I said, grabbing Baxter and picking him up.
After I scolded him (“Baxter, when I say ‘come’ you come”), Bax retreated to a bench, sitting under it for about ten minutes. But then he was over the trauma, and he emerged from under my legs, looking around. I thought he was checking out the scene for the arrival of some of his pack—Daisy or Miss Puggles—but when he was twenty feet away from me, I noticed he was running for the bullies. And they were running for him.
“Baxter!” I yelled. “Come!”
I heard the Labrabully owner swear. “Damn it, Boomer, Capone! C’mere! Time to go.”
But the Labrabullies answered to no one. When they reached Baxter they started pacing around him, looking exactly like large animals do when they’ve found a good appetizer.
My phone started ringing in my pocket. I ignored it. “Baxter!”
The bully owner and I were at a fast trot toward the dogs now, the bullies closing their circle, their stalking faster.
But then Baxter dropped. Not like other dogs usually do at the sight of the bullies, trying to be invisible. Baxter went onto his back, showing his sweet belly and then writhed around as if to say, It’s okay, smell me.
Which is exactly what the bullies did. No lunging, no more snarling. By the time the owner and I reached them, the three were cozied up to one another, the bullies nudging Baxy with their noses, as if they loved him, finally ready to play.
“Jesus Christ,” the owner muttered, chuckling and looking down at the dogs. “I’ve never seen them like this.” He looked at me. “You got a special dog.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking a breath of relief at the sight of Baxter batting a paw at one of the bullies who replied by simply ducking his nose, ready to take another punch.
“What’s that collar he’s got?” the guy said.
“I made that collar to piss off my ex-husband.”
This caused him to laugh.
I told him about how Sebastian hated it and always tried to replace it with something plainer.
“He’s crazy,” the guy said. “That’s a good-looking collar.”
“Right?”
“Heck, yes.”
I told him about the leash, how both had been in the video. He hadn’t seen it, so I explained the video.
He pulled it up on his phone. He laughed and laughed, then played it a second time, actually holding it out for the bullies, who sorta seemed to watch it for a bit.
“You want me to make you one?” I said, immediately wondering if I’d taken the whole bully diplomacy a little too far.
But the guy just said, “Sure! Could you do one in red and another in blue?”
“You got it.” We exchanged information. He took off the red collar of one of the bullies, and I eyeballed the size.
My phone started ringing again. I pulled it out of the pocket of my jeans. More surprise.
The screen read, Mom.
There is nothing more irritating than a person raised in a loving household, one who has been provided everything, but who finds something lacking in that setting. Nothing except being that person.
I knew this because I had always greatly disliked myself for feeling the lack of love from my parents, Simon and Muriel Champlin. They were so in love with each other that they were nearly oblivious to everyone else. It was clear how much they adored each other, and it was understandable. They were exceptional people who were exceptional together. And when two people love each other like they do, it’s an exclusive thing. They tried to spread it to me. They tried. And they did love me in their way. But I always knew I didn’t have what they did, that they couldn’t feel toward me the way they did toward each other.
So my mother and I didn’t speak with any regularity. But now she was talking quickly and excitedly. “I saw Baxter on TV!”
My parents lived out east, in a college town with a historical race course, and the only time they’d met Baxter was during a short holiday visit a year and a half ago.
“You saw it on TV or the internet?” I asked. My mother rarely watched TV.
“It just ran on our news here.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. I turned it on to see the weather. Your father is hoping to do some work outside tomorrow.”
My parents were both artists. My father had been an urban planner first, then he became fascinated with remnants of demolished government and legal buildings. He eventually brought the materials home and retrofitted our garage to become his studio. He crafted large, avant-garde items—a huge witness stand from chunks of cement, a Doric column from cobbled shards of copper, the scales of justice from molded scrap metal. The town purchased the scales of justice to decorate the front of the courthouse. Now such pieces were all my father did, and he got paid well for them.
My mother was a completely different artist. Technically trained and meticulously detailed, her oil paintings and mixed-media pieces were delicate, lovely. But there was also something savage within them—red streaks hidden deep in a meadow, a blade in a child’s profile. My mother said she was exploring. My father, she said, had been the only person in her life to allow that exploration. It took her years, but finally a gallery in New York was interested in her. They represented her, helped create an audience for the double-edged quality of her art. She became a working artist. But she always catered to my dad, always put him first.
So now it made sense that my mother was watching the news only to check the weather for my dad, who lately took much of his work outside in decent weather.
I explained to my mother about the Baxter incident, how Vinnie shot the video and posted it, how it ran on Chicago’s morning news. And now my mother was telling me it had been shown on her local newscast.
My mother asked me about the collar and leash, and I told her I’d sewn the stars on it, told her about the sale I’d just gotten from the Labrabullies’ owner.
“Good for you! They’re gorgeous!” My parents were happiest when I was being creative, the way they were. “We have neighbors who just got two Irish setter puppies. Would you make the same collars for them? We want to give them a gift.”
“Sure, I’d love to.” It was always a treat to feel a sense of cohesiveness with one of my parents (even if only about dog accoutrements).
“Honey,” my mom said, her voice holding a little trepidation, then trailing off at the end. Finally she said, “I know this Baxter thing is fun, but is it okay? I mean are you okay?”
“I’m very okay, Mom. I’m actually great.”
“Is any of this excitement about the video bringing up past...inclinations?”
I felt a flash of irritation. “Mom,” I said in a low, strained voice. “I never had those inclinations. That’s not why it happened.”
Here was the other reason my parents and I didn’t talk often. They knew about the Amalie Project and what had led to it.
“I know,” my mother said. “You’ve told me that. But we worry.”
“Don’t!” I wanted to say, Why didn’t you worry about me when I was growing up? Why didn’t you ever worry until I was in too deep? Before I slipped away?
My mother sighed. “Okay, okay.” Silence and then she asked, “So when do you think you can have the collars done for the puppies?”
“I’ll put it at the top of my list.” I wanted to be nice to my mom. There was no reason not to be. She and my dad were who they were, never anything else. “I’ll send them within a few days.”
“Oh,