Quicksilver(32)

“Smell my hand, pooch. Come on. Get over yourself and smell who I am. If I don’t smell friendlier than the idiots who trained you, then you can do your werewolf impression and go for my throat. Come on, smell, smell.”

The dog took two steps backward and cocked its head.

“He doesn’t like it here,” Bridget said.

The shepherd worked the air with the many muscles in his nose. Depending on the breed, a canine’s sense of smell is between ten thousand times and a hundred thousand times greater than ours. A dog receives far more data through its nose than a human being receives through all five senses combined.

“He’s left alone too much,” Bridget said, “and he’s bored, even depressed sometimes.”

At the orphanage, we’d had a golden retriever named Rafael. We used to hide a frankfurter in some remote corner of the second floor of that large building, start Rafael at the ground floor, and say, “Find the weenie.” He would always locate the prize in less than three minutes, with a pack of kids chasing after him. His best time ever was one minute and twelve seconds.

Bridget dropped to one knee and made a come-to-me gesture, which elicited another, even more fierce growl from the dog. “Oh, booga-booga-booga right back at you, such a big scary fella.”

I told myself that when the German shepherd tore her up, I would stand by her through the long hospitalization and numerous surgeries, would always be at her bedside to reassure her that she would be put back together as good as new, and would never once reveal by word or expression how much she resembled the phantom of the opera.

“He never gets any play or cuddles,” she said. “He’s lonely. I’m not sure, but I think they call him Hitler.”

When she spoke the name, the dog’s ears pricked up, and he stopped growling.

“That is so wrong,” she told Hitler. “You shouldn’t have to live with such a horrible name. These are very stupid, mean people.”

“And they’re coming back soon,” I reminded her. “Stupid, mean, and violent.”

“Yes, but we have a job to do here.”

“What job?”

“Rehabilitating Hitler.” She reached out to the dog with both hands, making it easier for him to bite off all her fingers rather than just five of them. “I’m going to call you Winston, after the magnificent Mr. Churchill, quite the opposite of nasty old Adolf.” She repeated the come-to-me gesture with both hands this time. “Do you like your new name, Winston?”

The dog relaxed, lying on the floor, head up, focused on her but with a different attitude. He issued a soft, mewling sound that seemed to signify submission.

She moved closer to him, still offering her hands.

Winston licked her fingers. His tail swished back and forth, dusting the hardwood floor.

Remembering what Sparky had told me, I said, “You’ve had this ability since childhood?”

Scratching under the dog’s chin and then behind his ears, she said, “At first I wasn’t as confident about it as I became, as I am now. Better turn off the basement light and close the door.”

I did as she suggested, and we were left with only the thin beam of the penlight. The tableau of kneeling woman and prone dog appeared to be rendered rather than real, a painterly scene of soft light and softer shadow, a fragment of an unseen and much larger allegorical canvas, every color and stroke and texture possessing profound meaning beyond my understanding. The radiant woman and the adoring dog were of one world, while in the darkness behind them, I was of another. Bridget was transcendental, as was the shepherd that she rescued from wickedness and restored to innocence, but I knew that, whatever I might be, I was less than she. There was no envy in the recognition of this truth, no frustration, no sorrow. I was happy to be with her on this mysterious journey, happier than I’d ever been before, because I sensed that, although in her shadow, I was moving toward the light for which I’d been yearning all my life.

As Bridget got to her feet, Winston rose with her. Referring to her relationship with animals, she said, “The confidence came with the tiger, and then with the bear.”

“What bear?” I asked.

A burst of loud male laughter suggested at least two inebriated companions approaching the front of the house.

“Back door,” Bridget said, and Winston led the way.

Carrying the duffel bag full of money, I hurried after them.

In the kitchen, Bridget snatched up the square of blue tape that held together the broken pieces of glass. She switched off the penlight as she followed the dog onto the porch.

The drunken laughter grew louder as the men entered the front of the house. I pulled the back door shut behind me, hoping they wouldn’t notice the empty pane immediately on entering the kitchen.

Light bloomed in windows as the three of us hurried alongside the house, with jubilant Winston in the lead. I brought up the rear, a position so familiar to me that I could never believably claim to have a hawk-eyed American Indian scout among my ancestors.

Less than a minute after leaving the house, we were rolling. Sparky behind the wheel of the Buick. Bridget up front. Winston in the back seat with me. The dog grinned and panted, tongue lolling. The duffel bag full of cash was on the floor, under my feet.

“Are they Screamers?” I asked.

“Who?” Bridget wondered.

“MS-13, other drug gangs like them.”