Cormac: The Tale of a Dog Gone Missing (2 page)

I WAS A BOY in the low red-clay hills of middle Alabama. Today, at fifty-something, I make my home on the Gulf Coast. And if I tell you it’s in a “small town in Alabama” that I live (or in Mississippi, Tennessee, or Georgia, for that matter), you may think of pickup trucks with big tires and camouflage paint, guns in the back window.

Don’t think that.

Not this time.

When I say Fairhope is a small town in Alabama, think of art galleries and coffee shops and cafés and sailboats bobbing at anchor on Mobile Bay, beneath the high bluff upon which the town is perched. Think of flowers on the corners of brick-paved sidewalks, gnarly live oaks draped with Spanish moss, magnolias and tall pines swaying in waterfront breezes that smell faintly of fish and salt. Think of a bustling independent bookstore on the corner; and think of my sleepy bookstore with old and rare volumes just down the street. Think of twelve thousand residents and more published writers per capita than any other place in the country. Think of a new library that is the centerpiece of the town’s architecture.

Now think about the world’s handsomest and sweetest Golden Retriever, as smart as any four-year-old child, who answers to the name Cormac, and who lives on the outskirts of Fairhope in an aging farmhouse on an easy hill, with two acres to roam, complete with a barn and swimming pool. Think of what a great place this is from which to launch a red-haired dog’s bizarre adventure, which actually began with a brown and white dog just before Cormac came along.

*

If I had been thinking about the screwy nature of the little Jack Russell beside me, Zebbie, I’d have grabbed his collar as soon as I saw the aging pedestrian with her Peekapoo on its leash. Even by the coiled-spring standard of the breed, Zebbie was over-endowed with the sproing factor.

But I was lost in thought, my Jeep’s window down, rolling along the street at a good clip. By the time I registered what might happen, the deed was already in motion. When we passed the lady and her dog, Zebbie rocked back on his haunches and launched out the window of my Jeep. Too quick for me to stop him. I slammed on my brakes, relieved no cars were behind me, and looked into the rearview mirror: Zebbie tumbled down the sidewalk like some bizarre living bowling ball in a Tim Burton movie.

By the time I had curbed the Jeep and raced on foot back to the scene, Zebbie had squared off, yapping at the lady who now had her little dog crushed to her bosom. She screamed at her attacker, then at me. I grabbed Zebbie, who tried to bite me. I apologized over and over, even though my dog had not made contact—physical, that is—with either the woman or her fluffy pet. After she took my name and phone number, I made a hasty exit. My hands were shaking as I put Zebbie on the seat of the Jeep and looked him over. I rolled up the window and drove to my vet’s office.

Belle—Dr. St. Clair to most of her clients—gave Zeb a good checkup, found nothing busted, lectured me briefly, and released us to continue to the bookstore. I looked over my shoulder twice as I fumbled with the keys to the shop, making sure the little Terrier was still in “sit” on the sidewalk right behind me. Zebbie sat, his black eyes shining like ball bearings, his head cocked to the side, curious about the jangle of keys. This first small act of opening the store for business was, for him, an engaging mystery.

I was still shaken. I looked at Zebbie again to make sure no blood had sprung a leak, no bones were trying to poke through the skin. His brown and white coat was as beautiful as a puppy’s fresh from a basket on Christmas morning. At two years, Zebbie was no puppy, but he still behaved or misbehaved like an inexperienced youngster. I couldn’t believe the dog was unmarked and emotionally oblivious, it seemed, to his close call with disaster.

“You keeping banker’s hours these days?” Someone yelled at me from a passing car. I turned to see Drew Bilden’s truck stopped in the middle of the street, the passenger glass rolled down, Drew leaning toward the open window. “Can I get a job with you if I decide to give up real work?”

“Stop by later,” I said. “I have a story to tell you.” I hooked my thumb toward Zebbie. “You won’t believe what this silly dog did on the way to the store this morning. I’ll have some coffee going in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll bring a résumé.” Drew sat upright in his seat, as if considering the street beyond his windshield. The electric window slid upward, then stopped. “You still thinking about getting rid of the Terrier?”

“I don’t know.” I looked down at the Jack Russell, thought of how I really wanted this to work out. But, just two weeks ago I had told Drew about Zebbie eating the cover of a rare leatherbound first edition of From Manassas to Appomattox by General James Longstreet. An overlooked case open behind the counter and in ten minutes Zebbie had reduced the book’s value from $5,000 to a couple hundred dollars after repairs. “You know,” I had said to Drew, massaging my forehead while bemusedly appraising the dog, “I told Zebbie ‘three strikes and you’re out.’ That was twenty strikes back.”

And then today’s stunt—another definite swing and a miss.

“Are you a candidate to take him?” I wanted to know.

“Free?” Drew asked.

“I’m sure we could work out something. Something mutually beneficial.”

“Right,” Drew said. “You don’t fool me.”

I smiled and took the key from the lock and dropped it into my jacket pocket and opened the bright red French door to Over the Transom Bookstore. It squeaked on its hinges, and Zebbie gave an impatient yip. He ran quickly past me to make sure there were no burglars lurking in the bookstore. The little dog performed this morning ritual with great verve and authority.

Stepping across the threshold, I was greeted by the pleasant musky smell of aged literature. Not all of the books on my shelves would pass for literature, but those other volumes were in purposeful minority. Each old book in the store, whatever its title, lent its particular fragrance to the air swirled about by the dusty paddles of six ancient ceiling fans. For me, the conjure of the myriad authors’ words was thus made palpable and given direct access through my nose to all my other senses.

I walked past the sales counter and turned on the computer. While the Toshiba got ready to toss me some emails and, hopefully, an order or two from my online catalog of used and rare books, I went to the small kitchen in the back of the store and made a pot of coffee.

I took down a book from the shelves behind the counter where I kept special orders and valuable or otherwise interesting volumes I wished to research. This one, Gombo Zhebes—Little Dictionary of Creole Proverbs by Lafcadio Hearn, was from a small collection I’d purchased. I’d looked it up in the price guidebook at the end of the day yesterday. As a true first edition, published in 1885, it was valued at $500. Maybe Pierre Fouchere, fellow shopkeeper, friend, and bibliophile, whose store featured old records and baseball cards, would stop by the bookstore today. He claimed a Creole heritage and had told me to let him know whenever I got such books.

I typed the publication information and a detailed description of the book’s flaws and strengths into the appropriate fields on my computer screen, established my selling price of $500, and clicked SUBMIT.

I put the book into a glass case, closed the door, and walked back to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee in a ceramic mug, a large white one with a silhouette skyline of the Big Apple with the twin towers still standing. I heard the bell ring announcing a customer had entered the store. I stirred sugar into my coffee and walked to the front of the store to find Drew scratching Zebbie’s head.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I asked.

“Real men drink their coffee between six and seven in the morning,” Drew said. He looked at his watch. “But okay. When in Rome, I suppose.” We walked to the kitchen, talking about the recent run of good weather in Fairhope. I poured Drew a cup, and we went back to the front of the store. “So what did the little monster do this time?” Drew asked, gesturing toward Zebbie with his coffee cup.

“Well, I’m clocking down Morphy Avenue at maybe thirty-five. Windows down on the Jeep, Zebbie with his head out getting his fix. Same parts in the same play he and I have acted out along a hundred miles of streets in this town on a hundred other days. Walking down the sidewalk, meeting us, came a lady and her doggie on a leash.”

“Oh, no! Don’t tell me.”

“He jumped out the window,” I said.

“What did you do, man?”

“After I got him back in the Jeep, I took him to the vet. Belle said he wasn’t injured.”

“Did she yell at you?”

“More like shook her finger at me.”

“Yep, she’s a crusader about that. Keeps her dogs on some kind of clever leash thing in the bed of her truck. I thought about that arrangement of hers the other day when I saw a construction worker’s dog riding on his toolbox lid at sixty miles an hour, barking at every car he met. I couldn’t believe the Labrador’s agility and balance, dancing side to side of the truck at that speed.”

“I’d never let a dog do that,” I said. “That’s the way you carpenters behave.”

“Yeah, you just launch ’em out the car window.”

Both of us looked at Zebbie on the windowsill. He was sound asleep. He looked like an angel dog. “Look at that,” I said with a sigh. “Now that’s the picture I imagined when I brought him home.” As if in contrary response, Zebbie woke up and bounced down, rounded the counter. “He really is a good dog.”

“Right,” Drew drank from his cup, looked over his shoulder, and said. “Then why’s he peeing on those books over there?”

I jumped up from my stool, spilling coffee. “What? Where?”

But then I saw him, his leg hiked, a healthy stream washing down books on a bottom shelf on the other side of the room. “Zebbie!” The little dog looked over his shoulder, beaming satisfaction, and continued his business, then ran back to me, his tail wagging. “Zeb!” I yelled. “That’s it. Last strike. Last straw.” I scowled. Zebbie smiled.

“That’s not fair.”

“You want him? Dog house, dog bed, leash, bowl, brush, chew toys. One price for all. Absolutely free.”

“What about Diana and the kids?”

“The dad giveth and the dad taketh away,” I said.

Drew knelt to pet Zebbie. “Do you think he could ride a toolbox?”

“Like he’s bolted down,” I said, and then looked at Drew. I had not, until then, taken my smoldering eyes from Zebbie. “You’re not going to do that, right?”

“Oh, give me a break,” Drew said. “Besides,” he continued, “Linda’s probably not going to let him go anywhere with me. She’s asked me a thousand times if Zebbie’s up for grabs yet.”

“Don’t put it like that,” I said.

“I didn’t. Linda did. She said she knew right away this dog wouldn’t last with you. Said you two were like a jalapeño and a glass of milk.” Drew stood up with Zebbie curled into the crook of his muscled forearm. “You’ve got this catch-and-release thing going. Dogs and people, man, is about rapport. Look that word up, Bookstore Man, after you tell me when I can get Zebulon’s things.”

“YOU DID WHAT?” Diana poured for herself a glass of red wine. The boys, John Luke and Dylan, were outside shooting hoops, caught up enough in their play that they didn’t notice Zebbie was not with me. I’d parked out front, leaving the driveway clear around the basketball goal and avoiding for a spell their questions about the dog.

“I gave him to Drew,” I said. “I made a mistake with Zebbie.” Leaning against the kitchen counter, still holding a book I’d brought home from the store, I grew quiet and looked at the floor.

“You should have thought about his background a little, don’t you think, Sonny? You got him from an old man who raised him for two years while living alone. Plus, he’s a Jack Russell.”

Diana poured a second glass of wine and handed it to me. “The silly mutt jumped out of the car window,” I said, “on the way to the bookstore this morning.”

“What?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Belle checked him out, and Drew will keep an eye on him. Those two are a good match.” I sipped the cabernet, then held the glass away and tilted it, watching the wine creep nearer the rim. Diana knew I was distracted, and not really thinking about Zebbie. She moved a barstool to the end of the kitchen counter and sat down.

“So, it’s not getting any better with walk-ins at the bookstore?” she asked, going straight to the bigger thing on my mind, as she often does. It’s a gift she has possessed since we first dated.

“No, and what’s worse, internet orders have slowed to a trickle,” I said.

“What’s with that?”

“Oh, too many mom-and-pops posting used books from their mobile homes in Minnesota or Paris, for that matter,” I said, and added, “from double-wides on the banks of the Seine.” I smiled.

She asked me if I really thought home booksellers were enough competition to affect storefront operations like Over the Transom. “I do,” I said. “They don’t have the overhead, and it seems each new online seller puts his prices a little below the market. It’s kind of a mess. Good thing you’ve got a real job.”

“Well, maybe things will turn around soon for the better. Let’s hope so,” Diana said. “Do you think,” she asked, her voice quiet, her eyes on me, “that’s partly why you gave up on Zebbie?”

“I didn’t give up,” I said. “I got fed up.”

“I understand,” she said. “And I agree that Drew and Zebbie will get along just fine.” She drew invisible shapes on the countertop with her finger. “So we might as well go ahead and tell the boys that Drew now has Zebbie.” Diana said.

“You think I should’ve called for a family powwow before handing him off to Drew?”

“No,” she said, “They weren’t bonded with him. We’ve talked about that before. You’ll be fair and honest with them. That’s all they need. It will be a little hard for them. It’s hard for you, too.”

My face relaxed. Diana picked up her wineglass and swirled the dark red liquid, watching the little fingers run down the inside of the glass.

“I can’t believe what I’m about to say.” She shook her head. “Maybe you could soften the blow by telling the boys we’ll get a new puppy. Right away. We can start looking as soon as we decide together, as a family, just what kind.”