Read Online Gone to the Dogs by Susan Conant - Free Book Online

dull, patchy coat or, in her case, lank, thin hair.
    “Well, he
was
a poet,” Arlene said.
    “Yes, but that’s certainly not how he earned his living,” said Jackie. “He certainly didn’t support himself and Geri by writing poetry. Did he, Lee? Lee! I’m saying that Oscar’s poetry was really a hobby. Hedidn’t actually make his living from it. Isn’t that right?”
    Lee Miner and Ray Metcalf were by the Christmas tree, admiring some of the ornaments, I imagine. Tinsel can foul up a dog’s digestive tract—it’s as dangerous as panty hose—and glass balls look too much like toys to be safe on low branches. Candy canes and popcorn get eaten, and electric cords are hazardous if you have a chewer like Kimi. Of course, I never pile presents under the tree unless I’m pretty sure that I know what’s in them and that it isn’t chocolate, which is toxic to dogs, or homemade jelly in breakable jars, or anything else edible, either. The dogs may survive, but it’s hard to write a sincere-sounding thank-you note when the present you actually received was a tatter of damp wrapping paper and some drool-sodden crumbs. But, I should add, my tree was far from barren, displaying as it did a rather large collection of small gold- and silver-plated retrievers engraved with the words “Puppy’s First Christmas” and eight or ten mock-crystal sled dogs, as well as some ordinary Santas, angels, ribbons, and doves, all of which Lee Miner was fingering.
    As I was saying, Lee had good reason to admire the tree, and when Jackie interrupted him to ask whether Oscar Patterson’s poetry was a hobby, he looked toward her and said blandly, “Well, yes, I suppose so.”
    “You see?” she said. “It was really part of Oscar’s
persona!”
She studied our faces to see whether we understood the word. “His image,” she added unnecessarily. “Like being in the country. Oscar loved to go on about smelling the country and tasting it and feeling it. He could get sort of disgusting about it, ifyou ask me. He was always talking about smelling and tasting everything.”
    “California,” someone said.
    “As a matter of fact, he came from the Bronx.” Jackie’s tone suggested that she’d just explained everything about Oscar Patterson. For all I knew, she had. Is the Bronx a sensuous borough? I don’t know New York well at all. “And,” Jackie went on, rubbing one of the little bows on her dress, “he grew up in dire poverty. His father deserted the family, and his mother ran around with
men!”
Jackie paused, then continued. “And she drank, too. Oscar was obviously starved for affection, if you ask me.” Her voice dropped. “You could tell because he was always hugging and kissing everyone and putting his hands on people.” She crossed her left knee over the right, flexed the arch of the extended foot, and examined either her ankle or her red high-heeled pump.
    Arlene looked disappointed. “Was he really from the Bronx? That doesn’t … I mean, you don’t expect …”
    “Yes, he was definitely from the Bronx,” Jackie told her. “He’d lost his New York accent.” She added, as if the new information would contradict the old, “But he was very attractive to women, in a kind of Errol Flynn, Lord Byron way, lots of curly dark hair? Except a lot shorter. But when you got to know him, he was very, very bossy. Just ask Lee. Lee, I’ve been saying how bossy Oscar could be, and I want you to back me up on that. Is that true? Now when you got to know Oscar, was that one bossy, bossy man?”
    Lee, who’d been edging toward the kitchen, stopped, turned, and raised his narrow chin about one inch.
    “You see?” Jackie said. “Lee says the same thing. But the owners liked it. They like a firm statement. It builds confidence. I always tell Lee: Owners aren’t paying to hear what all the possibilities are. Lecture them all about what it could be, and they decide you’re guessing, and they aren’t one bit happy to