The Dog Park. Laura Caldwell
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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.
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.
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!”
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