"What Would Vera Wang Wear to Pet-co. Additionally, a friend of a friend asked for poems to post on her web site - www.artforbarks.org where she posted my poem about my dear dead dogs.
Arf. Arf.
So enjoy (everybody tells me fiction is more popular than poetry).
Helen Ruggieri
111 N. 10th St.
Olean, NY 14760
hruggier@verizon.net
716-372-0935
WHAT WOULD
VERA WANG WEAR TO PET-CO
She
went out to check the mail and found a large black dog sitting on the
porch. She wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t look angry or mean or even lost.
“Here, boy,” she called. He got up and walked over, took the side seam
of her jeans in his mouth and yanked,
not hard, but definite.
What, am I
in a bad Lassie movie? Candid Camera thing?
The dog pulled her gently but firmly across the street and through the
open door, to the upstairs apartment.
“Hello! I’ve brought your dog
home.” No answer. The door was ajar. Of course, it was. How else would the dog get out? She walked in, calling.
Two steps into the room, she saw the woman on the floor. She felt her wrist; there was a soft, irregular beat.
She found
the phone, called 911, covered the woman with an afghan and waited in the
doorway patting the dog until she heard
the ambulance screech to a stop outside.
She
couldn’t answer any of their questions.
She did not know the woman’s name, the people who lived downstairs were
at work and she only knew them to nod to.
She
told the ambulance people she’d
take care of the dog until she heard.
When
the downstairs tenants came home from work, she went over and told them what
had happened. They didn’t want the dog,
they said that first off. She did find
out the upstairs tenant was fairly new in the neighborhood and had given her
name as Jane Fancy. Better than Plain Jane, she thought and was glad she’d kept
it to herself because
at that moment a car pulled up
outside and two plainclothes cops got out.
No wonder the criminals always spotted them. It was that walk, that aggressive ambling.
“This
where Jane Fancy lives?”
“Yes,”
they all answered together.
“Who
are you?” the taller one asked.
“I’m Anita
Kellner. I’m the one who found
her.” Her hands were beginning to sweat
and she wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans. What was it about
cops. They made you feel guilty even if you
weren’t.
The
cop cut her out of the herd like a little doggie, moving her down the steps of
the porch out to the cracked sidewalk under the shade of an old maple.
“How did you happen to find the body? “
She
told him about the dog.
“And
where is this dog?”
She
made a gesture indicating her house across the street.
“Let’s
meet him.” The dog sat up straight and
looked at them intently.
“Hey, boy,” he said. The dog continued to stare. “C’mere,”
he called. The dog did not
move.
“Go
on,” she said, “go on.” The dog looked
at her and looked back at the detective. He did not move.
“Do
you know this dog?” he asked
suspiciously?
“Never
met him before today,” she said.
“He
seems to like you.”
“Many
dogs do,” she replied.
“What
was it? I thought she had a heart attack
of something.”
“She
died shortly after arriving at County.
The doctor called us in
because of the suspicious
circumstances.”
“Suspicious
circumstances? The dog coming for me?”
“She
was hit in the face before she fell”
“The
dog saw it,” she said.
“Maybe.”
“He’s
a witness. Shouldn’t you check his teeth
for DNA or something?”
“You watch
too much TV,” he said.
She
looked down and noticed that she was still barefoot. He noticed the pearly pink toenails, not quite
exotic enough to arouse, but sexy enough to get attention.
She
saw him looking at her toes and blushed to match. She suddenly felt naked. He noticed that too. But that’s what
detectives did.
“What
about the dog ?” she answered finally.
“We’ll call animal control,” he said.
The dog
came to her side and nudged her with his back end.
Apparently, he understood
English. She said nothing. He butted her again.
“Ok,
I’ll take care of him until this gets sorted out. He’s a well behaved dog.
Maybe she has relatives or
something.”
“We’ll
notify the next of kin about the dog, and if you want to dog sit, that’s
fine. I may have to come back and
interview the dog again,” he said with the tiniest upturn in the corners of his
mouth. He had great lips, full but not
pouty. She had to blink to make herself
stop staring at his lips.
“Where
do you work? “
“I’m
self employed,” she said.
“What
do you do?”
“I
write mystery novels,” she said.
“Oh,
God,” he said and walked off the porch shaking his head.
She knelt down and hugged the
dog. “C’mon,” she said and took him inside.
She
had written one mystery novel and it had been published to outstanding
silence. She had asked two friends to
review it to no avail. Royalty checks
did not come until the advance was repaid.
So far, no royalties. Her agent
answered her phone calls with emails sometime later in the month. They felt cold and the threat of closure
wavered around them. She was three
quarters of the way through
her second one which she was hoping
would score some points, with someone, somewhere. The agent had suggested setting it somewhere
glitzy and having the
heroine dress up some – readers
like style. They don’t want to read
stories about poor people living in shabby apartments. They want the bright lights, New York, Las
Vegas, Frisco.
What are ya
gonna do? They tell you to write what
you know.
Like I know a BMW from a Mercedes –
that’s how far down the food chain I am.
And where would I find out about Vegas?
Watching poker games on TV?
She
started in where she’d left off:
“Wearing a Vera Wang (is that her name?) she opened the door and swooped
(can you swoop in a Wang?).” No way she
could concentrate especially with the dog sitting by her chair – poised, as if
for what.
Wait. I get it.
Dogs need to be walked. She could
use a little exercise before dinner.
Dogs get fed too. What can I feed
him?
Her
neighbor across the street pulled into the driveway as she was mulling
dogness. She ran over. “Do you have the key to Jane Fancy’s
apartment? I’d like
to get the dog’s stuff so I can feed him and walk him.”
“She
didn’t have a dog. No dogs allowed in
the apartment.”
“She
didn’t have a dog? What about that black
dog?” She
pointed across the street where the
dog waited obediently on her porch.
“I
never saw him before.”
She
put him in the car and set out for Pet-co.
He liked riding in the car
with his head hanging out the
window . The breeze blew the drool
across the window in silvery streaks.
Vera Wang, Vera Wang, what would she wear to Pet-co?
She
posted a found dog notice on the bulleting board and hoisted a bag of dog food
into the trunk. You’d think they’d sell
it in smaller bags, she thought.
Wearing her Vera Wang, she hoisted the bag of dog food onto her left
shoulder and gracefully exited Pet-co.
Ruff,
ruff, the dog said. I think that means
roll the window down further, she thought.
She stopped and attached his new red leash to his collar and set off
along
the trail that followed the course
of the river as it made its way to the Ohio.
The dog liked it, stopping at every other tree to unload. What a set of
kidneys dogs have.
Not to mention . . . .Someone
yelled, “You’re supposed to pick that up!”
“You’re
kidding, right? “
It
was dusk by the time they wandered home.
So many lampposts so little time. Her door was open. Had she forgotten to lock it? She looked at the dog, pulled the screen open and let him in. “Kill intruders,” she said in a commanding
voice. “Kill.” The dog looked at her and waddled into the
house.
Someone
had been there but nothing was taken, just stuff moved. Should she call the police? She smiled, of course, she should.
“Detective
Lloyd,” she asked. He answered.
“This may just be a coincidence,” she began, but someone broke into my
house and searched it.
“Why
would someone do that?”
“I
thought that would be your job,” she replied.
“Have
you eaten?”
“No,
I’m just feeding the dog.”
“I’ll
pick you up in about 20 minutes.”
What
would Vera Wang wear for a dinner with a detective who thought she
was dotty. Tan slacks, brown
sandals (he’s a toe man), a coffee colored tee shirt she shrunk in the
dryer. She knew it would come in handy.
The
dog acknowledged him and went back to snoozing on the rug in front of the
doorway which he had ratted up to be suitably comfortable.
He came, he
looked, he said, perusing the
disorder. “How can you tell?”
She
gave him a long glance and batted her eyelashes.
The
next morning the dog woke her at 6 a.m
with a few licks. He picked up
his leash and dropped it, several times, until she rose, muttering doggy
threats. You do this every day, she
asked.
Might be a
way to catch the killer – check everyone who was out at 6 a.m.
Afterwards, though, she felt good,
energized.
She thought about Him and smiled and sat at
her computer and began: “As she sat waiting for his call, she turned her pave
diamond bracelet around and around.”
Maybe that should be a brand name – a Tiffany, yeah. “She turned her pave diamond bracelet from
Tiffany’s around and around.
A
UPS truck stopped across the street and the driver, all in brown, got out and
rang the bell of 113 next door. Old lady
Kline, the witch, took her time coming.
Anita watched. She didn’t know if
she should have the phone ring or move on to something else.
She
slapped the side of her head. Yesterday,
yesterday, she had seen a UPS truck stop almost in the same place. The driver had gone in – but there were
apartments –
that would be natural, to put the
package into the correct box, not leave it in the hall
where anyone could pick it up.
She
stared at the phone. She could call him
with her idea or she could wait until he called her, if ever. It had been pleasant, but not intimate. If she had a Tiffany pave diamond bracelet
she would be twisting it.
Suddenly,
the phone range, as if she had conjured it.
That’s great. “As if she had
conjured it.” The phone will ring.
“Yeah?”
It
was he of the big brown eyes, the sleepy eyes, bedroom eyes, the untasted lips.
She’d been alone too long. She told him
about the UPS man. He could go
anywhere. Like the mailman, you don’t
even notice him unless you’re waiting for a rejection letter.
“I’ll
check it out. How’s the dog?”
“He
woke me up at 6 this morning.”
“Humm,”
he said and she could feel the smile in it, the insinuation.
Maybe I
should make it a ring – she was twisting her diamond ring from Tiffany’s. That made more sense. The dog snored by her feet. He was moving his legs, running in his sleep,
having a doggy dream. “Do you think a
ring is better than a
bracelet,” she asked him. He made a snort she took for yes. Having a dog might be
very helpful she thought. She stepped out onto the balcony which overlooked
the bright lights of Manhattan. Easier
than Vegas. She twisted on.
After
dinner, the dog brought her his leash.
They set off along the river path.
She heard the thudding sneakers of
a runner coming up behind her. As she
turned to
look, the lights went out. The leash slipped from her hand.
Someone
was messing with her eyes. “Leave me
alone,” she said, trying to push them away.
“Are you
ok? “
She
opened her eyes. She was stretched out in the weeds alongside the path.
“Do I look ok,” she asked?
“Did
you have a spell, dearie,” the older woman asked.
She
thought back to the thudding sneakers.
“Where’s
my dog?”
They
helped her up; what a headache! Her
brain rattled. They looked for a bit,
but there was no sign of the dog. Dog gone. She didn’t even know what to call
him. She stumbled home. No dog there either.
She
wanted to call Him, but it was after hours and she was embarrassed.
Was it part of the mystery ? Or an irate runner whose stride she
interfered with.
She
took two ibuprofen and fell asleep on the couch watching CSI.
In the dawn’s early light she
called the SPCA. No one had turned in a
dog matching Dog’s description. She
twirled her imaginary ring waiting for the phone to ring.
She got online and searched Jane
Fancy. There was no record of her
anywhere. No birth certificate, no
credit, no job history. Why would a 40
something woman have no history.
She was running. What do women in their 40s run from? Bad husbands.
Bad, brutal,
abusive husbands. They started over with a new name. A great plot anyway.
She made an entry in her notebook.
She
took another walk down the river path carrying a maglite even though
it was full day. She’d smack ‘em good. No sign of Dog. When she walked in
the phone was ringing. Him.
He was furious when she told him.
“You should have called me immediately,” he said. He could have killed you. He wanted the dog back, that’s what this is
all about. If we can find the owner,
we’ll have something.”
He
considered her idea about the battered woman.
The coroner had stated she had several broken bones over a long period
of time, and she had been punched hard in the face, fallen back and hit her
head on the sharp corner of a kitchen counter.
“Seems to fit,” he said reluctantly.
“Can
you check shelters?”
“If
you can find them. They don’t exactly
broadcast addresses. And they’d be more likely to answer questions from a
woman,” he said.
“I’ll
find them,” she said, and she did. Armed
with her small photo of Jane Fancy, she went from one to the next. At the fourth safehouse, the look on the
woman’s face as she saw the photo, gave it away. Jane Fancy had stayed here hiding from an
abusive husband.
“Do you know his name?”
“No. But he works for UPS.”
She called
Him. He’d been looking at dog license
registrations and had a list of black labs registered in the area.
“Check all
the UPS drivers and see if anyone owns a black lab.”
And so he
did.
That night
he brought Dog back. He has no family
now and needs a home.
Dog gave her a butt with his
butt. His idea of an elbow in the
ribs. She saw something in his eyes
- a clock with the hands pointed at 6 a.m.
Him
though, him, said, the case is closed.
He confessed. “You’re no longer a
witness. You know what that means.“
Him
and Dog returned from their 6 a.m. jog.
After Him left for work, Dog stretched out on the ratted up rug for a
nap and she sat at the computer. “She
wore a Vera Wang black taffeta eyelet jacket over a blouse of cotton tulle with
a rough leather belt and skinny black linen ankle bangers. She walked into the Manhattan Pet-co, the
sleek Russian wolf hound at her heel.”
Is there a Pet-co in Manhattan?
Check.
