The Blessings of the Animals: A Novel - By Katrina Kittle Page 0,88
“Your left foot, honey, start with your left foot,” only to have him drop her hands and say, “You’re such an expert, why aren’t you teaching the class?”
Davy and I spent most of the night laughing—so much that Opal shot us scolding looks.
I predicted that probably half of this class wouldn’t return the following week.
I WAS RIGHT. THE NEXT MONDAY, THE CLASS HAD MORE room and we received more instruction. Vijay had actually made it in for the weekend, arriving Saturday at noon. On Sunday, he spent many hours on his laptop and BlackBerry, then came to me with that look in his eyes.
“You’re leaving.”
“I’m sorry. They need me back in Botswana.”
Davy called that evening. “What time is dance tomorrow? Wanna have dinner before we go?” He never even knew he’d almost been “bumped” from the class.
WHEN HELEN WALKED INTO MY BARN LOT ONE BRISK, sweatshirt evening, I knew what she was there to tell me. “We have a court date.”
My legs went weak. I sat on a bucket. Maybe I could hide Moonshot, move him somewhere and not tell anyone. That had happened to us on a few occasions when we’d gone to remove an animal after a court decision.
As if she read my mind, Helen said, “You gotta do the right thing, Cami. You’ve brought him a long way. You brought him back, really. C’mon, you’ve fostered a million times, and every time you’ve made their lives better.”
But he’d made my life better.
DAVY AND I TOOK TO PRACTICING DANCE A COUPLE OF TIMES a week. It kept me sane, and on dance nights I actually slept rather than stewing about Moonshot. Davy would teach the dances to Big David. Ava already knew them and would join in.
“Thank you so much for this,” Big David said, walking me out to my truck one evening.
“Are you kidding? Davy saved the class for me when Vijay had to bail.”
“I think the class saved Davy for me.” His face in the streetlight showed he wasn’t kidding. “We weren’t doing so hot, you know. You brought him out of his sorrow.”
I hugged him and he held me so tight, it hurt my old injured ribs. I kissed his cheek.
“You’re keeping that damn freckled dog, aren’t you?”
I punched his shoulder and got in my truck. “He’s temporary.”
If only Moonshot’s owner had been so hard to find.
Chapter Thirty
I NEEDED TO GET SERIOUS ABOUT HUNTING DOWN DUBEY. I couldn’t keep another large dog, especially one that threatened my cats. I dug around on the University of Dayton’s Web site and found an e-mail address for Stuart Duberstein. Woo-hoo! I happily left a message:
Remember me? From the Humane Society—we took away all those cats from your neighbor? Well, I happen to have Booker safe and sound with me. Long crazy story. Call or e-mail and I’ll get you reunited.
I expected an immediate response and was astounded when two entire days went by.
I tried again. This time I attached a digital photo.
Still nothing. I felt a bit of panic. Damn. I’d really wanted to do a good deed. I called the music department and got put through to his voice mail. I did this four times.
BOBBY WAS AT THE FARM ONE NIGHT TO TAKE GABRIELLA to dinner, and we ended up in the kitchen together, waiting for her to return home from debate practice. Bobby looked at Booker lying in the corner next to Max, both of them gnawing chew toys. “Christ, Cam, another dog?”
“A good deed backfired. He’s not staying.”
Bobby smirked. “I’ve heard that before.”
Asshole. As soon as he left with Gabby, I called UD again. I played around on the phone menu, calling anyone in the music department, until I got an actual person. Hallelujah! The man’s name was David Perrella. “Dubey’s on sabbatical,” he said.
I put my forehead on the Portuguese tile. On sabbatical in a monastery somewhere? “I’ve sent a couple e-mails. Isn’t he at least checking e-mail?”
David Perrella chuckled. “Dubey’s real bad about that. None of us ever e-mail him.”
Well. Wasn’t that just my luck? “Do you happen to have a cell phone number?”
“Sorry, we can’t give out personal information.”
“Please. It’s important. I have Dubey’s dog.”
“Uh . . .” Now the man sounded skeptical. “Booker’s dead.”
“No, no, no, he’s not.” I told him the story.
“But . . . it can’t be the same dog. I mean, Dubey has an urn of the ashes and everything.”
“Oh, my God. That’s hideous. But this is Booker. I swear.” I fired off the digital photo.