“Tell that to the mother whose three-year-old was mauled by one,” I say. A story to that effect had recently appeared on my Twitter feed. It wasn’t the first I had read.
“If a dog is trained to fight, it fights,” he states. “If a child rushes it, it gets scared. When an animal, any animal, is threatened, it defends itself. I repeat. Misunderstood.” He has the gall to approach me on the dock, and I continue to hold still. Not that I think he’ll attack. John Sabathian is a pacifist. Physical abuse was never our problem. Our problem—myproblem—is that my legs won’t work, because I don’t know what to do. Stay, leave, walk, run, listen, love, argue, reason, accuse? The past contained all that and more. But this isn’t the past.
He comes close enough so that I have to tip my head up. His faceis older, its lower third sporting a stylishly thin, half-scruff beard. Though his hair is shorter, hitting his nape rather than his shoulders, it is the same every-shade-of-chestnut-give-or-take that it was. The grooves between his brows have deepened, no surprise there. He was always a frowner. That said, he looks good.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says in a lower voice now that he is close.
I try to think up something witty about command performances or wild accusations or for-old-time’s-sake corn, but nothing seems right. I simply say, “I didn’t either.”
“Why did you?”
“A gun can be lethal.”Like a pit bull,I think, with a pointed look at the dog. But the creature, which has followed Jack onto the dock, is looking up at him with adoration. Clearly, it doesn’t judge me to be a threat. It doesn’t even look my way when I maneuver my legs around and stand.
Pulling a treat from his pocket, Jack rewards it for its docility. The dog sits and chews in a surprisingly well-mannered way, then closes its mouth, and turns placid eyes on me. I suppose it can’t help being jowly. Or having bloodshot eyes or ears that hang like limp lettuce.
“Is this your only dog?” I ask, thinking that if he’s a vet, he may have a houseful.
“Right now. They come and go.”
“Get adopted?”
“Or die. Some of my clients can’t deal when their pets get sick. I can.”
“Are you a shelter?”
“Just a vet. But the line between the two isn’t set in stone. I care about animals. I do what I can to make their lives better.”
He sounds genuine enough, but I struggle to reconcile the past with this. He hadn’t been the most social sort. What was on his mind was on his tongue, no filter in sight. Joy is like that too often for comfort. That said, there is a case to be made that Jack was mymodel of how not to raise an only child. Consideration of others was never his strong suit.
That he is now considerate of animals raises a curious point. “You didn’t have pets when we were kids.”
“Your memory sucks. I had rabbits. You don’t remember my hutch? But no. You wouldn’t. You were afraid of me. You wouldn’t come close.”
I half expect to see a mocking twitch at the corner of his mouth. But he is stating a fact. I do remember being afraid of him at first.
Unafraid now, I say, “I meant cat or dog.”
His mouth does twitch now, but with self-disdain. “My parents were overwhelmed with just me. They couldn’t have handled a house pet.”
“You weren’t that bad.”
“I was that bad.”
“Mom!”
My eyes fly to the bluff. Joy is running down the steps.
“Walk, don’t run!” I shout and, given cause, jog down the dock and across the wet sand. I’m slightly breathless when we meet. “Everything okay?”
Her curls have grown ten-fold, but her dark green eyes are bright. “Well, Papa forgot I was there and got obsessed with a crossword puzzle, and Anne is racing around trying to clean up. I mean, Mom, like the place is a pigsty?” Her gaze shifts past me, voice guarded. “Who’s that?” When she sees the dog, she sidles closer to me, which says something about the look of this dog.
Jack approaches us, nothing shy about the man. I’m thinking that I need to formally introduce them—am thinking, actually, that this is the last situation I want to be in and that I need to return to the housenow—when Joy asks in a none-too-friendly tone, “Are you the guy who called on the phone?”
He stares at her, then at me. I’m not sure if he’s wondering why she called meMom,or, having moved beyond that, is asking,Do I need to answer this twerp?
“This is my daughter, Joy,” I tell him. “Joy, Jack. Yes, he’s the one who called.”
“Is that a pit bull?” she asks, even more accusatory than I had been minutes before.
