I jog in the direction Jazzy pointed and Dean indicated, ears peeled for Bean’s excited bark. Sure enough, I hear her. As I close in on her location, I note the familiar squawks of a flock of frightened fowl. An elderly female voice croaks, “Get out of my yard, beast!”
I dart inside the chain-link fence to find a white-haired woman in a pistachio green bathrobe brandishing the business end of a broom at Bean who seems completely oblivious of the threat. My dog barks and runs at the chickens, darting in toward the flock here and there to prevent any of them from making a great escape. Even though they aren’t really trying to.
“Bean, come here!” I hold out the cooked chicken. “Look, girl, chicken. Your favorite!”
Bean looks torn. She barks at a terrified hen that was trying to sneak toward the coop, but then her black nose twitches my way. For a moment, it looks like the live chickens will win out over the edible version. Then, she gives up and trots over to me to accept her prize. I seize her collar.
“I’m so sorry—” I start to say to the woman, but when I meet her eyes, she looks scandalized. “Don’t feed that horrible dog chicken in front of my flock!”
I stammer. “I, uh, I mean, I was trying to get her—”
“Savage! Brute!” The woman yells at Bean and me. “Get out of my yard, both of you!” She twists the broom around and thrusts the handle end my way like a sword or javelin. I pull Bean out of her reach.
“Yes, ma’am, we’re leaving.” As my border collie chows down on the rest of the meat, I hustle her out of the yard, a hand on her collar. She casts a last, sorry look back at the flustered hens and the indignant woman, but then walks calmly by my side back to Tamara and Dean’s house.
This is getting out of hand. Bean needs a distraction from her fowl obsession. If she doesn’t take to the disc chasing, we’ll have to find something else. Because this kind of behavior can’t continue.
Either Bean will end up in animal jail, or a feathered friend will end up in hen heaven. And I’m determined not to see either of those things happen.
Chapter Six
Logan
I love every run I take, always have, but for various reasons some are better than others. This one, on a regular Wednesday afternoon, is special because the weather’s great, and I get to hear the monkeys.
Let me be clear: monkeys are not indigenous to Denver, Colorado.
But they do hang out at the Denver Zoo, which backs up to City Park. So, sometimes, as I run past the perimeter wall, I hear them calling to each other with their high-pitched screeches and lower howls. It’s pretty cool.
Then, within minutes, I spot the graylag goose couple. These birds are large and—you guessed it—gray, with creamy white tail feathers, a garish orange beak, and pink legs. Graylags normally live in Europe, but this pair obviously got lost somewhere around Iceland and now summer at Duck Lake, a pond in the park that borders the zoo side. I keep an eye out for them on my runs.
Why do I watch for geese while running? Okay, I’ll admit it, I love birds. Amateur ornithology is my jam, a hobby I learned from my dad. On summer evenings when I was growing up, we’d go out around the neighborhood with binoculars and a bird book and spot different species like flickers, woodpeckers, nuthatches, and hummingbirds. Stevie sometimes came with us.
It’s not the hippest hobby a thirty-year-old guy can have, but what can I say. I like it. And Stevie thinks it’s cool, so there’s that.
Anyway, the graylags paddle around on the lake, along with various diving ducks like widgeons, scaups, dabblers, and the scads of Canada geese that always seem to be around. I slow to a walk and watch the geese and ducks for a minute as they plunge headfirst into the water in search of food.
Life isn’t easy for any animal on this planet, and I’ve always admired birds’ ability to look casually unperturbed while doing their best to survive the effects of us humans, plus Mother Nature.
I check my watch. Time to meet Stevie and Bean at the club meeting. I jog that way, and zero in on them immediately. I’d never say this out loud, but I have a weird internal homing device when it comes to Stevie.
Ever since we were kids, I’ve always known when she was around. Like, I could tell if she was in my backyard before she knocked. Or if she rolled her bike out of the garage before she had a chance to text me to go somewhere with her. One time, during our senior year at Denver East High School, which happens to sit on the opposite side of City Park from the zoo, I’d asked a friend of Stevie’s if she’d seen her. She said she thought Stevie had gone home. But I knew she was there. I felt her. And more than that, I had the feeling she was upset.
Feeling like a weirdo, but convinced I was right, I’d lurked outside the girl’s bathroom. Sure enough, Stevie had come out a couple of minutes later, her eye makeup streaked under her eyes and clutching a wad of tissues. Her jerk boyfriend had broken up with her after sixth period, and she’d spent the rest of the afternoon crying in a stall.
Instead of a Spidey-sense, I have a Stevie-sense.
Now, she’s talking to Emmy and Jude while Bean sits and watches the other dogs run after their discs.
Stevie greets me with a smile. “I was about to show them what Bean has learned.”
“It’s pretty amazing,” I tell the others.
“Let’s see what you and Bean got,” Jude says to Stevie with a smile. I study him for a second. He’s a good-looking dude, fit with a lot of thick dark hair. He’s shorter than me, but only by a few inches.
Stevie pulls a peanut butter packet out of her pocket, tears it open and lets Bean sniff it, then she rubs a bit of butter on the edge of the disc. “I came up with this idea to get Bean interested in the disc even when it wasn’t mealtime. It worked pretty well.”
She holds the disc in front of Bean’s nose, and when she’s sufficiently focused, spins it about six feet away. Bean runs after it and licks the peanut butter off.
“Pick it up, Beanie,” Stevie says. “Pick it up!”
After a second, Bean does.
“Okay, come back!” Stevie says. When Bean doesn’t obey, Stevie gently tugs on the long lead she’d bought this week on Emmy’s advice, and Bean trots back, looking proud.
Jude claps and Emmy smiles brightly. “That’s amazing progress for one week.”
Stevie rubs Bean’s head. “I think she really enjoys it.”
“She’s ready for training, phase two,” Jude says.
“What’s phase two?” Stevie tilts her head and pushes her hair out of her face where it fell when she leaned over to pet Bean. I wish I wasn’t so aware of her little movements like that.
“More of what you’re already doing. Keep throwing the disc for her with the lead on,” he says. “Start short and then throw it a little farther each time. While you’re at it, you can work on your throw.”
Stevie wrinkles her nose. “Am I that bad?”
Jude shakes his head and answers quickly. “No, not at all.”
Emmy raises an eyebrow as Stevie and I smirk at the obvious lie.
“Everyone can use some work on throws,” he clarifies. “I’ll give you a few pointers now, if you want.”