“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I just feel that it will, somehow. Trust me when I tell you that you are the reason my heart beats. Being stuck in this stupid upright body doesn’t change that. Now please eat something because Jim is very worried about you. He needs you. I need you.” “I’ll try.” “Goodnight, Sweetie. Dream of warm days and hamstrung squirrels.” “Goodnight Stuart Louis.”

  There was silence at the other end. Picking up the phone, Jim wondered what to do next. Before he could even respond, Sweetie Peters had started eating from the dish of dog food he had set beside her. And not just eating. She was attacking the salmon pâté, her face deep in the bowl. He stared in wonderment, then remembered the phone.

  Stuart ’s job was finished. He handed the phone over to Jen, “Jim?” “Jen, I’m amazed. I don’t know what he said, it sounded like an injured puppy to me, but whatever it was, it worked! She’s eating. I love this guy, whoever he is. Tell him that. And tell him thank you.” I will. Jim, about the guitar— “Never mind that. This means way, way more to me than that. I have forty of them, anyway, goodnight Jen.”

  Via the phone, her voice was full of disbelief. “Forty? What does anybody need with forty guitars?”

  But wholly engrossed in watching Sweetie Peters devour her dinner, he had already hung up.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was a dark and not stormy night (this was Southern California, after all). But it was a bit foggy in Newport as cool sea air moved in over land that had been heated during the day. There was a kiss of condensation on the window behind the table where Jen’s home office was located. Light came from overhead and even brighter light from the laptop whose screen faced away from the window. A figure sat facing the computer, working the keys slowly and carefully. It was not Jen. It was also drooling. Definitely not Jen.

  Stuart gazed hungrily at the computer as he worked through an assortment of screens. He was clumsy at it both because he was still not entirely comfortable manipulating objects with his fingers and because working on the internet was something he knew only from watching Jen. But he had a good memory and sharp eyesight, both of which allowed him to recall entries for passwords and related keystrokes. As he worked he murmured to himself.

  “Bacon and beef! Let’s see—how many?” He read slowly to ensure he was understanding the human words on the screen. “Sixty-four in a box? This is too good to be true!” He squinted at the screen. “Free delivery, woof!”

  The touch of a finger added an order to the electronic shopping cart. The number within the little image of a cart changed to thirty. Nearby was a total for the multiple orders: $596.

  He frowned at the screen. “What do you mean, two day delivery? No way. Can’t wait that long. I need a snack now.” He was on the verge of checking out the button that promised Expedited Delivery when a pop-up ad caught his eye. He read slowly.

  “Win a year’s supply of beef and chicken jerky. Just come to any Petco near you. Bring I.D. to enter. 4 Petco locations near you. Click here!”

  He didn’t hesitate, clicking on the indicated circle immediately. It took him to:

  YELP – 4 PETCO LOCATIONS

  Yet again his non-existent tail set to wagging as he threw up his hands in delight. “Finally! A human device that’s easy to understand. It’s on Yelp street!” Rising from the chair, he hurried in the direction of the bedroom. “Jen—gotta get Jen. Got to enter the contest.” Envisioning a year’s supply of jerky, he started to salivate again. He couldn’t help himself.

  He burst into the bedroom, her name on his lips. It stayed there as he saw that she was sound asleep on the bed. He wanted to wake her; desperately wanted to wake her. But without startling her. She didn’t like it when he did that.

  Leaning over, he gently stroked her shoulder with his right hand, performing the gesture exactly as he would have in his proper guise. Only the pressure was different. When she did not respond, he added a soft whine. That usually worked. This time he could also whisper her name, and did so.

  She let out a snort that would not have embarrassed a prize porker and rolled over, away from him. Drawing back from the bed, his mind filled with visions of beef jerky falling like attenuated dark raindrops, he considered what to do next. There were other things he could try, other ways of waking her that he knew would work. Peeing on the bed was definitely out. So was bringing in his water dish and dumping it on her head. He could bark in her ear, but the one time he had done that to wake her it had not ended well.

  Wait a minute, he thought. Why did he even need Jen? He knew his way around the general neighborhood. Those places he hadn’t walked he had ridden in the car with Jen, his head stuck out the passenger-side window, taking in everything they passed. He remembered the nearest Petco store: both its appearance and its smells. Surely he could find it on his own? All he needed was a little help, and he felt certain he could find that. Total strangers had always been ready and happy to interact with him.

  “Where’s my I.D.?” he muttered softly. His words didn’t rouse Jen, but he had moved on beyond waking her. Turning to go, he hesitated, then walked back to the bed. Carefully, he gripped the edge of her blanket and pulled it high, covering her up to her neck. He knew exactly how to do it—because she had done exactly the same thing for him, so many times.

  Downstairs, he started for the front door, then paused, mumbling to himself. “Where’s my I.D.?” If there was one thing he knew for certain, it was never to leave the house without his I.D. Grabbing it off the hook by the front door, he left quietly, making sure to shut the door firmly behind him.

  While it did not take him long to make his way to the nearest commercial district, no Petco store was immediately evident. He wandered a bit, checking one storefront after another without success. He felt no compunction about asking for directions.

  Any other healthy male of his apparent age and appearance would have employed a different opening line with the two gorgeous girls walking toward him. Stuart queried them without hesitation.

  “Hi. Do you know where the Petco is?”

  They kept on walking past him, without answering. His question did throw them off, however.

  “Petco?” one wondered aloud. “Is that, like a college?”

  Her companion frowned. “Like a prep school?”

  They were still debating as Stuart approached an older couple. “Hi. I’m looking for the Petco.”

  They both gave him the once over. While his appearance and demeanor might have caused comment someplace like Topeka, he fit perfectly in Newport Beach. The man pointed west.

  “That way. It’s a bit of a hike from here.”

  “Great.” Stuart looked in the indicated direction. “Is it the one on Yelp?”

  “Don’t be silly, young man.” The woman smiled at him. “They’re all on Yelp.”

  “Really? Thank you!” He hugged her before she had a chance to wave him off, then turned to her husband. The older man raised his hands defensively, but by then Stuart was heading up the street. Shaking her head, the woman commented to her spouse.

  “Milton, did you ever think the day would come when we would know more about the internet than some hippie boy?” They shared a laugh at the notion.

  Stuart loved to run, but it was much more difficult on two legs and he soon found himself out of breath. There had to be a better way.

  Not far ahead and off to his right, people were pulling up to a nightclub and dropping off their cars. First one valet then another ran up to take keys from owners. Stuart headed in their direction. Breathing hard and unsure what to do next, he wandered into the middle of the lineup just as a white Jaguar pulled in. Exiting his vehicle, the burly, well-dressed owner spotted an out-of-breath Stuart and, not unreasonably, assumed he was one of the club valets. Also, there were friends waiting for him on the inside and he was late and in a hurry. So much of a hurry that it never crossed his mind Stuart was anything but what he seemed.

  “Working hard tonight, kid. You know, when I was sixteen I worked three years parking cars in a spread-out venue like this. It kept me in shape. Builds your wind.” He tossed the keys toward Stuart, who caught them reflexively.

  “Park it close by and I’ll take care of ya.” He nodded toward the club, from which loud music was seeping. “I’ll be awhile.”

  Wide-eyed and innocent, Stuart looked from the keys to their owner. “Thanks. It’s just what I need.”

  “Yeah.” The owner of the Jag adjusted his jacket and headed for the club entrance. “Everybody needs a good workout.”

  Stuart had no trouble quickly climbing into the car and sliding behind the wheel, but he took his time studying the instrumentation.

  “Jen does it like this,” he said to himself. “Always has her left hand on the steering wheel. Right hand works everything else.” He reached toward the side of the steering column. “Turn this key in here.” Rewarded with the rumble of the engine starting up, he contemplated his next action. “Push this here to put it on the little ‘D’, and then step on this flat thing down on the floor.”

  With an ear-pleasing vroom, the Jag shot off into the night. That it missed the curb, the next car in line waiting to be parked, a fire hydrant, two power poles, and an outraged cat, was due more to good luck than any incipient driving skills on Stuart’s part. This was confirmed when the speedometer passed a hundred. A cacophony of horns accompanied the Jag’s wild acceleration as it occurred to Stuart he might be going just a teensy bit too fast.

  “Ahhhh!...Jen makes it look so easy!”

  Eyes wide, both hands clamped on the wheel, he remembered the function of the other pedal and stomped the brake. Demonstrating the car’s excellent responsiveness, it immediately did two consecutive three-sixties before coming to a stop with the brake pedal pressed all the way to the floor.

  Breathing hard, he slowly released the brake. The car began to move again. Merging with the traffic allowed him to maintain an appropriate speed without having to study any signs. Without any clear idea of where he was going, he experimented with an assortment of controls. Music came on, was turned off. While he usually enjoyed music in a car he didn’t need any distractions. Another switch lowered the driver’s side window. Hey, once you got control of it, driving a car was fun! He stuck his head out the window, tongue lolling as he delighted in the feel of the wind on his face.

  What was even better was that all the other cars got out of his way as he swerved from lane to lane. Sometimes, he thought, humans could be really polite. He let out a howl of pleasure.

  Sitting in his cruiser in the Starbuck’s parking lot, the officer of the law stared over the muffin he had been noshing as the Jaguar zoomed off the street, onto the sidewalk, and back out onto the street, scattering a strolling couple but fortunately not hitting anyone. The cop was not a rookie and this was Southern California, but it had still been a while since he had seen anything quite so shameless. Usually when such brazen incidents occurred they were reported to him over the radio. They didn’t happen in your face. There was no way, he knew, that the driver of the Jag could have failed to see the police cruiser sitting right there at the front of the lot. It made him so angry he dropped his muffin on the floor, which made him even angrier.

  Focused on staying in at least one of the lanes on the boulevard, Stuart merrily ignored the flashing lights behind him, just as he ignored the spotlight that was being shined in his direction.

  “This is officer Jackson, PC two-seventeen on Ocean Blvd. heading north,” the flabbergasted cop was saying into his radio pickup. “Requesting backup. We have a three-oh-two in progress.” He paused a moment as he adjusted the spotlight. “I’ve got a light right on the driver and he’s just ignoring me. It’s like he doesn’t even know I’m here. Either he’s wasted or indifferent; I can’t tell which. He’s not running—yet. Just cruising, but all over the place and at speed. We need to get this guy off the street now.”

  So quiet. So peaceful. Rolling over, Jen slung her right arm across her body. Fingertips struck the end table and the contact was enough to cause her eyes to flutter. Yawning, she began to wake up. It was dead quiet in the bedroom. The individual who usually greeted her upon awakening did not show himself. Neither in his original form nor in his present two-legged one.

  “Stuart? Stuart, are you under the bed?” She sat up and turned on the light. No hint of movement disturbed the bedroom and nothing called back to her from from under the bed or downstairs. “Stuart!”

  There was no response.

  The howling was remarkable for its persistence and intensity. As an imitation it was uncannily accurate. Had it been rolled out on a talent show it likely would have taken first prize. But there were no prizes in jail. And the audience of prisoners was less than appreciative. A number of them had retreated to the far side of the large holding cell, their hands pressed over their ears. The only prisoner capable of putting a quick stop to the aural outrage did not. Instead, this massive, tattooed, bald-headed specimen stood off to one side sobbing softly to himself. The howling sounded exactly like the pet mastiff he had lost to disease only a few months ago, although the present iteration was considerably higher pitched.

  “Holy….” The guard increased his pace as he neared the cell. “Who’s making that racket? Is this a jail or a damn kennel? Shut up, whoever you are!” He called out before reaching the cell and discovering the source of the canid lamentation. “Stuart Louis! You have one call.”

  Stuart shut down before the guard could identify him as the unrepentant howler. When the jailer opened the holding cell and a now silent Stuart exited, his departure was greeted with a round of relieved applause from the other prisoners.

  “Is it Jen?” Stuart asked anxiously. He was trembling. “I hope so. I’m so scared.” The guard did not reply.

  Outside the holding area, the jailer picked up a large plastic zip bag. It contained the few personal effects that had been found on the prisoner. Among them was Stuart’s dog collar. Holding it up to the light, the sergeant squinted to read the inscribed phone number on one of the metal tags.

  “That’s my collar,” Stuart offered helpfully.

  The guard nodded without looking at him.

  “My owner gave it to me,” the prisoner added.

  “Uh-huh.” The sergeant favored him with a sour expression. “Is that supposed to shock me? This is Southern California. You’d be surprised how many of these I’ve seen. Or maybe you wouldn’t.” Picking up a phone, he began dialing the number off the tag.

  Having dressed hurriedly, her hair still unkempt, Jen was searching the house. She checked all Stuart’s usual hiding places, to no avail. Nor did he respond to her repeated calls. It was while engaged in a careful search of the kitchen that she happened to notice that his collar was missing from the coat rack. Confused, she walked toward it. There was no sign of the collar on any of the hooks, nor on the floor. She was about to search the pantry when the phone rang.

  Ordinarily she would not have answered an unknown number on her home phone. However, the screen displayed the callback as “Newport Police Dept.”. She might have ignored that as well, given the likelihood that it was some kind of spam call. Except—Stuart was missing. Blood drained from her face. In his present form, anything could happen to Stuart. Or Stuart could happen to anything. Regardless, a missing Stuart plus police department was under any circumstances not a promising combination.

  “Hello? This is Jen Jensen. Who am I speaking with? Is this really the police department?”

  “Miss Jensen,” came the no-nonsense reply, “this is Sergeant Miranda with the Newport Police. We have a Stuart Louis here at our central holding facility.”

  “Oh my god.” She put a hand to her lips. “Is he okay? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “‘Some kind’, yes, you could say that. We’re holding him because he is involved with the theft of a vehicle, reckless driving, speeding, evading an officer of the law, driving on a sidewalk, and not having proper identification. Not to mention not being in possession of a driver’s license and disturbing the peace inside a public facility. He requested that you be his one call.”

  It being too much to take in at one time, Jen found herself stuck on the initial accusation. “Stolen car? How? He doesn’t drive. He doesn’t know how to drive.”

  “Funny,” came the reply. “That’s what arresting officer Jackson said.”

  She started looking around for her purse and car keys. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Ma’m,” the sergeant explained firmly, “there’s no need to come. You won’t be able to receive him this evening. Or likely in the morning, for that matter. Grand theft auto is not a game. Well, it is a game, but we’re talking the real thing here. It’s a felony and he will have to see a judge first thing tomorrow. It will be out of my hands then and everything will be decided in court.” His tone darkened. “Frankly, given the number of charges levied against him, I wouldn’t be overly optimistic as to the outcome.”

  “There are, uh, extenuating circumstances,” she mumbled.

  “That’s good, ma’m. I’m sure the judge will take them, whatever they are, into account.”

  “He’s okay, right? He’s not hurt or anything?”

  “Physically, he’s fine,” the officer told her. “He wasn’t in an accident or a collision, and fortunately he didn’t hurt anybody. From the report I read that seems to be something of a minor miracle. But he is howling.”

  “Howling?” Jen continued without thinking. “That’s normal. Thank you, officer. I’ll be there in the morning.”

  Wait, Miranda told himself. “Normal”? With a shrug he prepared to return to the prisoner to the holding cell. As he had observed earlier, this was Southern California.

  Hanging up, Jen looked into the bedroom mirror. The face that stared back at her was more than a little nonplussed as she mumbled to herself.