Mister Moneybags - Page 20
Forever Grey“Are you here for the six o’clock class, sir?”
“Umm.” I looked around the room and caught a sign taped to the door advertising that tonight was a training class for new volunteers. “Yes. I guess I am here for the class.” Any chance you also have a psychotherapy session after that? It was totally normal to make a pit stop to become a greyhound dog walker when I had a full day’s work ahead of me this evening, right? Even the woman at the counter thought I’d lost my marbles. She looked me up and down.
“Umm. That’s a pretty nice suit. You do realize these dogs tend to slobber a lot, right?”
“Yes. I was planning to change before we started.” My mind, perhaps?
Suzette, as her nametag indicated, thought that was a good idea. Since we had ten minutes before class started, I filled out the registration form and went back outside to my driver. “I’m going to be a while, Sam.”
He was rightfully confused. I’d basically yelled at him to stop and then marched into what appeared from the outside to be a pet facility, yet he knew I had no pets. “Is everything okay, sir?”
No.
“Yes. I forgot I’d signed up to volunteer at the greyhound rescue tonight. It’s part of some charitable thing that Caroline somehow roped me into.”
This lying thing was really beginning to come naturally now. It wasn’t unlike criminal behavior—starting out with petty crimes—one day you’re whacking a gumball machine on its side to make a plastic container filled with a broken ring pop out, and before you know it, you’re robbing a bank at gunpoint.
“Why don’t you take off? I’ll grab a cab back up to the office when I’m done here.”
After Sam drove away, I stood outside of Forever Grey and looked up and down the street to see if there was anywhere to pick up a change of clothes. Finding a Modell’s Sporting Goods store, I headed over and grabbed some sweats, a t-shirt, and running shoes. Ironically, it was almost the same outfit that Jay had on when he met Bianca in that elevator. That actually seemed fitting for some reason.
Ten minutes into the class, I realized that dog walking was more complicated than I thought. Length of leash, walking in front of the canine rather than behind him to show which one of us was the pack leader, rewarding positive behavior, socializing the dog…and here I always thought you clicked on a leash, and the rest took care of itself.
My greyhound was a three-year-old named Bandit. Suzette informed me that Bandit had torn his cruciate ligament during a race and, although he was perfectly fine as a pet, he was no longer a contender when it came to dog racing. As such, his owner was going to put him down—hence how he came to be at Forever Grey.
After my hour-long training was complete, Bandit and I took a walk on our own. There was a small, local park two blocks away that allowed dogs, so we set off—me ahead of my short-leashed, canine companion. When we got there, even though the sun was already setting, it was still hot and humid. Bandit looked like he needed a break so I took a seat on a park bench. My trusty companion took a seat, too, only he faced my way and stared straight at me.
“What’s the matter, buddy? I don’t have any more treats for you.”
The dog cocked his head and continued to stare at me.
I leaned forward and scratched his head. “You want me to pet you?”
When he inched closer to me and made a sound that sounded an awful lot like a purr, I took that to mean I was doing the right thing. Using both hands, I dug my fingers behind his ears and scratched. As he sat, one of his hind legs began to move in unison with the rhythm of my scratching. “You like that, huh.” I got a kick out of watching his leg slow with the speed of my scratch, then speeding up again when I did. At one point, he suddenly jarred forward and began to lick my face.
“Guess this is as good as it gets. You’re a smart dog, you know that?”
Bandit licked my face again as if to tell me he agreed with my assessment.
“Tell me, if you’re so smart, what makes Bianca tick? Because I can’t for the life of me figure that one out. Maybe you’ve even met her? Long legs, caramel eyes, comes around on Sundays. Smells damn incredible. You’d notice her, buddy. Trust me.”
I was acting pretty nutty lately, although I wasn’t really expecting an answer. But one came; only it wasn’t Bandit that spoke.
“Got yourself in a pickle, huh?” An old lady sat down on the bench next to me. She had a head full of rollers covered by a bright, multi-colored scarf and was wearing a hot pink smock. In her hand was a bag full of birdseed, which gave me caution.
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