Ten Little Bloodhounds

T
here’s nothing better than a temperate morning in southeast Georgia. The air was cool enough at this hour that I didn’t need the paddle fans turning on the back porch to be comfortable. I was draped on the chaise sipping my first cup of coffee and breathing in the aromatic fumes rising as steam. My craving for nicotine had faded into infrequent nudges I could ignore. My house and business were in order.

Rudy, my large black cat, was curled by my feet at the end of the chaise. Bobby Lee, my large handsome bloodhound, was stretched out on the twelve-inch pegged board floor. They were my housemates and had returned just minutes ago from their morning run. I glanced across the tarmac at the kennel and admired the bright sunlight reflecting from the large picture windows of the common room. Occasionally a muffled adult bay and the yips of a
playful puppy competed with the cheerful background of birdcalls coming from the rose garden to my left.

Wayne Frazier, my kennel manager, had tossed the morning paper on the coffee table after unlocking the two security gates, an early morning ritual. The newspaper was yet unfolded. I preferred to savor the morning.

The first security gate’s harsh signal shattered the tranquillity.

“Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water,” I grumbled as I quickly stood, walked to the door to my office, and waited for the second gate signal that would announce the arrival of whoever had entered my compound. The reason for the alarm-wired gates and me poised and ready to make a fast dash for an equalizer was my ex-husband, Buford Sidden Jr., known to all as Bubba. He has an ever-abiding desire to break every bone in my body with his favorite baseball bat. I protect myself the way all stalking victims should, with a restraining order that isn’t worth spit and eternal vigilance, and back up both with a handy loaded gun.

I recognized the battered yellow compact and its occupant, Bertie Thompson, when she turned into the courtyard. She’s Balsa City’s delivery person. I walked to the edge of the porch and looked up. Jasmine Jones, a dog trainer and my right hand in all matters, was framed in her kitchen window. The security alarms are also wired into her apartment. She knows Bertie, and we exchanged a casual wave before she left the window.

Bertie is short, stout, and pear shaped, with an enormous rump. We grew up together. She had spotted Jasmine.

“Nosy, ain’t she?” she called loudly as she approached the steps. Her mother is hard-of-hearing and since they live together, Bertie talks louder than a drill instructor. She also cusses like a sailor, is always cheerful, rescues more SPCA dogs every year to go with her present brood of more than two dozen, and has always been my friend.

“She helps me watch out for Bubba,” I explained.

“Shit!” she said in disgust. “When you gonna quit pussyfooting around that turd and blow him to kingdom come?”

“Any day now,” I answered easily to divert a tirade. “How ’bout some coffee?”

“Sounds good! Here, let me give you your delivery, a telegram, no less!”

I finished filling the cup that I had brought out for Jasmine, who usually joins me about this time, and gave Bertie a surprised glance.

“A telegram? Who could be sending me a telegram?”

She shoved it in my direction and snorted.

“Only way I know to find out is to open it, dummy!”

I tore open the envelope, read the short message, and smiled uncertainly at Birdie.

“Is this a joke, or maybe one of your tricks?”

“I haven’t pulled a joke on you since the sixth grade, dammit!” she yelled.

She silently eyed me, but not for long. Curiosity killed the cat.

“What does it say?”

I read aloud, “
YOUR PHONE IS OFF THE HOOK. CALL ME IMMEDIATELY AT
712-5595.
CELIA CANCANNON
.”

I didn’t recognize the name.

“My phone is never off the hook! I’m subject to be called out on a search-and-rescue by three counties, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I’d never—”

I suddenly remembered Rudy’s anger at being startled by my cellular phone’s penetrating chirp last week during one of his frequent naps. He not only knocked it off the bed; he nosed it underneath, where I had to crawl to retrieve it. I thought it was an aberration, but if he was still holding a grudge … I glared at his sleeping form, and spoke loudly.

“If a certain CAT that answers to RUDY has rendered my phone inoperable, he’s in a lot of TROUBLE!”

He sat up quickly, artistically wrapped his tail around his paws, and stared out at the sunshine, avoiding my eyes.

I groaned. “Excuse me,” I told Birdie, “I’ll be right back.”

Moving through my office, I stopped by my desk and replaced the receiver that was lying on its surface and not in the cradle where it belonged. I continued to my bedroom, where I saw that my cellular was missing from the nightstand. It was under the bed, near the headboard. I retrieved it and carried it to the back porch.

“So is Rudy in trouble?” Bertie was grinning.

“He’s due for a refresher course on telephone manners.” I was grinning myself. “I’m proud of him, however. He figured out the way to keep both of them from ringing. He’s one smart cat.”

Bertie was stroking Bobby Lee’s long ears.

“It’s still hard to believe that this dog is blind.”

“But he isn’t any longer!” I exclaimed. “Has it been that long since you were here? He’s had vision for months now.” I counted on my fingers. “Six months exactly, today. It was April second, and suddenly he could see.”

“Just like that?” She gave me skeptical raised brows.

“Exactly. We all called it a miracle.”

“What did the vet call it? You know, the one that said Bobby Lee didn’t have some connecting nerves or something was missing from birth? Bet he feels stupid!”

“The vet that originally diagnosed Bobby Lee’s blindness is dead now. My present vet, Harvey Gusman, accepted the former vet’s findings; he didn’t have any reason to disagree at the time. Harvey now thinks that a blood clot was the problem, probably caused by trauma while still in the womb. He thinks it took two years to dissolve. I personally don’t care what it was, I’m just thankful that he now has perfect vision. He’s a joy to behold.”

“Now that he can see, does it affect that extra-special talent that you were always bragging about?”

She said it kindly, and I knew she was just joshing me.

“Not at all. In fact, I think he’s better than ever!”

She drained her cup. “Got to run. I hadn’t finished feeding up when I got the call to roll at six damn
A.M.
”

She was trotting down the stairs before I could properly say good-bye. I yelled it and waved as she gunned her small car through the first gate. I would send her a half-bag of dog food I hadn’t gotten around to giving
her for her tip. It couldn’t be a full bag, because she was proud. A true daughter of the South wouldn’t accept charity. I gathered up the cups and coffee to move inside.

I was at my desk with a fresh cup of coffee reading the telegram again. I didn’t know Celia Cancannon from Adam. Jasmine gave a perfunctory knock, entered, and headed for the coffeepot, giving me a silent mouthed greeting. She saw I was punching in numbers on the phone.

I studied her as I listened to the repetitive rings of the phone. Jasmine had on a pair of jeans and a simple T-shirt in coral. She looked chic. I had on the same apparel except my T-shirt was light blue, and I looked dressed to dig potatoes and hoe the corn. Either you have it or you don’t. She’s African-American, with soft, gracefully curled hair, which complements her long slender neck. My hair is light brown and naturally kinks into a replica of last year’s bird nest when it’s damp. On the twenty-eighth of this month I will turn thirty-three. Jasmine is five years younger. I grew tired of comparing. I won’t even mention her body.