Read Online Gaits of Heaven by Susan Conant - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Conant
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by a certain legendary Monty, namely, Ch. Benchmark Captain Montague, a justifiably famous Alaskan malamute bred and owned by my friend Phyllis Hamilton. Not that I imagined, of course, that every canine and human creature who shared the name Monty with the prototypic Monty simply had to possess the beauty, power, and strength of character so notable in Phyllis’s dog. Well, not that I exactly believed that Monty Brainard absolutely had to be a good guy. Still, let’s say that I was biased in his favor. And if my take seems irrational, let’s just suppose that you hear someone make a negative remark about a person named Mother Teresa of Calcutta or Saint Francis of Assisi. Point made? Thus my readiness to assume the best about Monty Brainard.
Sirens wailed.
Gesturing in their direction, Barbara said, “Caprice doesn’t need to see this. Can you get her out of there?”
Wanting to be as kind as Barbara expected, I said, “Yes. I’ll go get her out of the house. And take her home with me.”
CHAPTER 7
“I know who you are,” said Caprice Brainard. “You’re Holly Winter, and you’re Leah Whitcomb’s cousin. You train dogs.”
It was less than a minute after I’d finished speaking to Barbara. Intending to leave Dolfo outdoors while I went upstairs to rescue Caprice, I’d entered the backyard through a gate at the end of a short driveway that also served as a three-car parking area. I’d found Caprice seated on a teak bench. Ignoring the sirens and the voices of the men and women responding to my 911 call, Caprice said, “Leah’s bright, and she’s kind. And she’s so beautiful. At Harvard, everyone’s intelligent, but Leah is special. She’s a good human being. I’m Caprice Brainard. I’m Eumie’s daughter. My mother did not kill herself.”
I do train dogs, of course, but training is the least of it. My true vocation and avocation is dog watching. Indeed, so ardently have I watched dogs that I have half merged with my subject and thus lack a strictly human eye to cast on the behavior of my fellow human beings. Consequently, when I should perhaps have rushed to the bereaved and distressed Caprice and given her the human equivalent of the tail-wagging, face-licking comfort that my own malamutes would have offered, I took dispassionate note of the total absence of any such exchange between Caprice and Dolfo. Set loose in the yard, Dolfo returned to the gate, jumped up on it, popped down, and then sniffed his way along a well-worn dog path that ran parallel to the fence. Caprice, in turn, addressed herself exclusively to me, a stranger, and took no more notice of Dolfo than she did of the house, the deck, the fence, or the many bird feeders. Had my Rowdy been there instead of Dolfo, he’d have approached her, fixed his soft, dark eyes on her face, stationed himself within stroking distance, and probably raised a paw. Of my three malamutes, only Rowdy was a certified therapy dog; he’d been taught to wait for my permission or for a direct invitation before touching someone. Kimi would either have hurled herself at Caprice’s feet or would have set herself the task of nuzzling and scouring the young woman’s hands as if they were ailing newborn puppies in need of revivification. And Sammy? All exuberance, he’d have run up to her, leaned against her, placed a great white snowshoe paw on her arm or her lap, and treated her to a sparkly-eyed smile that radiated joy itself, including the sweet expectation of having the joy reciprocated in full. Although I liked to believe that I was half malamute myself, I lacked my dogs’ unquestioning self-confidence. If Caprice had spurned Rowdy’s offer of contact, he’d happily have turned to me. If she’d brushed Kimi off, the judgment written on Kimi’s masked face would have been that Caprice alone was at fault for foolishly declining solace, and too bad for her! The whole point would’ve been lost on Sammy, who’d merrily have continued to
Sirens wailed.
Gesturing in their direction, Barbara said, “Caprice doesn’t need to see this. Can you get her out of there?”
Wanting to be as kind as Barbara expected, I said, “Yes. I’ll go get her out of the house. And take her home with me.”
CHAPTER 7
“I know who you are,” said Caprice Brainard. “You’re Holly Winter, and you’re Leah Whitcomb’s cousin. You train dogs.”
It was less than a minute after I’d finished speaking to Barbara. Intending to leave Dolfo outdoors while I went upstairs to rescue Caprice, I’d entered the backyard through a gate at the end of a short driveway that also served as a three-car parking area. I’d found Caprice seated on a teak bench. Ignoring the sirens and the voices of the men and women responding to my 911 call, Caprice said, “Leah’s bright, and she’s kind. And she’s so beautiful. At Harvard, everyone’s intelligent, but Leah is special. She’s a good human being. I’m Caprice Brainard. I’m Eumie’s daughter. My mother did not kill herself.”
I do train dogs, of course, but training is the least of it. My true vocation and avocation is dog watching. Indeed, so ardently have I watched dogs that I have half merged with my subject and thus lack a strictly human eye to cast on the behavior of my fellow human beings. Consequently, when I should perhaps have rushed to the bereaved and distressed Caprice and given her the human equivalent of the tail-wagging, face-licking comfort that my own malamutes would have offered, I took dispassionate note of the total absence of any such exchange between Caprice and Dolfo. Set loose in the yard, Dolfo returned to the gate, jumped up on it, popped down, and then sniffed his way along a well-worn dog path that ran parallel to the fence. Caprice, in turn, addressed herself exclusively to me, a stranger, and took no more notice of Dolfo than she did of the house, the deck, the fence, or the many bird feeders. Had my Rowdy been there instead of Dolfo, he’d have approached her, fixed his soft, dark eyes on her face, stationed himself within stroking distance, and probably raised a paw. Of my three malamutes, only Rowdy was a certified therapy dog; he’d been taught to wait for my permission or for a direct invitation before touching someone. Kimi would either have hurled herself at Caprice’s feet or would have set herself the task of nuzzling and scouring the young woman’s hands as if they were ailing newborn puppies in need of revivification. And Sammy? All exuberance, he’d have run up to her, leaned against her, placed a great white snowshoe paw on her arm or her lap, and treated her to a sparkly-eyed smile that radiated joy itself, including the sweet expectation of having the joy reciprocated in full. Although I liked to believe that I was half malamute myself, I lacked my dogs’ unquestioning self-confidence. If Caprice had spurned Rowdy’s offer of contact, he’d happily have turned to me. If she’d brushed Kimi off, the judgment written on Kimi’s masked face would have been that Caprice alone was at fault for foolishly declining solace, and too bad for her! The whole point would’ve been lost on Sammy, who’d merrily have continued to
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