DUMB BEASTS by Clea Simon- written version
Clea Simon
"Cries & Whiskers"
"Probable Claws," April '09
"Shades of Grey," Sept. '09
www.cleasimon.com
Dumb Beasts
I really didn’t want to go over when Mrs. M. called. Sheila, as I think of her. With most people I’m on a first-name basis immediately. They’ve invited me into their homes, into some of their most intimate relationships, after all. It only makes sense. But not her. We were introduced formally the first time I came over, but although I immediately reached out, saying, “It’s Beth. Please, call me Beth,” she never reciprocated.
Her husband’s another sort entirely. I think it was his idea to call me the first time. At any rate, he was the one who cared, who wanted everyone to get along. She might’ve complained about the noise, though. I wouldn’t have put that past her.
It was a compatibility issue, that first time. The dog had been hers originally, a yappy little Yorkshire terrier, spoiled and insecure. More of a fashion accessory than a companion, I figured, them both being blondes and all. The Yorkie had been understandably unsettled when they had moved into his townhouse. The presence of his pets – a cat, a parrot, an aquarium full of fish – didn’t help the Yorkie’s mood, and, to be fair, the cat – an elderly Persian – hadn’t made it any easier. But I think they would have worked it out. Animals do. She was the problem. Couldn’t stand the barking, the hissing, the squawking. I tried to tell her it was all part of the change, everybody finding their new place in the social order. She was having none of it. I thought that what really got her was Bridget’s betrayal. Bridget – that’s the Yorkie – took to Paul right away. I try to keep my feelings out of it. I’m not here for the people anyway. It’s all about the animals. That’s why I came over when she called.
Paul was away again. Traveling. I don’t know what he did. Whatever it was, it kept him on the road, but it sure was profitable. I figured the animals missed him. They do, you know, and not just in that obsessive-grooming, separation-anxiety neurotic way. They become used to us, as we do to them.
“Dumb animals,” she said. She didn’t get it, never had, if Bridget’s rapid defection was any clue. Didn’t realize that “dumb” in that context means unable to speak, not stupid. Not that she tried to listen. She was colder than those fish, if you ask me. But then, she didn’t want my opinion so I held my tongue. She wasn’t really the client.
They were, and I find I do best if I keep my mind clear of human thoughts. Complications. I don’t get those as clearly. I think they’re not as clear to their owners, half the time. All those convoluted thoughts and dreams; all that longing. All that rage. Animals are straightforward. I want. I have. I am. It’s not just my natural gift. I really prefer to work with them.
Still, I couldn’t avoid picking up on something when Sheila – Mrs. M. – let me in. First of all, she opened the door herself. The last time I’d been here – a molting issue – there’d been a houseboy. Man servant. Whatever you call the help these days. But also, she was bothered, agitated about something. Even I could sense that.
“It’s the racket,” she said. “I can’t hear myself think.” So much for dumb, I thought, but I was glad I’d come. It was probably loneliness. I wondered if she’d taken Bridget out for more than the necessary. If she’d played with Lucille – that’s the Persian – at all.
“How long is Mr. M. away for this time?” I don’t call him Paul, not to her. She gave me a look. Was I that transparent? “It’s just that he seems to exercise the animals quite a lot. Maybe there’s some pent-up energy here.”
“I do plenty.” She drew herself up, all five-foot-nothing of her. “I’d do more if I had the time.” She’d read my mind. “Besides, that’s what Alain is for.”
As I said, it’s none of my business. I smiled as bland a smile as I could conjure up and asked to see the animals. She let me in and I climbed the stairs. Lucille tended to spend her days in Paul’s office. Tucked into the back of the townhouse, it overlooked an alley. The room on the other side had all the sun, but that was Mrs. M’s “atelier.” She did something with design before they had married. Still, Paul had made a cozy space in that back room, with built-in bookshelves and a window seat that opened to hold odds and ends. The aquarium in the corner acted like another window, colorful and full of life. But Lucille had claimed the wide window seat as her own, rather than go for the fish, and I always suspected Paul left that window cracked for her. So she could smell the wide world through the screen. Lucille was a peaceful sort, as long as her position wasn’t questioned. And maybe there were rats in the alley, or at least pigeons.
But even though the midmorning sun was making a rare appearance, highlighting the velvet cushion placed just so, Lucille was nowhere in sight.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into that cat. Maybe it’s age.”
“She’s not that old.” I responded quickly and she gave me that look again. You don’t have to be sensitive to pick some things up. Mrs. M. had wanted to get rid of Lucille from the start. Even after I’d told her that Bridget had fallen hard for the silver feline, and that Lucille had accepted the dog as her charge and loyal subject.
“Well, maybe she’s sick.” She motioned me over to Paul’s desk. I peered underneath. Two green eyes blinked up at me. “You don’t think it’s fleas, do you?”
“No, Mrs. M.” I got down on my hands and knees, cat level, and looked back up at her. From here, she was gigantic. “She never goes out.”
Mrs. M. snorted, if such a ladylike nose could produce such a sound. For a moment, I was afraid she was about to take a seat beside us.
“If I could have a little time with her alone?” I know that look. Those suspicions. But I’m bonded and insured for my other job as a pet sitter. And my specialty really did pay well enough that I wouldn’t have been tempted, even if I was the sort to steal.
She lingered, her pretty eyes narrowed. There was something wrong, something I didn’t like coming off her today. Almost a scent. But like I said, people aren’t my specialty. That feeling – distrust, dislike, whatever you want to call it – could have been coming from me.
At any rate, she left, and I got comfortable on the thick wool rug, just a few feet from Lucille, letting us both get used to each other.
“I didn’t do anything wrong.” The thought came to me entire, not in words exactly but as a sense of hurt. Injustice. Someone had been punished unfairly. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
I looked at the grey Persian before me and contemplated stroking her. Sometimes the physical contact is calming, making a stronger bond and easier connection. Sometimes...
I put my hand out, palm up and fingers extended for her to sniff. She closed her eyes. “So loud.”
“Shh.” She looked up at me then and sniffed my fingers, inviting me to stroke her long, silky fur.
“What was loud, Lucille? Did someone yell at you?”
“Call me Pussums. He always did.” I felt her relax as I rubbed the base of one broad, velvet ear. “And it wasn’t a yell. It was a clap.”
Now we were getting somewhere. I could imagine Mrs. M. slamming those neat, manicured hands together, not caring how sharp the sound to the sensitive feline ears. “Was it Mrs. M?” Lucille looked up at me, silent, and I realized I had no idea what they called her. If they thought of her at all. “Was it the lady?”
“So loud.” Lucille had withdrawn back into herself. “I won’t sit there again.”
I sighed, promising both myself and the Persian that I’d come back before I left, give her silver fur a good brushing. But I wasn’t going to get any more from her now. I worked my way to my feet.
“Wa-awk! Honey.” Rufus, the parrot, noticed me standing, his greeting an eerie echo of Paul’s voice. “Honey?” I didn’t know if he called the bird that, or his wife, but Rufus had it down. “Honey?” Maybe Paul had been trying to get Rufus to learn a trick.
“Hey, Rufus. What’s up? You want me to do something?” The green bird whistled softly. “Wa-awk.” That was it. I don’t get much from birds.
“Mrs. M.?” Usually Bridget had the run of the house, but as I stood on the landing I heard no sign of her. Not the scuffle of claws on hardwood. Certainly not the barking she’d complained of.
“Oh, I’m down here.” I descended to the first floor. She was in the kitchen, browsing the open refrigerator. It must have been the help’s day off.
“You wanted me to see Bridget?” She took out an individual container of yogurt and closed the door behind her, like a safe.
“She’s in the work room.” She meant the basement, and she must have seen the look on my face. “The noise. It’s intolerable.”
She pointed to a door, and I let myself down. Sure enough, as soon as I flipped the light switch, Bridget started yapping, bouncing up and down with an urgency I’d not seen in the tiny toy.
“Must go out! Must go out! Now, now, now!” It came through so clear I found it hard to believe Mrs. M. didn’t hear it. But she stood there, at the stair’s top.
“Has she had her walk?” I looked around for her leash.
“She did her business. I took her down to the shop, too.” Mrs. M had a storefront gallery space for her designs and those of her friends. I thought of it as a clubhouse, but it was a good five blocks away. “Just an hour ago.” She said it like she didn’t expect me to believe her.
“Must go out! Must go out!”
“She seems restless.” My head was hurting. The little dog was loud, and there was an urgency to her yelps.
“Must go out! Now! Now! Now!”
“As you wish.” She raised a hand, clearing herself of any involvement and stepped back from the door. As more light came down, I saw the leash, hanging from a brass hook. But before I could snap it onto Bridget’s collar, the little dog took off. Scrambling up the stairs, she didn’t stop by the front door but made straight for the upper floor. Her claws scraped and scrabbled for their footing and I almost caught up. In this mood, with Lucille already in a funk... Behind us, I heard the clip-clip-clip of Mrs. M.’s heels.
“Must go out! Must go out!” None of this was making sense. The little dog ducked into Paul’s office. Ran up to the window. Lucille was back on her pillow, staring into the alley, her tail hanging limp. Bridget barked up at her. “Must go out!”
“Honey? Honey?” Rufus began flying around his cage, strong green wings beating against the sides. “Honey!”
“Must go out!” The little dog leaped up to the window seat, knocking the silver cat aside as she threw herself against the window screen. “Must go out! Must go out! Master!”
No! That’s what I heard as the silver Persian reared back and hissed. “Stay!” Bridget sat back, stunned.
“Wawk! Honey? Honey don’t!”
Behind me, I heard a gasp. Mrs. M. stood frozen, her face as white as Lucille’s undercoat. Then she turned and clattered down the stairs. The animals stared at her departing back, the blonde head bobbing downwards. “Wa-awk!”
I scooped Lucille up in my arms. She was shaking, her back tense, fur raised.
“Pussums.” I held her close, nuzzling her soft coat until I could feel the trembling subside. “We have to talk.”
By the end of the day, the cops had the whole story. Mrs. M. hadn’t wanted to give it up, but the evidence did it for her. Which was good, because I really didn’t want to explain why I had called. Or how I’d happened to unearth the pearl-handled Remington tucked into the window seat. Why she’d taken it back in, after dispatching her husband, I couldn’t figure. An animal would have had the sense to bury it, to throw it after him into the dumpster. They found Alain, once they knew. He was traveling in Paul’s name, leaving a paper trail that would have had him disappear somewhere in LA. She was more of a California type anyway.
I was sad, of course. Paul had really loved those animals. But I wasn’t surprised. Not really. I guess I’m better at people than I’d thought.
I never did talk to those fish.
"Cries & Whiskers"
"Probable Claws," April '09
"Shades of Grey," Sept. '09
www.cleasimon.com
Dumb Beasts
I really didn’t want to go over when Mrs. M. called. Sheila, as I think of her. With most people I’m on a first-name basis immediately. They’ve invited me into their homes, into some of their most intimate relationships, after all. It only makes sense. But not her. We were introduced formally the first time I came over, but although I immediately reached out, saying, “It’s Beth. Please, call me Beth,” she never reciprocated.
Her husband’s another sort entirely. I think it was his idea to call me the first time. At any rate, he was the one who cared, who wanted everyone to get along. She might’ve complained about the noise, though. I wouldn’t have put that past her.
It was a compatibility issue, that first time. The dog had been hers originally, a yappy little Yorkshire terrier, spoiled and insecure. More of a fashion accessory than a companion, I figured, them both being blondes and all. The Yorkie had been understandably unsettled when they had moved into his townhouse. The presence of his pets – a cat, a parrot, an aquarium full of fish – didn’t help the Yorkie’s mood, and, to be fair, the cat – an elderly Persian – hadn’t made it any easier. But I think they would have worked it out. Animals do. She was the problem. Couldn’t stand the barking, the hissing, the squawking. I tried to tell her it was all part of the change, everybody finding their new place in the social order. She was having none of it. I thought that what really got her was Bridget’s betrayal. Bridget – that’s the Yorkie – took to Paul right away. I try to keep my feelings out of it. I’m not here for the people anyway. It’s all about the animals. That’s why I came over when she called.
Paul was away again. Traveling. I don’t know what he did. Whatever it was, it kept him on the road, but it sure was profitable. I figured the animals missed him. They do, you know, and not just in that obsessive-grooming, separation-anxiety neurotic way. They become used to us, as we do to them.
“Dumb animals,” she said. She didn’t get it, never had, if Bridget’s rapid defection was any clue. Didn’t realize that “dumb” in that context means unable to speak, not stupid. Not that she tried to listen. She was colder than those fish, if you ask me. But then, she didn’t want my opinion so I held my tongue. She wasn’t really the client.
They were, and I find I do best if I keep my mind clear of human thoughts. Complications. I don’t get those as clearly. I think they’re not as clear to their owners, half the time. All those convoluted thoughts and dreams; all that longing. All that rage. Animals are straightforward. I want. I have. I am. It’s not just my natural gift. I really prefer to work with them.
Still, I couldn’t avoid picking up on something when Sheila – Mrs. M. – let me in. First of all, she opened the door herself. The last time I’d been here – a molting issue – there’d been a houseboy. Man servant. Whatever you call the help these days. But also, she was bothered, agitated about something. Even I could sense that.
“It’s the racket,” she said. “I can’t hear myself think.” So much for dumb, I thought, but I was glad I’d come. It was probably loneliness. I wondered if she’d taken Bridget out for more than the necessary. If she’d played with Lucille – that’s the Persian – at all.
“How long is Mr. M. away for this time?” I don’t call him Paul, not to her. She gave me a look. Was I that transparent? “It’s just that he seems to exercise the animals quite a lot. Maybe there’s some pent-up energy here.”
“I do plenty.” She drew herself up, all five-foot-nothing of her. “I’d do more if I had the time.” She’d read my mind. “Besides, that’s what Alain is for.”
As I said, it’s none of my business. I smiled as bland a smile as I could conjure up and asked to see the animals. She let me in and I climbed the stairs. Lucille tended to spend her days in Paul’s office. Tucked into the back of the townhouse, it overlooked an alley. The room on the other side had all the sun, but that was Mrs. M’s “atelier.” She did something with design before they had married. Still, Paul had made a cozy space in that back room, with built-in bookshelves and a window seat that opened to hold odds and ends. The aquarium in the corner acted like another window, colorful and full of life. But Lucille had claimed the wide window seat as her own, rather than go for the fish, and I always suspected Paul left that window cracked for her. So she could smell the wide world through the screen. Lucille was a peaceful sort, as long as her position wasn’t questioned. And maybe there were rats in the alley, or at least pigeons.
But even though the midmorning sun was making a rare appearance, highlighting the velvet cushion placed just so, Lucille was nowhere in sight.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into that cat. Maybe it’s age.”
“She’s not that old.” I responded quickly and she gave me that look again. You don’t have to be sensitive to pick some things up. Mrs. M. had wanted to get rid of Lucille from the start. Even after I’d told her that Bridget had fallen hard for the silver feline, and that Lucille had accepted the dog as her charge and loyal subject.
“Well, maybe she’s sick.” She motioned me over to Paul’s desk. I peered underneath. Two green eyes blinked up at me. “You don’t think it’s fleas, do you?”
“No, Mrs. M.” I got down on my hands and knees, cat level, and looked back up at her. From here, she was gigantic. “She never goes out.”
Mrs. M. snorted, if such a ladylike nose could produce such a sound. For a moment, I was afraid she was about to take a seat beside us.
“If I could have a little time with her alone?” I know that look. Those suspicions. But I’m bonded and insured for my other job as a pet sitter. And my specialty really did pay well enough that I wouldn’t have been tempted, even if I was the sort to steal.
She lingered, her pretty eyes narrowed. There was something wrong, something I didn’t like coming off her today. Almost a scent. But like I said, people aren’t my specialty. That feeling – distrust, dislike, whatever you want to call it – could have been coming from me.
At any rate, she left, and I got comfortable on the thick wool rug, just a few feet from Lucille, letting us both get used to each other.
“I didn’t do anything wrong.” The thought came to me entire, not in words exactly but as a sense of hurt. Injustice. Someone had been punished unfairly. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
I looked at the grey Persian before me and contemplated stroking her. Sometimes the physical contact is calming, making a stronger bond and easier connection. Sometimes...
I put my hand out, palm up and fingers extended for her to sniff. She closed her eyes. “So loud.”
“Shh.” She looked up at me then and sniffed my fingers, inviting me to stroke her long, silky fur.
“What was loud, Lucille? Did someone yell at you?”
“Call me Pussums. He always did.” I felt her relax as I rubbed the base of one broad, velvet ear. “And it wasn’t a yell. It was a clap.”
Now we were getting somewhere. I could imagine Mrs. M. slamming those neat, manicured hands together, not caring how sharp the sound to the sensitive feline ears. “Was it Mrs. M?” Lucille looked up at me, silent, and I realized I had no idea what they called her. If they thought of her at all. “Was it the lady?”
“So loud.” Lucille had withdrawn back into herself. “I won’t sit there again.”
I sighed, promising both myself and the Persian that I’d come back before I left, give her silver fur a good brushing. But I wasn’t going to get any more from her now. I worked my way to my feet.
“Wa-awk! Honey.” Rufus, the parrot, noticed me standing, his greeting an eerie echo of Paul’s voice. “Honey?” I didn’t know if he called the bird that, or his wife, but Rufus had it down. “Honey?” Maybe Paul had been trying to get Rufus to learn a trick.
“Hey, Rufus. What’s up? You want me to do something?” The green bird whistled softly. “Wa-awk.” That was it. I don’t get much from birds.
“Mrs. M.?” Usually Bridget had the run of the house, but as I stood on the landing I heard no sign of her. Not the scuffle of claws on hardwood. Certainly not the barking she’d complained of.
“Oh, I’m down here.” I descended to the first floor. She was in the kitchen, browsing the open refrigerator. It must have been the help’s day off.
“You wanted me to see Bridget?” She took out an individual container of yogurt and closed the door behind her, like a safe.
“She’s in the work room.” She meant the basement, and she must have seen the look on my face. “The noise. It’s intolerable.”
She pointed to a door, and I let myself down. Sure enough, as soon as I flipped the light switch, Bridget started yapping, bouncing up and down with an urgency I’d not seen in the tiny toy.
“Must go out! Must go out! Now, now, now!” It came through so clear I found it hard to believe Mrs. M. didn’t hear it. But she stood there, at the stair’s top.
“Has she had her walk?” I looked around for her leash.
“She did her business. I took her down to the shop, too.” Mrs. M had a storefront gallery space for her designs and those of her friends. I thought of it as a clubhouse, but it was a good five blocks away. “Just an hour ago.” She said it like she didn’t expect me to believe her.
“Must go out! Must go out!”
“She seems restless.” My head was hurting. The little dog was loud, and there was an urgency to her yelps.
“Must go out! Now! Now! Now!”
“As you wish.” She raised a hand, clearing herself of any involvement and stepped back from the door. As more light came down, I saw the leash, hanging from a brass hook. But before I could snap it onto Bridget’s collar, the little dog took off. Scrambling up the stairs, she didn’t stop by the front door but made straight for the upper floor. Her claws scraped and scrabbled for their footing and I almost caught up. In this mood, with Lucille already in a funk... Behind us, I heard the clip-clip-clip of Mrs. M.’s heels.
“Must go out! Must go out!” None of this was making sense. The little dog ducked into Paul’s office. Ran up to the window. Lucille was back on her pillow, staring into the alley, her tail hanging limp. Bridget barked up at her. “Must go out!”
“Honey? Honey?” Rufus began flying around his cage, strong green wings beating against the sides. “Honey!”
“Must go out!” The little dog leaped up to the window seat, knocking the silver cat aside as she threw herself against the window screen. “Must go out! Must go out! Master!”
No! That’s what I heard as the silver Persian reared back and hissed. “Stay!” Bridget sat back, stunned.
“Wawk! Honey? Honey don’t!”
Behind me, I heard a gasp. Mrs. M. stood frozen, her face as white as Lucille’s undercoat. Then she turned and clattered down the stairs. The animals stared at her departing back, the blonde head bobbing downwards. “Wa-awk!”
I scooped Lucille up in my arms. She was shaking, her back tense, fur raised.
“Pussums.” I held her close, nuzzling her soft coat until I could feel the trembling subside. “We have to talk.”
By the end of the day, the cops had the whole story. Mrs. M. hadn’t wanted to give it up, but the evidence did it for her. Which was good, because I really didn’t want to explain why I had called. Or how I’d happened to unearth the pearl-handled Remington tucked into the window seat. Why she’d taken it back in, after dispatching her husband, I couldn’t figure. An animal would have had the sense to bury it, to throw it after him into the dumpster. They found Alain, once they knew. He was traveling in Paul’s name, leaving a paper trail that would have had him disappear somewhere in LA. She was more of a California type anyway.
I was sad, of course. Paul had really loved those animals. But I wasn’t surprised. Not really. I guess I’m better at people than I’d thought.
I never did talk to those fish.
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