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The Sweetheart Clip
by Feech
for Phil Geusz
This takes place the February before "A View From the Fence".
I check the address in my little
purple-and-black planner one more time. Yep, this
is it. Angelo Eagan, 322 East Park Road,
Apartment number 11. Just up this half-flight of
dirty, carpeted steps. I square my slim, rounded
shoulders as best I can and carry myself a bit
taller in my black trenchcoat. No use in
appearing unprofessional. Granted, he doesn't
know the group that I am representing, unless he
has some affiliation with the MacLeod University
SCABS community. Still, I must maintain a
respectable image for the sake of myself as well
as others. I have never been and hope I never
will be a less than adequate spokesperson for
students with this syndrome.
I knock on the door. "Just a minute!" A
friendly, but anxious, male voice answers. The
dog is barking, and my heart sinks a little
already. It's much bigger than Henry, from the
sounds of its deep voice. "Hush," the man tells
the dog as they approach the door. As it opens
and Angelo faces me, the Poodle stays just in back
of him, with a final greeting-bark. I stifle a
sigh and try to keep my eyes on Angelo rather than
the large Standard Poodle.
"Hello, Mr. Eagan," I say. I hold out a paw
for him to shake. "My name is Kim DeJong. I
called you earlier in regards to a missing college
student..."
A friendly smile barely twitches at the edge
of his uncomfortable expression. As we shake
hands, I get a strong whiff of the sweat from his
palm and realize it is not me he is uncomfortable
with. Well, that is something, at least. I may
be one of the most predictable and, yes, charming
members of the SCABS community, I have been told
so many times, but against a person who will not
see there is... Little to be done...
"Hello, Miss DeJong. Come on in. Sable,
back out of the way. Come in here, Miss, and you
can get a better look. Maybe talk with him a
little bit."
I already know that the dog is not Henry
Mickels, but I feel it would be a cold gesture,
leaving now. Mr. Eagan seems so upset about
something. Maybe there is more I ought to know.
What can it hurt, anyway? No Valentine's plans
for me, and I daresay none for him, either. The
thought of the cold outside and the reds and pinks
of the stores this time of year make me brace
myself once again. It's not _easy_ to be cheerful
on any given day. But February's one bright day
can bring the best of us low. For the first time
I notice that the dog has a small, reddish-orange
bow with tiny white hearts printed on it attached
to the hair of his left ear.
Poor Angelo, I think suddenly, though I don't
really know why. Then I step easily to the middle
of the living room. "May I sit down?"
"Yes, of course!" Angelo pats the
orange-beige striped couch and then sits himself
in a matching, rather worn chair. Sable wriggles
up to me, black paws patting the carpet in an
obvious attempt to keep his boisterous greeting
under acceptable limits. My muzzle wrinkles in a
smile and I tickle the happily panting dog on the
fluffy black chest. He promptly jumps up onto the
couch next to me, sighs dramatically, and lays his
nose in my lap.
Angelo laughs nervously, then suddenly
sobers. "He likes you, but then he's friendly
with everyone. It really doesn't seem as though
he..."
"Recognizes me," I finish for him. "No, it
doesn't. But that doesn't mean there's nothing
there. If I may ask, Mr. Eagan, what reasons do
you have for believing that Sable might be a
fully-morphed SCAB? Any information you have
might help in finding his family, if indeed he was
human."
"Yes, yes, I know." The red-haired man sighs
slightly, though not in anger. "We've been
through it all with veterinarians, I've taken him
to my own therapist, nothing. No truly human
response-- though he is a wonderful dog-person in
and of himself." Angelo smiles at the Poodle and
Sable, though he does not leave my side, returns
the look with dancing brown eyes. The man
continues to speak.
"The reason I informed the missing persons
department, and the reason they referred you here,
is that there is no proof that this animal is
_not_ a SCAB."
"Explain," I say, knowing he is going to, but
feeling I must let him know I am actively a part
of this exchange. The two of us are alone today.
Odd, how you meet someone, and while they are
certainly no replacement for... Well, for
long-time friends, you know the two of you have
something in common for just these few hours, and
will not, in time to come, forget.
Angelo looks at me almost sorrowfully from
gray-green eyes. I note the careful way he sits,
almost as though afraid of his own chair and his
own apartment. I lean back against the old couch
and catch a scent of fully stale cigarette smoke,
mingled with something female and human-- though
not recent. I try to pay close attention to Mr.
Eagan's words, what he says is important to me,
but I am easily caught up in exploring the room
with my nostrils and eyes. I momentarily fixate
on the faintest glint of white-silver from
Angelo's tiny unisex earrings, one in each ear. I
nod as he speaks about the question of Sable.
"I found Sable in the City Animal Shelter.
Or, to say it more accurately, representatives of
the Shelter found him, and I adopted him. But I
still do not know if this situation is permanent.
I had my suspicions at the time, right when I
looked at him. And it just keeps piling up, all
the things we don't know about him."
"I am interested to hear," I say, thinking
fidgetingly of that ancient cigarette smoke and
how impolite it would be to ask, in a non-smoker's
home, if I might light up. He must have quit some
time ago, by the smell of it. But the residue
must tempt even him. Well, I should be quitting
anyway... "what you think of the situation,
because I must admit that this dog shows no
resemblance to the student I am seeking, but I
have many contacts at MacLeod. If anyone there
has any leads, I am sure they would be glad to
contact you."
Angelo shifts in his chair. He seems to be
relaxing, yet still not entirely calm. It occurs
to me for the first time that I may be the only
visitor he has had in who-knows-how-long. He is
so carefully groomed, yet evidently not happy even
with his neatly trimmed hair, smooth face and
well-fitting clothes. Yes, I am the first one
here in some time. And I am a visitor who is
rather hard to ignore. I remind myself at the
moment of a blindingly white Teddy Bear from the
Valentine's shelves at the grocery stores, blatant
in white and black coloration, cheerful in
appearance, removed from the shelf with my stuffed
scarlet heart and plopped in the middle of this
poor man's couch. Only in my case the heart is a
Poodle, with his own Valentine's bow. And I
don't recall any of those cheap once-a-year
Teddies wearing trenchcoats. Angelo is speaking.
"After my Flu I had to leave my job. Or
rather, my job left me."
He seems to be considering how much to tell
me, or not to tell me, and then presses on. "...I
heard a well-known groomer speak, at a convention
a couple of years ago. I was impressed with her
overall, and I remember quite a lot of what she
said, but the thing that applied to me most was
this. She said that grooming is such a wonderful
profession, because we can groom through
everything. You go into 'Groom mode,' she said,
and groom right on through death, depression,
divorce, illness..."
I wait as he pauses, then nod. "I know what
you mean."
"Do you?" He looks up almost eagerly, as if
I have perhaps proved myself enlightened in some
way. Or perhaps he is just lonely. "Do you know
you are the only woman I have spoken to since my
last pet-owning client left me?"
"No." I am almost horrified. The poor
woman! Angelo, not the client. So this is the
way it is when-- perhaps I understand better than
I thought I did.
"Well, that's it, you are. So I'd love for
you to stay and talk, even if it doesn't help
Sable, or you or your friend. I know that sounds
horrible to say."
I shake my masked head. "I would love to
stay and talk. Do go on."
He shifts the subject for a moment. "The
missing man-- was-- is-- he a Poodle 'morph? I
seem to recall that on the phone..."
"Yes. Henry Mickels has been known to go
full-morph from time to time, but he has
consistently taken the form of a Miniature Poodle.
I have never seen him as large as this dog." I
give Sable an affectionate ruffling of the
shoulders. The dog grins amiably up at me. Not a
hair is out of place on his impeccably clipped,
cleaned and scissored body. He almost seems out
of place in this apartment. That may be because
he is the only piece of art. I continue, "Henry
has not gone to the extreme of failing to
recognize those known to him, or forgetting his
name. But even though you did explain to me that
this dog is quite large, I did want to see him,
and am grateful that you have allowed me to do so.
It would not rest easy on my mind, knowing there
was a Poodle I had not seen, and knowing the
other... Possibilities..."
Which now are, unfortunately, the most
likely. Mr. Eagan looks at me and says, "I
understand."
He twitches aimlessly for a second, patting
the few wrinkles in his slacks and shirt, before
speaking once more. "The speaker, wonderful as
she is, forgot one thing. You can go into Groom
mode, sure, to take you steadily through just
about anything that can happen to you in life, but
you can't groom if no one will let you handle
their animals."
I yawn. Angelo seems to know this is a way
of mine of showing distress, not boredom, for he
smiles at me gratefully before continuing. "I
started hanging out at the Blind Pig," he says,
somewhat huskily. "I'm sure you've heard of it.
I couldn't smoke-- I'd quit, only two days before
the onset of Flu, and once I'd done it for good
there was no going back. Not if I could help it.
But that didn't stop me from trying to get drunk.
"I was a complete slob. Of course I didn't
know how to handle myself. All my clients were
gone, and with them the companions who were with
me all day, every day, save on weekends when I
missed them sorely. Need to take a break
sometime, you know. And the Shih Tzu I had years
back had died at an old age, so I was without. I
thought, another puppy, someday. And then came
the Flu and I didn't care anymore. I wondered
about even handling another dog. The reactions of
my clients were so... scary."
"How so?" I remember all too well the
reactions of high-school students. Does it get no
better when we enter "adult" society? No, I
realize for the hundredth time. I let out the
smallest of sighs. I know where I would be right
now, if things got better as we grew up. But now
is not the time, here not the place for that. Let
Mr. Eagan cry in his own house. Besides. Sable
is a tribute to what they say about dog-petting
and blood pressure. I'm feeling better already.
"How so scary? Well... I don't... Well, they
were bad for me, but I'm sure you..."
I shake my head at him. "No, please, I'm
listening. Lemur or no Lemur, I'm not the only
one with problems. Let us both be glad we are not
Henry Mickels."
"Yes. Let's. God, that poor man. I hope
the police find him."
"Alive," I say, and Angelo winces.
He nods. "Now that I know, I can maybe be of
some help. Check the shelters and such."
"How thoughtful of you!"
"I _want_ to help. As I said, the reactions
were scary. Most people up and left because I
wasn't 'me' anymore. And I guess, I _know_, that
in a lot of ways that's true. My hands are too
big, I even have trouble sometimes with the grips
of my scissors. But I know when I'm faltering and
would never let it hurt an animal. Me, that's a
different thing. I might hurt me. I can take
only so many pains over so many piddly everyday
things before I forget and screw up, like bumping
into something I used to be short enough to walk
under. And as for companions...
"I knew my girlfriends would freak if I
showed up claiming to be me, asking for a hug and
a shoulder. That left the Bar, or at least, that
was the only place I could go at first.
"I was afraid to be seen in public doing
everything all wrong, clumsy and not well dressed
and strange and lost. I had three clients in one
day tell me that their little dogs are afraid of
men. I had another five in one week point out to
me that SCABS has not been _proven_ harmless to
domestic animals. The paranoia can get to you,
reach in where there were no thoughts of
negativism before. My pets and their families, so
appreciative of my art, had turned around just
like that and managed to almost destroy a
self-esteem they had built up." He pauses for an
angry breath. "But I'm sure you know what that's
like."
Oh, yes, I do. But he knows that I know and
there is nothing to say about it now.
Angelo watches me stroking Sable and seems to
think about it for a minute, my paw and the dog
and the couch, before going on. I look at my own
paw and in an instant that has been repeated often
over the years, realize how unusual it is. But
then its not-sameness fades and I continue to
stroke the dog and listen to Angelo.
"The Blind Pig regulars saved my life. At
least, they saved my grooming life. And to me
that is companionship which is my whole life."
Yet he, like the rest of us, has a long way
to go. His life may have been saved, but there is
still the change to deal with. When the
woman-smells and the cigarette traces (no, I
_don't_ need one-- the grumble of defiance almost
leaves my throat before I stop it) fade, Angelo will
still be fighting himself the way I have fought,
and am fighting, society. Is that why I am here,
listening, sharing? Maybe. We are not battling
with each other. I turn towards Angelo with my
ears, eyes, nose, all intent upon him. He sees
and appreciates my scrutiny, and asks a question.
"How do I... Look?"
"Hm." I make a non-committal thought-sound
while I form an honest opinion. Then I can
happily tell him, "Great! Smooth, dashing. But
you slump a little."
He straightens up. "I'm used to being
shorter. I'm still working on so many things...
Michael-- he's a friend of mine-- has helped me
with the clothing since we met in the Bar.
Everything you see here... He helped me to find
and try on. I had no idea..."
I wait while a wave of helpless anger moves
over the man's face, fades and passes, though
somewhere in there it must remain.
"... no idea how... It's so _humiliating_.
To let another help when-- when you used to be
pretty-- good at these things yourself."
"Yes," I say, grateful for the fact that my
form is at least friendly to a trenchcoat. Change
my style? No. I've changed enough. "I know."
The other piece of art in this room is
Angelo. So I have to repeal the earlier judgment
on Sable and decide instead that he is the only
piece of art in the room _made by Angelo_. Angelo
is in a process where others are deciding _him_.
Am I? May we both, at some time, come away and
keep ourselves _and_ our friends? "How does it
feel," I inquire in my best attempt at a
gently-joking voice, "to the Groomer, to be the
one groomed?"
He laughs. "I used to go to the
hairdresser's every three weeks to have my hair
_colored_ red. Now look at this." He fingers the
red-clay hued strands. "And as for my friends, I
introduced them to whitening shampoo, and they
take me clothes shopping. Although I must admit
the strangeness of it has crossed my mind, a
Dalmatian dressing and making haircut suggestions
for a man. But I believe I have done him some
good."
"So you _are_ finding--"
"Clients. Yes. And I am so grateful to
them. Do you have a groomer?"
He is half-teasing, but it is heartening to
see any fellow victim bouncing back, if just a
little. "Why, no. I will have to take your card
when I leave here."
"Do. I have had too many of them for too
long. I would _love_ to run out of business cards
again."
My turn to chuckle slightly. Then I turn to
the dog, who is half-asleep with his head in my
lap. "So, how did you come by Sable?"
"Well, it had to do with Phil, really. My
therapist. I had an appointment to groom him and
his companion bunny shortly after I met my friend
Michael in the Bar, and something struck me about
the rabbit. The pet, not the 'morph. Phil is a
New Zealand White 'morph," Angelo explains.
"Anyway, I worked on Shortcake, which is what he
calls her, and I started to feel the way I did
when I really liked someone's animal and got into
that 'maybe I should consider another puppy'
thing. You know? The kind of wistful planning
you do, when things seem like they just might be
possible... And I went to the City Animal Shelter.
I filled out an application. I looked at the
dogs.
"They said this fellow was a Lab-Terrier
cross. But that's those shelter folks for you.
They think all 'Terriers' are one breed and
anything black and over twenty pounds is a
Labrador Retriever mix. I've even see them call
purebred Labs Lab 'mixes'. But in his case I
guess I really couldn't blame them."
Angelo looks fondly at the dog again and
sighs. Seems to be a lot of sighing going around
this day. "He was a royal mess. It was awful.
Don't get me wrong-- those Shelter people are
sweet and caring and work very hard. But I was
the only one who stopped and looked and said, 'My
God, it's a Standard Poodle.'"
"This is an unusual find in an animal
shelter...?"
"Oh, yes. It certainly is. Even under that
mass of mats and crud I could see the _quality_ on
him. And right then I began to wonder..."
I look again at the velvety black creature
sitting with me, my bright brown eyes on his
cheery dark ones, seeking some vestige of a
recognition other than open friendliness.
Nothing. At least not now.
"Nothing," he says. "I know. I even took
him to Phil. He was very good about dealing with
Sable and myself, and I am sure he did the best he
could. I admire him for putting up with this
fellow. Not that Sable is particularly difficult,
but Phil can be dog-shy and it was nice of him to
try. At least he didn't scoff at the idea, which
is what some therapists might have done. Of
course, first I took this fellow down to the
animal clinic for boosters and a check-up, usual
rigamarole, you know. And besides him being an
excellent-quality Poodle just _found_ on the
street, the doctor found a few more things that
made us suspicious about his background."
Angelo twitches again in his chair, fiddling
with the shimmery earrings and seeming to have
trouble getting into a graceful resting position.
Finally he settles on one and continues, as I too
move cautiously, not wanting to remove Sable from
my lap but feeling the slightest loss of
circulation in my right leg.
"I had shaved the Poodle down to the skin,
just about, to make it easier to wash him up and
examine him. I do think his coat will come in
nicely, given a chance. But it was as well that I
take it off at that point, and the vet got a good
look at him. They can be in such a hurry, they
will miss things sometimes, but I explained my
fears and he was very thorough." At this point
Angelo sees my own fidgeting and rises shyly from
his chair. "Would you like a drink? Orange
juice? Beer? Perhaps a Mountain Dew or a candy
heart?"
"Candy heart?"
"Can't let the season go by without filling
my candy jar," he says, disappearing for just a
moment into the kitchenette. He reappears with a
glass candy container, decorated on the top and
colorfully full of shiny Valentine's treats. I
smile-wrinkle at him.
"Yes, thanks, I will have a candy heart.
Perhaps a Mountain Dew, too, since you have them
and are offering."
"Of course!" Angelo opens the jar and leaves
it on the coffee table for me. I hear the
refrigerator door open almost as soon as he steps
out of sight in the shallow kitchenette, then he
is back with the new design of can, one for each
of us.
"Thanks, this is sweet of you," I say,
lifting the soda can in some sort of impromptu
toast before sipping a little.
"Thank you for staying. If there is anything
else I can get you I will gladly do so."
"I will let you know," I assure him, and
settle in with Sable again. "What did the vet
find? With Sable, I mean."
"Well. He found out first that this animal
has no identification of any kind that would be
typical for a well-bred and kept dog of his type.
I asked the doctor to send in a blood sample to
the DNA registries-- nothing. He has no tattoos,
either in the ears or the flanks. We scanned him
for a microchip-- also nothing.
"All of which I suppose would be explainable
by oversight, through a good-quality puppy
slipping through the cracks, so to speak, except
that the breeder would have had the dewclaws
removed and the tail docked by three days of age,
long before selling the pup to any buyer. I don't
know how such a great-looking dog could have ended
up going so long without having that done. But
the fact is, he had it done as an adult. Or such
is the veterinarian's opinion."
"Could the veterinarian be wrong?"
"He _could_, yes. But I have groomed many a
Poodle in my time and I can tell you that the
scars are pretty obvious to me, too... I have one
other explanation. He _could_ have been a pup
from a lucky breeding by a complete novice, and an
unethical novice to boot. I can't see docking the
tail on an adult dog for _cosmetic_ reasons. And
the vet feels it would have been for the typical
Poodle cosmetic reasons."
"To help make this ball of fluff look
pretty," I say, toying with the pom on the end of
Sable's three-quarters tail.
"Exactly. So we advertised. And nobody came
forward. Which leads me to wonder... Did someone
steal him from an unethical or unknowledgable
breeder, using their own knowledge to surgically
enhance him? Without papers, he is worthless to a
reputable show-dog person. But to someone willing
to lie about the identity of a dog shown on the
papers..."
I carefully tilt my soda can and take another
drink. "I must admit here," I say, "That even
though I am a student of human law, all this
canine-legality stuff is a bit over my head. Are
you trying to tell me that Sable could be a stolen
animal but that you... Do you doubt it? I'm lost
here."
"I doubt he is a stolen animal. We
advertised in breed magazines and the national pet
dog magazines and the local papers. After that we
reported back to the police that not only was he a
found Standard Poodle, he may well be a found
person. And then you came along. He _could_ have
been stolen by creepy dog people. But I feel it
to be much more believable that he was _kidnapped_
by creepy dog people. In that case there would be
no leads from the dog community that actually
revealed his true owner. And there have been no
such leads.
"We do not even know, if he is a SCAB,
whether he was male or female, black or white,
young or old, what have you. I have no idea how
he escaped his captors. The Shelter people found
him, shaken, bruised, afraid but, as they said,
pitifully friendly.
"I asked him all about it. And always he has
given me dog answers. But I do not know whether,
for some instant, there was a flash that allowed
him to know, to get away and find help. I do not
know."
Finally Angelo sinks back and takes a long
swallow from his Mountain Dew. I finger a small
pink heart from among the many choices, pluck it
from the clear jar and eat it. Sable sighs, idly
watching the journey of the candy as it is lifted
to my mouth and disappears. "Can the dog have
something to eat?" I ask.
Angelo smiles. "Oh, using the eyes, is he?
That bow helps too, I daresay. Have a hundred of
'em sitting around, and I am such a bow nut. I
used to... Well, I planned a little too far ahead,
I guess. Phil let me use one on Shortcake. I
think he was just humoring me. But what can a
groomer do? For some silly reason my wolf clients
don't like heart bows attached to their clothing.
How I will talk anyone into the orange-and-black
ghost-patterned ones for Halloween, I don't know."
He smiles at the edge of his lips and I can smell
the almost desperate gratitude he has toward his
clients. But it is a deep shame that anyone
should be forced to change this way. I suppose
that is what I am working on. Not SCABS, but the
unused ribbons. Is that obscure enough for you?
"I suppose," Angelo says in a certain tone
that immediately has his companion dog's
attention, "that Sable can have a little treat."
He rises from his chair and simultaneously
the dog is scrabbling from my lap and bounding the
short distance to the kitchenette. I smell the
wheat and garlic of dog treats as Angelo opens a
package, then hear Sable's excited munching before
they both come back into the living room. "Happy,
Sable?" I ask him, and he dances in an expression
of agreement before setting to the task of
sniffing the floor for any crumbs he might have
missed.
Angelo comes over and sits on the edge of the
couch, next to me. I move into conversation angle
and offer him one of his own candy hearts. He
thanks me dramatically and accepts a grape one. I
eat a lemon yellow one, and then almost as one
body we reach for the gray-and-black TV remote.
"Staying for the Valentine's specials?"
Angelo laughs. The color of TV snaps on before
him and Sable looks up at the sound and light
before getting comfortable in the chair Mr. Eagan
has warmed for him.
"Maybe just a few," I smile. The thought of
Henry Mickels crosses my mind. I must convey my
agitation, because Angelo becomes concerned.
"I could move," he says, hand on the candy
jar and body poised to depart the couch.
"No. It's all right. I was just thinking of
Henry." I'll be darned if I'm going to move this
man now. I will not be a part of it. He has not
alienated me. I will leave after the specials and
it will be cold outside. But somewhere there is
someone colder than I.
Angelo watches the TV for a moment, then
flips the channel once and stays with the animated
bit he sees there. I begin to talk about
university things, and he half-watches, while
minding what I am saying.
"You are a friend of a friend of Henry's?" he
asks me.
"I belong to an organization, of which Henry
w-- is also a member. I am not his closest
friend. I came because I might be able to... Be
objective."
Sable yawns, spreading his black self over
the chair.
I lean over, the better to see the shapes on
the television. Angelo makes a sound like a sob,
only it ends where it begins.
"Angelo?"
"Mm."
"I want a heart bow for my lapel."
"They're free, with a groom."
"Oh, and without?"
"Well... I suppose for Lemurs I can offer one
as a gift now and then."
I smile as he goes to the bedroom and comes
back out with a plastic package full of bows. He
opens the container. "Choose."
"I get to choose?"
"Of course! It's always the client's
preference."
I look up at him, knowing full well that my
large eyes permanently carry a startled
expression, but hoping now that they might be
knowing and mischievous. I have a sudden thought
as to what I can do, before I leave the man and
the dog alone.
"What would _you_ suggest?"