I reach up again and pull down a bunch of faded towels. “Here!” I pitch a few to Renée and we find our way back to the family room. I throw Dad some towels and we each tackle a dog. I dry off Hunter, that’s what his tag says. Hunter as in green. All five Yorkies are named for colours of the rainbow, and Dad’s knitting them sweaters in their colours. Mrs. Irwin, their owner, is an artist like Mr. Kowalski. They used to work together at Mohawk College.
“You’re such a good, good girl, Rose,” Renée tells an identical Yorkie as she scrubs her.
The other couple of Yorkies tear around the room rubbing their bodies against the couch and the carpet. Ping chases them.
“Your mother’s going to be so stuffed up.” Dad shakes his head as he wipes off another dog. “So much dog dander flying around. We’re going to have to steam clean the carpet and chairs.”
“Why don’t we herd all the animals down to the basement?” I suggest.
“Great idea! And Renée, tell your mother where you are.”
“Already texted her,” she answers. “C’mon, Rose. Ping.”
I open the door to the basement. “Here boy,” I call to Hunter, holding out a liver bite.
Dad shoos the other Yorkies down with us. “Go. Blue, Goldie, Violet.” He snaps his finger after each colour.
We head downstairs.
Renée holds the flashlight, which produces a single beam of light in a black pit full of restless fur. When Renée shifts the beam to find the couch, the dogs hurl themselves after it. She shifts the beam so I can find my way and they chase it again. Pong gallops down the stairs to join the pack. Seven dogs now. One of the Yorkies falls onto another, and they tumble and snap and snarl at each other. Ping barks — the referee.
“Stop it!” Renée orders as she shuts the flashlight.
A few more growls and they do. She sets the light on its tail end in the middle of the coffee table and turns it back on.
Too much wet-dog smell gags me. I sneeze.
A couple of the Yorkies perform a duo whine.
Which reminds me: “I wonder how poor King feels?” I picture some puppy shaking and whimpering in a crate all by himself.
As if to warn us, another siren warbles at that moment.
“It’s nothing,” Renée says. “Don’t worry. Street lights are out. Lots of fender benders.”
“Still. As soon as the rain stops, I’m going to check on him.”
But the storm goes on for hours. Dad brings us a battery-operated lantern and the three of us play Renée’s even crazier version of Crazy Eights, where all kinds of cards become wild. The game drags on till every dog falls asleep, many of them snoring. Dad nods off, too. I cover him with a sleeping bag. With Ping’s head on her lap, Renée slaps down a Jack. “Miss a turn.”
“You win. Honestly. I’m going upstairs to see what’s happening.” Out of habit, I flip a light switch but nothing happens. I tramp up the stairs, shutting the door behind me so the dogs stay in the basement. I head for the family room and stare out the window.
“Thanks for closing the door on me.” Renée joins me at the window.
“Sorry.” I glance her way but she’s smiling. “I think it’s letting up,” I say hopefully.
“No more lightning, anyway,” Renée says.
“I have to visit King.”
“Really?”
“Mom said it was an emergency.”
The real second mistake of the day. And it’s a doozy. I should have told Dad about King as soon as he stepped through the door. He would have driven over and checked on him immediately. Maybe he’d have gotten a little wet, but it’s that kind of dedication that his clients count on. Instead, we throw on our jackets, still soggy from the first downpour, and leave Ping and Pong behind. I figure if I can check on King and everything’s all right, I can present Dad with the information afterward. Knowing Dad won’t hear me anyway, I cover all my bases by calling, “We’re going out to check on a new client.” Then we head out to help a pet we’ve never met before.
DAY ONE, MISTAKE THREE
We pass Renée’s brother, Attila, and his sometimes girlfriend, Star, on the way out. Attila’s not a tough-guy nickname or anything, it’s a common name in Hungary where their parents are from. Still, he can be scary. He’s tall, with a mohawk sprouting from his head and muscles rippling against the sleeves of his torn black sweater. Today he carries a brown saddlebag over his shoulder, maybe to carry his spray paints — he’s a graffiti artist. That brown bag provides the only touch of colour against all his black clothes.
Star’s wearing a couple of nose rings and her classic skull-and-crossbones leggings with a black leather jacket and mini skirt. The all-black artist look, too. Nice to see her nose all healed up. Ping, in an enthusiastic jump and lick, accidentally caught her stud with his teeth a couple of weeks ago.
Attila and Star both hold cell phones in front of their faces. Are they taking some kind of strange selfies or photos of houses? They don’t seem the Pokémon-hunting type.
“Hi,” Renée calls to her brother.
Not taking his eyes from the little screen, he grunts.
“Hey,” I say to Star.
She smiles back. Slyly, I think, but I’ll never trust her. Star and Attila stole some Halloween displays, a mailbox, and a garden gnome for an art installation. While everything came out all right in the end, she threatened to tell Animal Control about Ping tearing her nose if we reported her.
“Over there! A serpent!” She calls out, and she and Attila cross the street.
A large green Cadillac brakes. A voice like a cannon shoots from the car.
“You stupid kids. Can’t you ever put your cell phones down?” Mr. Rupert yells. He lives close to Renée and Attila and must be out on bail. He was arrested for carrying a weapon a couple of weeks ago.
Star smiles and waves a finger, friendly-style, even though it’s not a polite gesture.
The Cadillac fishtails away. Support Our Troops, the bumper sticker reads.
“Stupid cell phone, anyway,” Attila says. He pulls his arm back as if to hurl it.
Star grabs his arm. “The app crashed, still in development, remember?” She plucks the cell phone from his hands and shakes her head. “Way better than catching Pokémon. Just have to tell the developer where it went wrong.”
“Stupid Rupert!” Attila grumbles.
We continue on. “If I were them, I wouldn’t mess with Mr. Rupert,” I tell Renée. The mailbox they stole for their entry in the Burlington Art Gallery contest was the last mailbox Mrs. Rupert made before she died. High sentimental value for Mr. Rupert.
“Could he change his mind and still press charges on the mailbox thing?” Renée asks. Mr. Rupert found out at the gallery reception that Star and Attila had taken it. But when their installation tied for first place in popular choice, he forgave the theft.
“No, he likes seeing his wife’s work in the gallery. Still, you don’t mess with him; he’s always ready to explode.” Renée has seen him prowling around in his military fatigues like he’s looking for more reasons to be angry. Who knows what will set him off.
We keep strolling. Up ahead is the new client’s house. Easy to spot: the huge green bin in the driveway holds a sky-high pile of broken wallboard.
“Mom said they were house flippers,” I tell Renée. “But this house looks like something