Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

guys who like guys, too many gorgeous hunks who don’t bother to tell you they’re married, too—”
    This time I laughed.
    “Don’t say a word,” she said. “I know it’s my own damn fault. I have terrible judgment when it comes to men. And even worse luck.”
    “Who doesn’t?” I was thinking about my ex, not to mention a dozen or so other guys desperation and loneliness had made look an awful lot more presentable than they actually were.
    “Well, that aside, right now I have a job to do. So, Rachel, would you do this much for me, would you let me buy you dinner and hear me out? Then if you decide you don’t want to do this, at least I’ll feel I did my best. Your choice of a restaurant. And make it expensive.”
    “How about the Gotham Bar and Grill?” I’d always wanted to go there when someone else would be picking up the tab. But then I had second thoughts. “I don’t think you can get a reservation the same day.”
    “Watch me,” she said. “Can you meet me there at seven?”
    “No problem.”
    That’s when I knew I’d be working for Sam Lewis. Still, I was curious to hear what she’d say to convince me, not knowing she was preaching to the choir.
    I spent the rest of the day wondering which trainers would be there and trying to picture them getting along with each other, but no matter how I grouped them in my imagination, as soon as the group exceeded one, a heated argument would break out. Maybe having me there, just in case, wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
    Late in the afternoon, Dashiell and I took a walk along the waterfront, New Jersey twinkling across the Hudson. Perhaps it was only meant to be seen from a distance.
    Back home, I decided to wear black. Dashiell wore his usual too, white with a black patch over his right eye, his Registered Service Dog tag prominently displayed on his collar. I was about to rouse him so we could leave when I realized I didn’t have my keys. They weren’t in my jacket pocket. Nor were they on the green marble table outside my kitchen, where I often dropped them.
    “Dashiell,” I said, “find the keys.”
    He looked up from where he was sprawled on the sofa, his eyes glazed over with sleep.
    “Keys,” I repeated, chopping the air with a flat, open hand, his silent signal to search an area.
    Dashiell got off the couch and began dowsing for my lost keys. First he moseyed over to my jacket, which I’d tossed over the arm of the sofa. He pushed the pocket with his muzzle to release a puff of air so that he would know what was inside. Then he shoved his big nose in, just to make sure it wasn’t fooling him.

    He did a paws-up on the marble table. No keys, but he knows my habits, you have to give him that.
    He looked around the living room, moving his head from side to side, trolling for the scent he was after. Then he headed up the stairs, his short nails clicking on the wooden steps. A moment later I heard the keys jingling as he descended the staircase. He dropped my key ring into my hand, sat, and barked. I scratched one of his top fifty favorite spots, one of the ones behind his right ear.
    “So where were they?” I asked.
    But I didn’t wait for an answer. I know his habits, too. He’s the strong, silent type, not in the least inclined to divulge hard-won professional secrets.



THIS IS WHERE YOU COME IN
    W alking toward Twelfth Street, I was thinking about Sam, wondering if she’d be large and homely, like so many of the women I’d met in dogs. Unlike most people, animals love you anyway.
    I pictured her waiting for me at the bar wearing shapeless pants and an oversize top, her ample derriere draping over the sides of the bar stool, her mousey hair pulled back in some no-nonsense, no-style look, her unpolished nails gnawed to the quick.
    As I turned east on Twelfth Street, I wondered how I’d know her. Then it occurred to me that it wouldn’t exactly be an issue. When I walked into the Gotham Bar and Grill with a pit bull, chances were good she’d know me.
    “Super,” she said in that husky voice, “you’re early, too.”
    I turned around, but where was Sam?
    Behind me, smiling, was a woman about my height, also late thirties, as thin and stylish-looking as if she’d just stepped out of the pages of Vogue. Her straight black hair was cut short in a bouncy Dutch boy bob, her makeup flawless, her dark eyes as bright as a schipperke’s.
    “I always used to arrive fifteen minutes ahead of schedule when I had to meet my