the number to his law office. His secretary answered. My voice broke badly and I had to repeat myself. “I’m sorry, this is Sonny Brewer. May I speak to Todd right away, please.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Sonny?” Todd asked. “What’s up, buddy?”

I poured it out for Todd, my friend, a lawyer and novelist I’d known for years. He stopped me twice, said slow down. He said he knew Cormac was missing. “But, look, you need to calm down some,” Todd sounded truly concerned. “You’re going to have a freaking heart attack or something.”

“I want you to call the pound for me,” I said, my voice breaking. “Tell them we are filing suit right away unless they tell us what we want to know. And I really do want to sue these people.”

“Look,” Todd said. “You don’t want to sue anybody. You want your dog back. I’m not sure Nurse Ratched is going to tell me anything she wouldn’t tell you, but we’ll give it a shot. Here’s what you do. First, relax. Get a breath. Next, drive to my office. Drive slowly, Sonny. Look out the window at cows.” Todd’s office was in Robertsdale, a small town twenty minutes’ drive from Fairhope. “Stop your car and look deeply into the stoned eyes of a cow, man. Calm down.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said.

“Take twenty-five,” Todd said.

“This is my dog, Todd.”

“I know, buddy. And when you get here, we’ll see what we can do.”

When I got to Todd’s office, he stood out front on the sidewalk. He was wearing neon purple running shorts and gold sneakers and a navy blue sport coat, his hands in the pockets. Looking off down the street in the other direction. Whistling. At the moment, I would have been happier if Todd were wearing chain mail and a horned helmet, a double-edged sword dripping blood onto his muddy hobnail boots. But I’d come this far.

“Good morning, Todd.”

He jumped. He looked at me for what seemed a long time, then, dipped his head to me. “Morning to you, Sonny,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Good. Twenty-nine minutes. By the way, my book come in?”

I’d forgot that I asked Pierre to order Todd a copy of Robert Penn Warren’s All the King’s Men. He hadn’t wanted a first edition, but an older, original hardback with its dust jacket intact. I’d told Pierre maybe a late fifties’ Random House printing would feel right to Todd.

“I’m sorry, Todd, I don’t know. I’m here about something else,” I said.

“I know.”

“And why are you dressed like that?” I asked.

“I was about to go for a run when you called,” he said. “Clear the cobwebs. I’ve got a big case this week.”

“And the jacket?”

“Oh, sort of a nod to ‘the doctor is in.’ What do you think?” He spread his arms and did a slow turn. I didn’t say anything. Todd moved to the door and stood aside. He turned the knob and swung the door inward. “After you,” he said. I walked into the reception area. The woman behind the desk nodded.

“Dora, hold my calls, please.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and then looked at me. “May I get you coffee, or a beverage, sir?”

“No, but thank you.”

“Come in, Sonny. Let’s see what we can do,” Todd said. This time, he went ahead of me, into his office and around the big rosewood desk to sit in a high-back antique swiveling chair with a worn plaid cushion on the seat. The moment he was seated, facing me, so I could not see his running shorts and sneakers, his entire demeanor seemed to shift to that of a confident, competent barrister.

“Now, tell me again what’s happened so far,” Todd said. “Take it from what the woman on your street told you.”

I told Todd the story, right up through the morning’s events and what the lady at the dog pound had said to me. “So, I’m hoping you can call down there and find out what they did with the dog that might be Cormac. Maybe you can get whatever information they have.”

“Let’s just see, shall we?” Todd told me he found the dog pound manager’s behavior odd, but didn’t foresee taking the matter to the law, then repeated himself, “Let’s just see.”

I opened my notepad to read out the phone number to Todd. He had already looked it up and was dialing. “Yes, hello. This is Todd Coverdale. May I please speak to Tara Mitchell?” He spun his chair to face the window to his right, and rubbed the top of his head, mussing his hair so that it was now every which way. “Ms. Mitchell, my name is Todd Coverdale. I am an attorney in Robertsdale.”

He took a breath and turned his chair back toward me. “Today, I’m calling on behalf of Sonny Brewer who would like information on a Golden Retriever your employee Tiffany Hale told him you recently had on your roster there.” Todd listened into the phone, stood up and walked to the window, his back to me.

“Well, Ms. Mitchell, I would prefer for you to tell me if you think you had a dog to match the description of Mr. Brewer’s dog, and tell me where that dog is now, as far as you know.” Todd paced back and forth in front of the big window. “Yes, but we will be back in touch, I assure you.” Todd held the phone away and pushed the off button on the handset.

“She wouldn’t tell you anything?” I asked.

“Curiously enough, no she would not,” Todd said. “She was pretty high-strung in her refusal. I cannot imagine, for the life of me, why she wouldn’t give out information on a dog that, by admission of an employee, they boarded at one time.” He looked away and rubbed his head again.

“Now what?” I asked, holding my voice steady. But my face must have conveyed my sense of urgency

“I’ve got a friend who is past president of the Canine Society,” he said. “I’ll give Phyllis a call right now.” The woman’s refusal to tell him anything had kindled Todd’s interest. He phoned his friend, and matter-of-factly told her what I’d said, and what his experience had been. “Do you know this Tara Mitchell?” Todd asked his friend. “That might help. So, you’ll give her a call now, then? Good. Sonny and I are in my office. We’ll wait for you to phone back.” Todd smiled reassuringly and sat down. “I expect Phyllis will get the information. She’s worked with this woman before.”

I thanked Todd for his help, told him I’d also check his book order with Pierre. Todd wanted to know how it was going with sales of my novel. I told him things were going great until this had happened. I asked him about his books. He said his last book sold well, and there was a movie deal working on a book he’d written three years earlier.

“The Poet of Tolstoy Park is next beside my reading chair,” Todd said. He told me he normally had three or four books going, but that he would do me the courtesy of reading mine without company. I looked at the framed covers of Todd’s books hanging on one wall of his office.

“You know,” I said, “I’ve looked forward to this for a long time. Getting a book published. Actually, reaching back to college writing classes. But it’s hard to enjoy the book stuff with my dog missing,” I said. “I’ve thought about Cormac almost by the minute since I got the call from Drew. Every time I see a Golden I do a double take and my mind starts spinning again. I’ve even dreamed about him. My boys have asked me a hundred times ‘Where is Cormac?’ They’ve both cried about him.”

“Let’s see if we can’t get some news about the Golden at the dog pound,” Todd said. “It may not even be your dog,” he cautioned, “but we’ll take first things first.”

The phone rang. Todd reached to answer it, then stopped. “I’ll let the secretary get it,” he said, “in case it’s not my friend.” But right away the intercom on Todd’s desk buzzed and the secretary said Phyllis Blake was on the line. He leaned forward and took the call. His face immediately sagged, then drew into a frown. “Whatever you can do,” Todd said.

“Nothing?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not, Sonny. But Phyllis said she’d drive down to the dog pound later this afternoon to see if she can influence Ms. Mitchell to tell her what she knows.”

“What is this woman’s problem?” I asked, as much of the floor and ceiling as of Todd. “Something’s just not right about all this.” I stood up. “I’m going down there myself! She’s crazy if she thinks I’m just going to drop this.”

“Look, Sonny,” Todd said, quickly coming to his feet behind his desk. “I’m going to advise you not to go to the dog pound. I don’t think there’s anything ‘going on,’ as you suggest. I think you simply got on the wrong side of Ms. Mitchell at the outset, and as soon as she cools down a bit she’ll tell my friend what we want to know. I think if you go down there—at least right now—there’s a good chance it’ll just make things worse.”

“But, this is ridiculous, Todd! Who does she think she is? What’s the point of her behavior?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. But look, I give you my word that if we don’t hear something this afternoon, I will personally ride down there with you in the morning. How is that?” Todd assured me this would stay at the top of his screen until we got answers.

“If you don’t call me this afternoon, Todd, I’ll be here at 7:30 in the morning. Is that too early?”

“Oh no. I’m at the office before seven every morning. And try not to worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

I walked out of Todd’s office unable to bring things into focus. I couldn’t be confident that they hadn’t put down the dog Tiffany Hale said had been there. I could think of no good reason for Tara Mitchell to resist giving a simple answer to the question, “Where is the dog now?”

All my intuition told me it had been Cormac there at the dog pound. All my fears told me that I was too late to get him back.

WHILE I WAS AWAY on tour, Pierre mentioned to everyone who walked into the bookstore that my dog was gone. Diana had brought copies of the reward poster to him. He’d made additional copies and handed off a flyer to anyone willing to take it and post it somewhere meaningful.

Before going inside the bookstore, I stood out front and looked at the face of Cormac on posters in the windows on either side of the red French door. The photo of Cormac had been taken months ago, a shot of him lying on the floor between John Luke and Dylan, with the boys cropped out, though John Luke’s hand could be seen draped over Cormac’s side. The vet had told Diana to be sure to eliminate the boys’ faces from the reward poster, that child welfare agencies warned against putting kids’ pictures out like that. I looked at the picture there, however, and saw the whole unedited scene: two boys and a dog posing for the camera, stretched out laughing on the carpet. Emotions churned in me, and I thought if I didn’t just go ahead and bawl, I’d throw up on the sidewalk.

I must have been telegraphing my feelings of utter hopelessness, because when Lou swung open the French door and stepped from inside the bookstore across the threshold in my direction with his hand held out, he looked like he was reaching for a drowning man. And there could have been no more blessed sight, at that moment for me, than that big man’s hand reaching for me. Like Rubeus Hagrid, Harry Potter’s gentle giant, Lou Lafitte looked, indeed, twice as tall as any man.

What I did not expect was that right there on the sidewalk he would also become wild and more deserving than ever of his nickname. It seemed to me his salt-and-pepper mane and beard turned red with anger as I told him of my morning’s frustrations.

“Come with me, Sonny.” Lou walked me to his truck, patted his Catahoula standing in the bed, a fierce leopard-looking dog. He held the passenger door open for me. Lou took charge, as though he knew that was what I needed then, that I was mostly out of ideas. I sat in the truck and was drawn into a certain fold of comfort and security. Lou got behind the wheel. Before he started the engine he put his broad palm on my shoulder, and gave me a little shove that was reassuring. I looked out the truck window and saw Pierre running across the street.

“Hello, Sonny. You’re not coming inside to tell me what you think, mon ami? The place looks good.” Pierre spread his arms. “I want you to see how I’ve rearranged shelves and moved around the sofa and chairs.”

“Later with the Martha Stewart crap!” Lou barked, and shook his hand at Pierre to get back from the truck. “What’s the phone number at the dog pound?”

I reached into my vest pocket for my small black moleskin journal, held it up and flipped off the elastic band that held the front cover closed. I thumbed it open to the page of phone numbers for the clinics and shelters I’d been checking with. I gave Lou the number at the dog pound. He poked the buttons on the handset with force enough to jar it with each number. His eyes were fierce, looked across a million miles. He stood alone on the planet, save for some distant figure he drew into focus.