Lawyer for the Dog (12 page)

“
Weeks?
”

“Yes. Of course, you'll only be there for your testimony, but I'm looking at the whole situation and trying to figure out what's best for Sherman. The sooner the case is over, the better for him.”

“I never heard of this … what is it? Bifurcation?”

“It's sometimes done in divorce cases that involve child custody,” I explain. “It can prevent the parties from using the kid as a pawn to get some financial advantage. And once the judge decides who's going to have custody, often the parties settle the rest.”

“Sounds reasonable,” he says.

“So I'd like to get an affidavit from you, to the effect that it would be in Sherman's best interest to resolve the custody question without delay. Which means you'd have to point to some adverse effect this back-and-forth is having on him.”

“So far he seems okay.”

“You've seen him several times since the Harts separated, right?”

“Twice, I think. It's in the records. You've got copies?”

“Yes, but they only indicate when he was brought in, not who brought him, and what you treated him for. Can you give me more detail?”

“Maryann brought him in for a skin condition. He was scratching the hell out of himself. She blamed it on Rusty, said Rusty had let him eat table scraps. Asked me to call Rusty, which I did, but not because of the table scrap thing. I just wanted to…”

“Get her off your back?”

“I guess you could say that. Anyway, it turned out she'd started using some fancy perfumed shampoo. Sherman was probably allergic to it. And then there was another time recently, Rusty brought him in for a general check-up. Said he seemed more low-energy than usual, kind of depressed. I examined him, didn't find anything. I suspect Rusty is the one who's depressed.”

“Who usually brings him in to see you?”

“When he was a puppy, Maryann did, for his core vaccines and wormings. Lately more fifty-fifty, I guess. Early on, Rusty brought him in for the broken leg.”

“How did that happen?”

“He got hit by a car.”

“Mrs. Hart blamed Mr. Hart for letting him off the leash, right?”

“But that might not be what happened. Rusty told me they were crossing the street. Sherman was on the leash, but some kid took a corner too fast, didn't see the dog. Maryann was pretty upset, said Rusty was always letting Sherman run wild. Rusty was upset himself, but maybe it wasn't his fault. You sure you don't want some cobbler?”

“No, thanks. I'm stuffed. So, about this leash thing. I don't know much about dogs…”

“I can tell.” He smiles.

“How?”

“I don't know … Just a hunch, but I guess I shouldn't jump to conclusions. Dog people are all different. Take Rusty and Maryann Hart. They have completely different philosophies about Sherman, but they both love him, want the best for him. And in their own ways, they're each good for him.”

“But back to the leash,” I press on. “Mrs. Hart insists he shouldn't be off the leash. Is she right, or just overprotective?”

“Sherman's well-trained, but I recommend that dogs be on the leash when they're near traffic or around other dogs. The problem with schnauzers is that they'll take on bigger dogs. They aren't particularly aggressive, but they're curious, and sometimes they'll provoke a fight without meaning to. So to be safe, I'd say yes, he needs to be on the leash when he's outside.”

“So she isn't overprotective?”

“No, I wouldn't say so. She can come across as a little silly sometimes, but she's very committed to doing the right thing for Sherman. But, like I said, so is Rusty. They just have different approaches.”

I look at my watch. “One more question. There's a motion next week about your bill. Mr. Hart wants Mrs. Hart to pay your fees.”

“Yeah, Rusty told me. Says he's paying a lot of alimony, so she ought to use some of it to pay me. I'd rather stay out of the financial stuff.”

“How much do they owe you?”

“A little over five hundred dollars, I think, but it's no big deal. They always paid on time before this divorce. I figure this is just a power struggle. They'll pay eventually. I don't want to get involved in their skirmishes over money.”

“I don't blame you. I just want to make sure you won't stop taking care of Sherman before the case is resolved.”

“I'm a patient man,” he says.

I look at my watch. “I have to get home.”

“Children?”

“No. My mother lives with me. It's a long story, but I have to get home to relieve her sitter.” The waitress brings him the check. “Let me get this.”

“I invited
you
.”

“I insist.”

“Only if you let me do it next time,” he says.

Outside it's already dark. “Watch your feet,” he warns. “Tide's starting to come in. And next time don't wear such nice shoes.” There it is again:
Next time.

On the way back to his clinic I press him some more about the affidavit. “Can you say it would be better for Sherman to get this custody issue over with, so that he won't have to go back and forth?”

“Well, I can't really say he's suffering.”

“You don't have to. Maybe that it would be better for him to have a stable routine? I mean, would you ever recommend this kind of arrangement as a permanent thing?”

“No. A dog needs to know where home is.”

“So, if it isn't a good idea permanently, it isn't a good idea even on a temporary basis, right?”

He pulls into his parking lot, turns to me, smiles. “You're persistent, aren't you? Okay, draft something and I'll look it over.”

“Fine.”

“You want a nice dog?”

“What?”

“I've had this one a couple of months now. Owner isn't responding to letters or phone calls. I could call the shelter, but … She's just a really special one.”

“My place is small … And I have my mother.”

“Your mother doesn't like dogs?”

“She has Alzheimer's.”

“Alzheimer's patients do really well with dogs. Why don't you let me bring the beagle over sometime, you keep her for a few days, just for a trial run?”

“I don't know…”

“If it doesn't work out, I'll take her back. You can't lose.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Give me a call when the affidavit's ready,” he says.

We shake hands. I like the feeling of his around mine—warm and comfortable, not too much pressure. I like the idea of
next time
. But then I scold myself:
You're the lawyer, Sally, and he's the witness. Let it go.

 

Dogs Can Tell You Things

By the time I get home it's after eight and Vicki, the occasional night sitter, is upset—not because I'm late, but because my mother has been crying.

“She wouldn't touch her supper, but later she tried to put one of those fake apples in her mouth, and when I took it away from her, she called me a whore.”

“She doesn't know what she's saying.”

“Actually, it was ‘fat whore.' At least she got the ‘fat' part right.” Thank God Vicki's got a sense of humor. “Maybe you ought to get rid of that fruit,” she says.

I bought the fake fruit soon after I moved into the condo, trying to make the place seem more homey. Plastic apples, lemons, limes. They look amazingly real. An everlasting centerpiece, they never go bad, never rot, but their permanence is depressing. I should put something else there. I should get some new furniture. I should renovate my whole life.

“Your mom's in bed,” Vicki says before she goes, “but I think she's still awake.”

“Sorry you had so much trouble.” I give her a good tip, hoping she'll come back if I need her.

My mother's room is dark, but I can hear her breathing, the kind of breathing you do after you've cried a lot, with involuntary, irregular gasps of air.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

“Story,” she says.

“You want a story?” She doesn't answer, but turns over and grabs my hand. Hers is cold and bony. Even in the dark, just touching her, I feel her fragility. She's losing weight. I know it's not my fault that she's old and sick, but the demons of illogic do their black magic, convince me that if I'd been a better daughter, this wouldn't be happening. During all those years after my father died and she lived in Columbia alone, I'd visited only once a month or so, for lunch before I had a meeting, or after a deposition. “Why don't you spend the night?” she'd ask. “We could go to the club.”

I hated her downtown club, where all the waiters were black and all the members were white, and it irritated me that she spent so much of her paltry income on the membership fee. She knew I couldn't stand the place but never failed to make me feel guilty about not helping her “use up the monthly minimum.”

“Besides,” she'd say, “it wouldn't kill you to mingle with some nice people.”

I tried not to fight with her but once when she was being particularly insistent I yelled, “You're always complaining about money. You hardly ever go to the club. You just want to say you're a member. Do what you want, but don't ask me to join you in your silliness.” She
was
silly, and stuck in her ways, but I was cruel. I was angry because I wanted a mother who could understand me, who could love me for who I was.

Now as I hold her hand in the darkness of her bedroom, I remind myself that acceptance is a two-way street. She is who she is, or was.

I turn on the bedside lamp. “
Wind in the Willows
or
Travels with Charley
?”

“You were gone,” she says, sitting up on her pillow.

“I had to interview a witness.”

“Witness?”

“Remember I told you about the dog case? It's gotten kind of complicated.” But she doesn't remember. Even if she could comprehend what's happened, she wouldn't understand how conflicted I feel about Joe. She's always adored him. “You're such a lucky girl,” she'd said when we announced our engagement. Which meant—though she didn't say it then—that she couldn't believe someone as wonderful as Joe would fall in love with someone like me.

So of course she was horrified when I left him.
Are you out of your mind? Do you think you'll ever find another man like him?
Not once in those awful, lonely months after our separation did she say anything insightful or even comforting. She assumed it was all my fault, and maybe it was. If I was a bad daughter, I was an even worse wife.

“So, do you want
Wind in the Willows
or
Charley
, Mom?”

“
Charley
.”

“Okay.” I find the place I marked, but it doesn't matter. She can't remember the story. She just likes the sound of my voice.

Charley likes to get up early, and he likes me to get up early too.
And why shouldn't he? Right after his breakfast he goes back to sleep.
Over the years he has developed a number of innocent-appearing ways
to get me up.

She lets me read for a while, then asks, “Who's Charley?”

“He's Steinbeck's poodle. They go on a cross-country trip together.” I continue:

He can shake himself and his collar loud enough to wake the dead. If that doesn't work he gets a sneezing fit. But perhaps his most irritating method is to sit quietly beside the bed and stare into my face with a sweet and forgiving look on his face; I come out of a deep sleep with the feeling of being looked at.

I think I hear her breathing slow, begin to settle into sleep, but then she stirs. “Charley and John, are they brothers?”

I close the book, turn off the light. “I'll tell you a true story. It's about the dog I represent. His name is Sherman. Remember, you met him that day at the beach. I'm trying to figure out whether he should live with the wife or the husband. I interviewed the vet today. He says—”

“Ask him,” my mother mumbles.

“I did ask him, but he really doesn't have a strong opinion.”

“The dog.”

“Mom, the dog can't talk.”

“But dogs can … tell you things.”

I won't contradict her. “Okay, I'll try to be a better listener. I'm going to let you go to sleep now. Sleep tight.”

When I lean over to kiss her on the cheek, she's already snoring.

Hours later, when I finally fall asleep myself, I dream that I've lost Sherman again and that I'm running up and down the beach screaming for him. When I find him, he looks at me with those intense black eyes, as if he's trying to tell me something. He jumps up, his paws on my knees. What is it he's trying to say?

 

Territorial

Monday morning I have a trial: short marriage, no children, no complicated legal issues, the kind of case that should have settled long ago but for the
real
issues—the emotional ones.

“I guess you won't see me for the rest of the day,” I tell Gina before I leave the office. I look forward to the trial. The case has dragged on longer than it should have and my client, the husband, is blaming me, though I've done everything I can to move it along.

“They'll settle,” Gina says.

“I doubt it.”

But she's right. I've just finished cross-examining the wife when she asks for a break, and not long after that her lawyer approaches me with an offer that's almost identical to the one his client turned down a month ago. Though I'd like to believe my withering cross-examination has unnerved her, it's much more likely she just wanted to take the stand and tell the judge what an SOB her husband is, and now that she's gotten that over with, she's ready to be reasonable. I talk to my client. He's fuming. “She's cost me a couple thousand dollars more in attorney's fees, right?” But after a few more back-and-forths we reach an agreement and put it on the record.