Devoted(25)
Stitched on the pocket of the man’s khaki uniform shirt was the name Frank.
He had a black mustache and eyebrows almost thick enough to be two more mustaches. His eyes were hard little green marbles.
Frank smelled not only of hatred but also of garlic, verbena aftershave, coconut-scented hand sanitizer, antiperspirant, and ChapStick, among other things.
His work shoes exuded the odor of fresh human urine, suggesting that when he had most recently peed, he’d not at first aimed well.
In addition to a metal desk and two visitor chairs and an office chair and file cabinets, the front room of the cabin contained a grizzly bear.
The life-size sculpture had been carved out of a log. The seven-foot-tall bear stood on its hind feet, arms reaching, teeth bared.
The bruin looked so fierce that Kipp whimpered even though he knew it wasn’t real.
Evidently out of concern that the grizzly would topple over in a quake and crush someone, two steel rods extruded from its back and were bolted to the wall.
Frank the Hater tied Kipp’s leash to one of those rods.
Pretending meek submission, Kipp settled at the feet of the bear and sighed as if with resignation.
In fact, he was waiting patiently for an opportunity to escape.
Dogs were the most patient creatures on the planet. They passed their lives waiting for their humans to walk them, play with them, cuddle them.
No matter how attentive their people were, dogs spent more time waiting than doing.
Which was okay. Humans were busy, with more responsibilities than dogs would ever have. Most dogs.
Frank the Hater went around behind his desk and sat in his chair and plucked the handset from his phone. He keyed in a number.
When someone answered, the Hater said, “I have us a good one, Fred. He’s a golden, maybe from pure stock. Looks like a show dog.”
After a listening pause, Frank continued. “Didn’t have to nab him from anyone. He’s a stray.”
I’m not a stray, Kipp thought. I’m an orphan on a mission.
“If we breed him to every golden bitch we can find,” Frank said, “it’ll be like printing money.”
Fred said something, and Frank replied. “He’s the docile kind. He’ll take to a cage and do what he’s told. See you in an hour?”
After he hung up, the Hater looked across his desk at Kipp. Now he also smelled of greed.
“My brother’s gonna breed you till you drop, young fella. There’s worse ways to spend a life.”
They were puppy-mill operators.
The breeder dogs in those operations lived their entire lives in small cages. Poorly fed. Rarely if ever exercised. No medical care. Never bathed, their coats matted, bodies riddled with ticks.
Puppy-mill dogs lived in despair. They never knew affection or play, only cruelty.
Kipp gave no indication of alarm. He yawned and sighed and closed his eyes as though to take a nap.
Maybe the time was coming when the protocols of the Mysterium would allow him to bite Frank the Hater.
22
Rosa Leon needed a drink. She didn’t use alcohol often, just an ice-cold bottle of Corona now and then. Becoming a millionaire and the caretaker of a superintelligent dog, both in one day, called for something stronger than beer.
Dorothy had liked a cocktail or two in the evening. Her study included an under-the-counter refrigerator and an icemaker. The refrigerator contained, among other things, lemon-flavored vodka.
Rosa found a glass, put some ice in it, and poured a double shot. She returned to the office chair and the computer—and the amazing videos.
After the day of the watch and the clocks, almost two weeks passed while Kipp had played dumb puppy. He was concerned that he should not have revealed his true nature so soon after coming to live with Dorothy—or perhaps ever.
Those in the Mysterium had different views about to whom and when the truth of them should be revealed. Their protocols forbade making such revelations to anyone who smelled of hatred. They were to take into their confidence only those who smelled of kindness and love, who had about them no scent of envy or greed.
Dorothy was certainly a person of righteous qualities, but young Kipp had been impetuous when he did the trick with the watch and all that followed. In the experience of the Mysterium, people needed to be carefully prepared for this revelation. They handled it better if they first had slowly come to suspect they were dealing with a dog who was more than a dog.
Kipp’s love of stories made it impossible for him to keep his great secret for years or even months. Dorothy had been a lifelong heavy reader, as had been her husband, Arthur. Books were a key decor item in their house, rooms shaped around shelves. When she cooked or worked one of the large jigsaw puzzles she enjoyed, she didn’t listen to music, but instead to audiobooks. The dog could not conceal that the narrator’s voice enthralled him. Whether he sat or stretched out in one position or another, his eyes remained on the MP3 player. He never napped when a book was playing. Dorothy watched him surreptitiously and saw how reliably startled he was by unexpected twists in the story and how certain emotional scenes caused him to pant or whimper or chuff in ways quite appropriate to the circumstances of the characters.
As Dorothy had spent a December morning and afternoon in the kitchen, baking for the coming holiday, the audiobook they listened to was A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. In the chapter titled “The Last of the Spirits,” when the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come conveyed Scrooge into the Cratchit house on the day of Tiny Tim’s death, Kipp retreated to the farther end of the kitchen and sat facing into the corner, his head hung low. Dorothy watched him for a moment and then paused the audio to ask if he was sad. Kipp turned his head to look at her over his shoulder, and he issued a sorrowful whimper.