Norah's Ark

At noon, I jogged up to Belles & Beaus to make an emergency bird feed delivery. They’ve installed a large cage in the foyer and I filled it with peach-faced lovebirds to greet their customers. I love a lovebird—makes sense, doesn’t it?—because they are playful and energetic and yes, can be taught to give kisses. Though it’s a completely up-to-date spa, the main floor has been kept to look like the Victorian house that it is. Lush pinks, lace, teacups, ornate furniture and all the things the Victorians loved are accounted for in this place. It would make me wacky to have to work in such sensory excess, but it’s popular with its clientele. I admit I can stand it quite nicely, however, for as long as it takes to have a facial or a pedicure.

On the way back to the Ark, I stuck my head into the open door of the building that was to be the new toy shop. The man and woman stripping wallpaper in the back of the room jumped as if I’d fired a rifle when I knocked on the door.

“Not open until next week,” he yelled.

“I don’t want anything except to welcome you to the neighborhood.” I took a step inside the door. “I’m Norah Kent, from Norah’s Ark pet shop.”

Reluctantly, as if they were walking in cold molasses, the couple moved toward me. They were in their midfifties, dressed in jeans, T-shirts and tennis shoes.

Something had gone awry in these people’s lives. I could see it in the deeply etched frown lines bracketing his lips and the deeply cut wrinkles making her forehead nearly as furrowed as the Shar-pei puppies I sometimes sell.

These people, with their grim expressions, didn’t look like they belonged on happy-go-lucky Pond Street. Neither did they look like owners of a toy store. Or maybe I’d confused them with the cultural image of Santa Claus. Toy store owners didn’t have to have round bellies, pink cheeks and perpetually be saying, “Ho-ho-ho.”

“I’m Franklin Morris and this is my wife, Julie.” He reluctantly stuck out his hand for a shake.

Franklin and Julie. Simple, commonplace names for ordinary people. What kinds of monikers had I expected? Big Bad Wolf and Cruella De Vil?

“Looks like you still have some work to do before opening day.” The fellows who built the pyramids didn’t have to work any harder than these guys would to get this place done in a week.

“Yes,” Franklin said tersely.

“Are you hiring any help?” My voice was beginning to sound falsely chipper—annoying even to my own ears.

“No.”

“Doing it yourself, then?”

“Yes.”

Well, don’t talk my ear off!

“We’re in a little over our head. The building is in poorer shape than we realized.”

Overwhelmed. Now that I can understand.

“If you need help, holler. We treat each other like family here on Pond Street.”

Franklin and Julie exchanged glances, their expressions indicating that they weren’t sure if this was good news or not. Then Julie rallied. “Thanks so much for stopping by. I’ll visit your pet store after we get settled.”

I had to be content with that. First Connor, then the policeman and now the new toy store owners. Suddenly there were a lot of strangers on Pond Street.

I hadn’t noticed Auntie Lou sitting in the shade in a big balloonlike hanging wicker basket chair left over from the late seventies until she accosted me with her broomstick. She was so short that her feet didn’t touch the ground and the chair all but gobbled her up. She was still wearing her cloche hat but did have her teeth in now which smoothed out a few wrinkles. Occasionally Lou’s choppers clatter when she talks so it’s fifty-fifty which is actually better—teeth in or teeth out. Sometimes it sounds like she’s playing the castanets when she talks.

“How’s the cat doing?” I looked around but didn’t see him in her window.

“Big slug is sound asleep on my bed. Eat, purr, sleep. Eat, purr, sleep. That’s all he does.”

“Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do?”

“What about mousing? A batch of field mice could set up shop right next to him and he’d never blink,” she said with a smile.

“Give him time, Lou. He’s just getting settled in.”

“Settled-schmettled. He’s just as lazy as my former husband.”

And, I realized, that the backhanded statement had somehow been a compliment for both the cat and the man.

“Can you sit awhile?” Auntie Lou asked hopefully.

“Not now, but I’ll come over later and pin up that dress you need hemmed.”

“You’re a good girl, Norah. What would I do without you?” Auntie Lou patted my hand with such gentle affection I felt tears coming to my eyes.

Chapter Four

My place is a townhouse situated on Lake Zachary that I purchased from my father, who’d once owned it as investment property. I’d renovated it and made it my ideal retreat. After work I hurried there for Bentley, who had opted for a morning at home over a day at the shop with me. Bentley enjoys his peace and quiet but he’s not immune to getting lonesome. Especially for moi.

How do I know my dog likes it quiet? At Norah’s Ark, every time Winky starts whooping it up or a batch of puppies start squealing, he flops on the floor and manages to get his front legs and paws up over his ears as if to say, “Turn down the volume.” When my television is too loud, Bentley stands in front of it growling at the screen until I adjust the sound. Bentley definitely needs his quiet time.

Actually, what Bentley really needs is therapy. I rescued him from a shelter nearly two years ago. One day I saw the Humane Society sign and turned in to the lot as though someone else was driving the car and I was simply along for the ride. The car parked itself, expelled me from the driver’s seat and my legs, under no direction from my mind, walked inside.

I’ve never been able to go into a Humane Society without coming out with a pet or two—or three, if you count that ferret—that’s why I regularly mail my donations rather than deliver them in person. Someone other than me should have a chance to save the entire animal kingdom. But that day, maybe because I’d just moved into my home and tripled my living space, I’d felt a giddy sense of freedom.

That same lack of restraint kicked into high gear as I heard myself say to the receptionist, “I’d like to see the dog here that needs rescuing the most.”

Without a blink, she led me to a cage at the back of the dog room holding a pathetic black-and-white creature. Mangy and flea-bitten, with mud up to his belly, his head was drooped so low that his nose nearly touched the floor. But as we neared, the pup’s head came up, his deep brown eyes connected with mine and zing, Cupid’s arrow—Lilly says it was actually Stupid’s arrow—hit me right between the eyes.

That “love at first sight” thing? I’m not sure it happens with humans, but it does with dogs. Bentley and I started a love affair right then and there.

“A bath might help,” the woman said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have shown him to you until he was cleaned up, but you asked….”

“Any story on him?” His eyes never left mine.

“Not that I know of. He’d been showing up at some garbage cans behind a restaurant, waiting for someone to drop something he could eat. Apparently the staff started ‘dropping’ more food than the manager liked, so he called us. Our vet thinks he’s part beagle, part Staffordshire terrier and maybe a dribble of pit bull, although you’d never know it by his disposition. We’ve nicknamed him Romeo because he’s so eager for love.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been abused because he’s nervous,” she continued. “But he’s also a survivor, no doubt about that.”

I stared at the little mixed package. His head, ears and soft eyes recalled a beagle, but his solid, stocky body and thick, shiny hair were reminiscent of a Staffordshire. His physical look reminded me of Sylvester Stallone of Rambo fame. His personality? Pure Rodney Dangerfield.

Of course, as Paul Harvey says, it’s easy to guess “the rest of the story.”

Bentley has come out of it beautifully—physically, that is. He’s black-and-white, with a black eye patch, one black ear and one mottled gray one. He has the stocky body of a strong dog thanks to that dash of pit bull in the soup, most likely. His nose is one great big black licorice dot and his expression is sweet. He’s all bark and no bite, although he can growl fiercely from the pit of his stomach if he’s frightened. He frightens himself quite regularly by looking in my full-length mirror.

But while Bentley has physical bearing, he’s a neurotic canine. He’s allergic to loud noises, most men and cheap dog food. At first, even my dad couldn’t get close to him without Bentley planting his feet firmly and rumbling from somewhere deep in his belly. A street dog has to learn to fight even if its true nature is more Romeo than Rambo.

When Dad finally got sick of all the dog’s posturing and took two steps toward him, Bentley dropped to the floor and rolled on his back, belly exposed for scratching, panting happily. Bentley has a highly ineffective force field of protection. Talk about being all bark and no bite.

Anyway, Bentley was at the door to greet me with the giddy, I’m-so-happy-to-see-you-because-I-thought-you-had-abandoned-me act he does—a series of flips and circles, frantic running to and fro across the living room floor making excited woo-wooing sounds and finally, a dramatic collapse into a heap at my feet.