Marley and me Part 5

Not everything went down easily, and Marley vomited with the ease and regularity of a hard-core bulimic. We would hear him let out a loud gaaaaack! gaaaaack! in the next room, and by the time we rushed in, there would be another household item, sitting in a puddle of half-digested mangoes and dog chow. Being considerate, Marley never puked on the hardwood floors or even the kitchen linoleum if he could help it. He always aimed for the Persian rug. in the next room, and by the time we rushed in, there would be another household item, sitting in a puddle of half-digested mangoes and dog chow. Being considerate, Marley never puked on the hardwood floors or even the kitchen linoleum if he could help it. He always aimed for the Persian rug.

Jenny and I had the foolish notion that it would be nice to have a dog we could trust to be alone in the house for short periods. Locking him in the bunker every time we stepped out was becoming tedious, and as Jenny said, "What's the point of having a dog if he can't greet you at the door when you get home?" We knew full well we didn't dare leave him in the house unaccompanied if there was any possibility of a rainstorm. Even with his doggie downers, he still proved himself capable of digging quite energetically for China. When the weather was clear, though, we didn't want to have to lock him in the garage every time we stepped out for a few minutes.

We began leaving him briefly while we ran to the store or dropped by a neighbor's house. Sometimes he did just fine and we would return to find the house unscathed. On these days, we would spot his black nose pushed through the miniblinds as he stared out the living room window waiting for us. Other days he didn't do quite so well, and we usually knew trouble awaited us before we even opened the door because he was not at the window but off hiding somewhere.

In Jenny's sixth month of pregnancy, we returned after being away for less than an hour to find Marley under the bed-at his size, he really had to work to get under there-looking like he'd just murdered the mailman. Guilt radiated off him. The house seemed fine, but we knew he was hiding some dark secret, and we walked from room to room, trying to ascertain just what he had done wrong. Then I noticed that the foam cover to one of the stereo speakers was missing. We looked everywhere for it. Gone without a trace. Marley just might have gotten away with it had I not found incontrovertible evidence of his guilt when I went on p.o.o.p patrol the next morning. Remnants of the speaker cover surfaced for days.

During our next outing, Marley surgically removed the woofer cone from the same speaker. The speaker wasn't knocked over or in any way amiss; the paper cone was simply gone, as if someone had sliced it out with a razor blade. Eventually he got around to doing the same to the other speaker. Another time, we came home to find that our four-legged footstool was now three-legged, and there was no sign whatsoever-not a single splinter-of the missing limb.

We swore it could never snow in South Florida, but one day we opened the front door to find a full blizzard in the living room. The air was filled with soft white fluff floating down. Through the near whiteout conditions we spotted Marley in front of the fireplace, half buried in a snowdrift, violently shaking a large feather pillow from side to side as though he had just bagged an ostrich.

For the most part we were philosophical about the damage. In every dog owner's life a few cherished family heirlooms must fall. Only once was I ready to slice him open to retrieve what was rightfully mine.

For her birthday I bought Jenny an eighteen-karat gold necklace, a delicate chain with a tiny clasp, and she immediately put it on. But a few hours later she pressed her hand to her throat and screamed, "My necklace! It's gone." The clasp must have given out or never been fully secured.

"Don't panic," I told her. "We haven't left the house. It's got to be right here somewhere." We began scouring the house, room by room. As we searched, I gradually became aware that Marley was more rambunctious than usual. I straightened up and looked at him. He was squirming like a centipede. When he noticed I had him in my sights, he began evasive action. Oh, no, Oh, no, I thought-the Marley Mambo. It could mean only one thing. I thought-the Marley Mambo. It could mean only one thing.

"What's that," Jenny asked, panic rising in her voice, "hanging out of his mouth?"

It was thin and delicate. And gold. "Oh, s.h.i.+t!" I said.

"No sudden moves," she ordered, her voice dropping to a whisper. We both froze.

"Okay, boy, it's all right," I coaxed like a hostage negotiator on a SWAT team. "We're not mad at you. Come on now. We just want the necklace back." Instinctively, Jenny and I began to circle him from opposite directions, moving with glacial slowness. It was as if he were wired with high explosives and one false move could set him off.

"Easy, Marley," Jenny said in her calmest voice. "Easy now. Drop the necklace and no one gets hurt."

Marley eyed us suspiciously, his head darting back and forth between us. We had him cornered, but he knew he had something we wanted. I could see him weighing his options, a ransom demand, perhaps. Leave two hundred unmarked Milk-Bones in a plain paper bag or you'll never see your precious little necklace again. Leave two hundred unmarked Milk-Bones in a plain paper bag or you'll never see your precious little necklace again.

"Drop it, Marley," I whispered, taking another small step forward. His whole body began to wag. I crept forward by degrees. Almost imperceptibly, Jenny closed in on his flank. We were within striking distance. We glanced at each other and knew, without speaking, what to do. We had been through the Property Recovery Drill countless times before. She would lunge for the hindquarters, pinning his back legs to prevent escape. I would lunge for the head, prying open his jaws and nabbing the contraband. With any luck, we'd be in and out in a matter of seconds. That was the plan, and Marley saw it coming.

We were less than two feet away from him. I nodded to Jenny and silently mouthed, "On three." But before we could make our move, he threw his head back and made a loud smacking sound. The tail end of the chain, which had been dangling out of his mouth, disappeared. "He's eating it!" Jenny screamed. Together we dove at him, Jenny tackling him by the hind legs as I gripped him in a headlock. I forced his jaws open and pushed my whole hand into his mouth and down his throat. I probed every flap and crevice and came up empty. "It's too late," I said. "He swallowed it." Jenny began slapping him on the back, yelling, "Cough it up, d.a.m.n it!" But it was no use. The best she got out of him was a loud, satisfied burp.

Marley may have won the battle, but we knew it was just a matter of time before we won the war. Nature's call was on our side. Sooner or later, what went in had to come out. As disgusting as the thought was, I knew if I poked through his excrement long enough, I would find it. Had it been, say, a silver chain, or a gold-plated chain, something of any less value, my queasiness might have won out. But this chain was solid gold and had set me back a decent chunk of pay. Grossed out or not, I was going in.

And so I prepared Marley his favorite laxative-a giant bowl of dead-ripe sliced mangoes-and settled in for the long wait. For three days I followed him around every time I let him out, eagerly waiting to swoop in with my shovel. Instead of tossing his piles over the fence, I carefully placed each on a wide board in the gra.s.s and poked it with a tree branch while I sprayed with a garden hose, gradually was.h.i.+ng the digested material away into the gra.s.s and leaving behind any foreign objects. I felt like a gold miner working a sluice and coming up with a treasure trove of swallowed junk, from shoelaces to guitar picks. But no necklace. Where the h.e.l.l was it? Shouldn't it have come out by now? I began wondering if I had missed it, accidentally was.h.i.+ng it into the gra.s.s, where it would remain lost forever. But how could I miss a twenty-inch gold chain? Jenny was following my recovery operation from the porch with keen interest and even came up with a new nickname for me. "Hey, Scat Man Doo, any luck yet?" she called out.

On the fourth day, my perseverance paid off. I scooped up Marley's latest deposit, repeating what had become my daily refrain-"I can't believe I'm doing this"-and began poking and spraying. As the p.o.o.p melted away, I searched for any sign of the necklace. Nothing. I was about to give up when I spotted something odd: a small brown lump, about the size of a lima bean. It wasn't even close to being large enough to be the missing jewelry, yet clearly it did not seem to belong there. I pinned it down with my probing branch, which I had officially christened the s.h.i.+t Stick, and gave the object a strong blast from the hose nozzle. As the water washed it clean, I got a glimmer of something exceptionally bright and s.h.i.+ny. Eureka! I had struck gold.

The necklace was impossibly compressed, many times smaller than I would have guessed possible. It was as though some unknown alien power, a black hole perhaps, had sucked it into a mysterious dimension of s.p.a.ce and time before spitting it out again. And, actually, that wasn't too far from the truth. The strong stream of water began to loosen the hard wad, and gradually the lump of gold unraveled back to its original shape, untangled and unmangled. Good as new. No, actually better than new. I took it inside to show Jenny, who was ecstatic to have it back, despite its dubious pa.s.sage. We both marveled at how blindingly bright it was now-far more dazzling than when it had gone in. Marley's stomach acids had done an amazing job. It was the most brilliant gold I had ever seen. "Man," I said with a whistle. "We should open a jewelry-cleaning business."

"We could make a killing with the dowagers in Palm Beach," Jenny agreed.

"Yes, ladies," I parroted in my best slick-salesman voice, "our secret patented process is not available at any store! The proprietary Marley Method will restore your treasured valuables to a blinding brilliance you never thought possible."

"It's got possibilities, Grogan," Jenny said, and went off to disinfect her recovered birthday present. She wore that gold chain for years, and every time I looked at it I had the same vivid flashback to my brief and ultimately successful career in gold speculation. Scat Man Doo and his trusty s.h.i.+t Stick had gone where no man had ever gone before. And none should ever go again.

CHAPTER 12.

Welcome to the Indigent Ward.

You don't give birth to your first child every day, and so, when St. Mary's Hospital in West Palm Beach offered us the option of paying extra for a luxury birthing suite, we jumped at the chance. The suites looked like upper-end hotel rooms, s.p.a.cious, bright, and well appointed with wood-grained furniture, floral wallpaper, curtains, a whirlpool bath, and, just for Dad, a comfy couch that folded out into a bed. Instead of standard-issue hospital food, "guests" were offered a choice of gourmet dinners. You could even order a bottle of champagne, though this was mostly for the fathers to chug on their own, as breast-feeding mothers were discouraged from having more than a celebratory sip.

"Man, it's just like being on vacation!" I exclaimed, bouncing on the Dad Couch as we took a tour several weeks before Jenny's due date.

The suites catered to the yuppie set and were a big source of profits for the hospital, bringing in hard cash from couples with money to blow above the standard insurance allotment for deliveries. A bit of an indulgence, we agreed, but why not?

When Jenny's big day came and we arrived at the hospital, overnight bag in hand, we were told there was a little problem.

"A problem?" I asked.

"It must be a good day for having babies," the receptionist said cheerfully. "All the birthing suites are already taken."

Taken? This was the most important day of our lives. What about the comfy couch and romantic dinner for two and champagne toast? "Now, wait a second," I complained. "We made our reservation weeks ago."

"I'm sorry," the woman said with a noticeable lack of sympathy. "We don't exactly have a lot of control over when mothers go into labor."

She made a valid point. It wasn't like she could hurry someone along. She directed us to another floor, where we would be issued a standard hospital room. But when we arrived in the maternity ward, the nurse at the counter had more bad news. "Would you believe every last room is filled?" she said. No, we couldn't. Jenny seemed to take it in stride, but I was getting testy now. "What do you suggest, the parking lot?" I snapped.

The nurse smiled calmly at me, apparently well familiar with the antics of nervous fathers-to-be, and said, "Don't you worry. We'll find a spot for you."

After a flurry of phone calls, she sent us down a long hallway and through a set of double doors, where we found ourselves in a mirror image of the maternity ward we had just left except for one obvious difference-the patients were definitely not the b.u.t.toned-down, disposable-income yuppies we had gone through Lamaze cla.s.s with. We could hear the nurses talking in Spanish to patients, and standing in the hallway outside the rooms, brown-skinned men holding straw hats in rugged hands waited nervously. Palm Beach County is known as a playground for the obscenely rich, but what is less widely known is that it also is home to huge farms that stretch across drained Everglades swamp for miles west of town. Thousands of migrant workers, mostly from Mexico and Central America, migrate into South Florida each growing season to pick the peppers, tomatoes, lettuce, and celery that supply much of the East Coast's winter vegetable needs. It seems we had discovered where the migrant workers came to have their babies. Periodically, a woman's anguished scream would pierce the air, followed by awful moans and calls of "Mi madre!" "Mi madre!" The place sounded like a house of horrors. Jenny was white as a ghost. The place sounded like a house of horrors. Jenny was white as a ghost.

The nurse led us into a small cubicle containing one bed, one chair, and a bank of electronic monitors and handed Jenny a gown to change into. "Welcome to the indigent ward!" Dr. Sherman said brightly when he breezed in a few minutes later. "Don't be fooled by the bare-bones rooms," he said. They were outfitted with some of the most sophisticated medical equipment in the hospital, and the nurses were some of the best trained. Because poor women often lacked access to prenatal care, theirs were some of the highest-risk pregnancies. We were in good hands, he a.s.sured us as he broke Jenny's water. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone.

Indeed, as the morning progressed and Jenny fought her way through ferocious contractions, we discovered we were in very good hands. The nurses were seasoned professionals who exuded confidence and warmth, attentively hovering over her, checking the baby's heartbeat and coaching Jenny along. I stood helplessly by, trying my best to be supportive, but it wasn't working. At one point Jenny snarled at me through gritted teeth, "If you ask me one more time how I'm doing, I'm going to RIP YOUR FACE OFF!" I must have looked wounded because one of the nurses walked around to my side of the bed, squeezed my shoulders sympathetically, and said, "Welcome to childbirth, Dad. It's all part of the experience."

I began slipping out of the room to join the other men waiting in the hallway. Each of us leaned against the wall beside our respective doors as our wives screamed and moaned away. I felt a little ridiculous, dressed in my polo s.h.i.+rt, khakis, and Top-Siders, but the farmworkers didn't seem to hold it against me. Soon we were smiling and nodding knowingly to one another. They couldn't speak English and I couldn't speak Spanish, but that didn't matter. We were in this together.

Or almost together. I learned that day that in America pain relief is a luxury, not a necessity. For those who could afford it-or whose insurance covered it, as ours did-the hospital provided epidurals, which delivered pain-blocking oblivion directly into the central nervous system. About four hours into Jenny's labor, an anesthesiologist arrived and slipped a long needle through the skin along her spine and attached it to an intravenous drip. Within minutes, Jenny was numb from the waist down and resting comfortably. The Mexican women nearby were not so lucky. They were left to tough it out the old-fas.h.i.+oned way, and their shrieks continued to puncture the air.

The hours pa.s.sed. Jenny pushed. I coached. As night fell I stepped out into the hall bearing a tiny swaddled football. I lifted my newborn son above my head for my new friends to see and called out, "Es el nino!" "Es el nino!" The other dads flashed big smiles and held up their thumbs in the international sign of approval. Unlike our heated struggle to name our dog, we would easily and almost instantly settle on a name for our firstborn son. He would be named Patrick for the first of my line of Grogans to arrive in the United States from County Limerick, Ireland. A nurse came into our cubicle and told us a birthing suite was now available. It seemed rather beside the point to change rooms now, but she helped Jenny into a wheelchair, placed our son in her arms, and whisked us away. The gourmet dinner wasn't all it was cracked up to be. The other dads flashed big smiles and held up their thumbs in the international sign of approval. Unlike our heated struggle to name our dog, we would easily and almost instantly settle on a name for our firstborn son. He would be named Patrick for the first of my line of Grogans to arrive in the United States from County Limerick, Ireland. A nurse came into our cubicle and told us a birthing suite was now available. It seemed rather beside the point to change rooms now, but she helped Jenny into a wheelchair, placed our son in her arms, and whisked us away. The gourmet dinner wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

During the weeks leading up to her due date, Jenny and I had had long strategy talks about how best to acclimate Marley to the new arrival who would instantly knock him off his until-now undisputed perch as Most Favored Dependent. We wanted to let him down gently. We had heard stories of dogs becoming terribly jealous of infants and acting out in unacceptable ways-everything from urinating on prized possessions to knocking over ba.s.sinets to outright attacks-that usually resulted in a one-way ticket to the pound. As we converted the spare bedroom into a nursery, we gave Marley full access to the crib and bedding and all the various accoutrements of infancy. He sniffed and drooled and licked until his curiosity was satisfied. In the thirty-six hours that Jenny remained hospitalized recuperating after the birth, I made frequent trips home to visit Marley, armed with receiving blankets and anything else that carried the baby's scent. On one of my visits, I even brought home a tiny used disposable diaper, which Marley sniffed with such vigor I feared he might suck it up his nostril, requiring more costly medical intervention.

When I finally brought mother and child home, Marley was oblivious. Jenny placed baby Patrick, asleep in his car carrier, in the middle of our bed and then joined me in greeting Marley out in the garage, where we had an uproarious reunion. When Marley had settled down from frantically wild to merely desperately happy, we brought him into the house with us. Our plan was to just go about our business, not pointing the baby out to him. We would hover nearby and let him gradually discover the presence of the newcomer on his own.

Marley followed Jenny into the bedroom, jamming his nose deep into her overnight bag as she unpacked. He clearly had no idea there was a living thing sitting on our bed. Then Patrick stirred and let out a small, birdlike chirp. Marley's ears pulled up and he froze. Where did that come from? Where did that come from? Patrick chirped again, and Marley lifted one paw in the air, pointing like a bird dog. My G.o.d, he was Patrick chirped again, and Marley lifted one paw in the air, pointing like a bird dog. My G.o.d, he was pointing pointing at our baby boy like a hunting dog would point at... at our baby boy like a hunting dog would point at...prey. In that instant, I thought of the feather pillow he had attacked with such ferocity. He wasn't so dense as to mistake a baby for a pheasant, was he?

Then he lunged. It was not a ferocious "kill the enemy" lunge; there were no bared teeth or growls. But it wasn't a "welcome to the neighborhood, little buddy" lunge, either. His chest hit the mattress with such force that the entire bed jolted across the floor. Patrick was wide awake now, eyes wide. Marley recoiled and lunged again, this time bringing his mouth within inches of our newborn's toes. Jenny dove for the baby and I dove for the dog, pulling him back by the collar with both hands. Marley was beside himself, straining to get at this new creature that somehow had snuck into our inner sanctum. He reared on his hind legs and I pulled back on his collar, feeling like the Lone Ranger with Silver. "Well, that went well," I said.

Jenny unbuckled Patrick from his car seat; I pinned Marley between my legs and held him tightly by the collar with both fists. Even Jenny could see Marley meant no harm. He was panting with that dopey grin of his; his eyes were bright and his tail was wagging. As I held tight, she gradually came closer, allowing Marley to sniff first the baby's toes, then his feet and calves and thighs. The poor kid was only a day and a half old, and he was already under attack by a Shop-Vac. When Marley reached the diaper, he seemed to enter an altered state of consciousness, a sort of Pampers-induced trance. He had reached the holy land. The dog looked positively euphoric.

"One false move, Marley, and you're toast," Jenny warned, and she meant it. If he had shown even the slightest aggression toward the baby, that would have been it. But he never did. We soon learned our problem was not keeping Marley from hurting our precious baby boy. Our problem was keeping him out of the diaper pail.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, Marley came to accept Patrick as his new best friend. One night early on, as I was turning off the lights to go to bed, I couldn't find Marley anywhere. Finally I thought to look in the nursery, and there he was, stretched out on the floor beside Patrick's crib, the two of them snoring away in stereophonic fraternal bliss. Marley, our wild cras.h.i.+ng bronco, was different around Patrick. He seemed to understand that this was a fragile, defenseless little human, and he moved gingerly whenever he was near him, licking his face and ears delicately. As Patrick began crawling, Marley would lie quietly on the floor and let the baby scale him like a mountain, tugging on his ears, poking his eyes, and pulling out little fistfuls of fur. None of it fazed him. Marley just sat like a statue. He was a gentle giant around Patrick, and he accepted his second-fiddle status with bonhomie and good-natured resignation.

Not everyone approved of the blind faith we placed in our dog. They saw a wild, unpredictable, and powerful beast-he was approaching a hundred pounds by now-and thought us foolhardy to trust him around a defenseless infant. My mother was firmly in this camp and not shy about letting us know it. It pained her to watch Marley lick her grandson. "Do you know where that tongue has been?" she would ask rhetorically. She warned us darkly that we should never leave a dog and a baby alone in the same room. The ancient predatory instinct could surface without warning. If it were up to her, a concrete wall would separate Marley and Patrick at all times.

One day while she was visiting from Michigan, she let out a shriek from the living room. "John, quick!" she screamed. "The dog's biting the baby!" I raced out of the bedroom, half dressed, only to find Patrick swinging happily in his windup swing, Marley lying beneath him. Indeed, the dog was snapping at the baby, but it was not as my panicky mother had feared. Marley had positioned himself directly in Patrick's flight path with his head right where Patrick's bottom, strapped in a fabric sling, stopped at the peak of each arc before swinging back in the opposite direction. Each time Patrick's diapered b.u.t.t came within striking distance, Marley would snap playfully at it, goosing him in the process. Patrick squealed with delight. "Aw, Ma, that's nothing," I said. "Marley just has a thing for his diapers."

Jenny and I settled into a routine. At nighttime she would get up with Patrick every few hours to nurse him, and I would take the 6:00 A.M. A.M. feeding so she could sleep in. Half asleep, I would pluck him from his crib, change his diaper, and make a bottle of formula for him. Then the payoff: I would sit on the back porch with his tiny, warm body nestled against my stomach as he sucked on the bottle. Sometimes I would let my face rest against the top of his head and doze off as he ate l.u.s.tily. Sometimes I would listen to National Public Radio and watch the dawn sky turn from purple to pink to blue. When he was fed and I had gotten a good burp out of him, I would get us both dressed, whistle for Marley, and take a morning walk along the water. We invested in a jogging stroller with three large bicycle tires that allowed it to go pretty much anywhere, including through sand and over curbs. The three of us must have made quite a sight each morning, Marley out in front leading the charge like a mush dog, me in the rear holding us back for dear life, and Patrick in the middle, gleefully waving his arms in the air like a traffic cop. By the time we arrived home, Jenny would be up and have coffee on. We would strap Patrick into his high chair and sprinkle Cheerios on the tray for him, which Marley would snitch the instant we turned away, laying his head sideways on the tray and using his tongue to scoop them into his mouth. feeding so she could sleep in. Half asleep, I would pluck him from his crib, change his diaper, and make a bottle of formula for him. Then the payoff: I would sit on the back porch with his tiny, warm body nestled against my stomach as he sucked on the bottle. Sometimes I would let my face rest against the top of his head and doze off as he ate l.u.s.tily. Sometimes I would listen to National Public Radio and watch the dawn sky turn from purple to pink to blue. When he was fed and I had gotten a good burp out of him, I would get us both dressed, whistle for Marley, and take a morning walk along the water. We invested in a jogging stroller with three large bicycle tires that allowed it to go pretty much anywhere, including through sand and over curbs. The three of us must have made quite a sight each morning, Marley out in front leading the charge like a mush dog, me in the rear holding us back for dear life, and Patrick in the middle, gleefully waving his arms in the air like a traffic cop. By the time we arrived home, Jenny would be up and have coffee on. We would strap Patrick into his high chair and sprinkle Cheerios on the tray for him, which Marley would snitch the instant we turned away, laying his head sideways on the tray and using his tongue to scoop them into his mouth. Stealing food from a baby, Stealing food from a baby, we thought; we thought; how low will he stoop? how low will he stoop? But Patrick seemed immensely amused by the whole routine, and pretty soon he learned how to push his Cheerios over the side so he could watch Marley scramble around, eating them off the floor. He also discovered that if he dropped Cheerios into his lap, Marley would poke his head up under the tray and jab Patrick in the stomach as he went for the errant cereal, sending him into peals of laughter. But Patrick seemed immensely amused by the whole routine, and pretty soon he learned how to push his Cheerios over the side so he could watch Marley scramble around, eating them off the floor. He also discovered that if he dropped Cheerios into his lap, Marley would poke his head up under the tray and jab Patrick in the stomach as he went for the errant cereal, sending him into peals of laughter.

Parenthood, we found, suited us well. We settled into its rhythms, celebrated its simple joys, and grinned our way through its frustrations, knowing even the bad days soon enough would be cherished memories. We had everything we could ask for. We had our precious baby. We had our numbskull dog. We had our little house by the water. Of course, we also had each other. That November, my newspaper promoted me to columnist, a coveted position that gave me my own s.p.a.ce on the section front three times a week to spout off about whatever I wanted. Life was good. When Patrick was nine months old, Jenny wondered aloud when we might want to start thinking about having another baby.

"Oh, gee, I don't know," I said. We always knew we wanted more than one, but I hadn't really thought about a time frame. Repeating everything we had just gone through seemed like something best not rushed into. "I guess we could just go back off birth control again and see what happens," I suggested.

"Ah," Jenny said knowingly. "The old Que sera, sera Que sera, sera school of family planning." school of family planning."

"Hey, don't knock it," I said. "It worked before."

So that is what we did. We figured if we conceived anytime in the next year, the timing would be about right. As Jenny did the math, she said, "Let's say six months to get pregnant and then nine more months to deliver. That would put two full years between them."

It sounded good to me. Two years was a long way off. Two years was next to an eternity. Two years was almost not real. Now that I had proved myself capable of the manly duty of insemination, the pressure was off. No worries, no stress. Whatever would be would be.

A week later, Jenny was knocked up.

CHAPTER 13.

A Scream in the Night.

With another baby growing inside her, Jenny's odd, late-night food cravings returned. One night it was root beer, the next grapefruit. "Do we have any Snickers bars?" she asked once a little before midnight. It looked like I was in for another jaunt down to the all-night convenience store. I whistled for Marley, hooked him to his leash, and set off for the corner. In the parking lot, a young woman with teased blond hair, bright lavender lips, and some of the highest heels I had ever seen engaged us. "Oh, he's so cute!" she gushed. "Hi, puppy. What's your name, cutie?" Marley, of course, was more than happy to strike up a friends.h.i.+p, and I pulled him tight against me so he wouldn't s...o...b..r on her purple miniskirt and white tank top. "You just want to kiss me, poochie, don't you?" she said, and made smooching noises with her lips.

As we chatted, I wondered what this attractive woman was doing out in a parking lot along Dixie Highway alone at this hour. She did not appear to have a car. She did not appear to be on her way into or out of the store. She was just there, a parking-lot amba.s.sador cheerfully greeting strangers and their dogs as they approached as though she were our neighborhood's answer to the Wal-Mart greeters. Why was she so immensely friendly? Beautiful women were never friendly, at least not to strange men in parking lots at midnight. A car pulled up, and an older man rolled down his window. "Are you Heather?" he asked. She shot me a bemused smile as if to say, You do what you have to do to pay the rent You do what you have to do to pay the rent. "Gotta run," she said, hopping into the car. "Bye, puppy."

"Don't fall too in love, Marley," I said as they drove off. "You can't afford her."

A few weeks later, at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning, I walked Marley to the same store to buy a Miami Herald, Miami Herald, and again we were approached, this time by two young women, teenagers really, who both looked strung out and nervous. Unlike the first woman we had met, they were not terribly attractive and had taken no efforts to make themselves more so. They both looked desperate for their next hit off a crack pipe. "Harold?" one of them asked me. "Nope," I said, but what I was thinking was, and again we were approached, this time by two young women, teenagers really, who both looked strung out and nervous. Unlike the first woman we had met, they were not terribly attractive and had taken no efforts to make themselves more so. They both looked desperate for their next hit off a crack pipe. "Harold?" one of them asked me. "Nope," I said, but what I was thinking was, Do you really think some guy would show up for anonymous s.e.x and bring his Labrador retriever along? Do you really think some guy would show up for anonymous s.e.x and bring his Labrador retriever along? How twisted did these two think I was? As I pulled a newspaper out of the box in front of the store, a car arrived-Harold, I presumed-and the girls drove off with him. How twisted did these two think I was? As I pulled a newspaper out of the box in front of the store, a car arrived-Harold, I presumed-and the girls drove off with him.

I wasn't the only one witnessing the burgeoning prost.i.tution trade along Dixie Highway. On a visit, my older sister, dressed as modestly as a nun, went for a midday walk and was propositioned twice by would-be johns trolling by in cars. Another guest arrived at our house to report that a woman had just exposed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to him as he drove past, not that he particularly minded.

In response to complaints from residents, the mayor promised to publicly embarra.s.s men arrested for soliciting, and the police began running stings, positioning undercover women officers on the corner and waiting for would-be customers to take the bait. The decoy cops were the homeliest hookers I had ever seen-think J. Edgar Hoover in drag-but that didn't stop men from seeking their services. One bust went down on the curb directly in front of our house-with a television news crew in tow.

If it had been just the hookers and their customers, we could have made our separate peace, but the criminal activity didn't stop there. Our neighborhood seemed to grow dicier each day. On one of our walks along the water, Jenny, suffering a particularly debilitating bout of pregnancy-related nausea, decided to head home alone while I continued on with Patrick and Marley. As she walked along a side street, she heard a car idling behind her. Her first thought was that it was a neighbor pulling up to say h.e.l.lo or someone needing directions. When she turned to look into the car, the driver sat fully exposed and masturbating. After he got the expected response, he sped in reverse down the street so as to hide his license tag.

When Patrick was not quite a year old, murder again came to our block. Like Mrs. Nedermier, the victim was an elderly woman who lived alone. Hers was the first house as you turned onto Churchill Road off Dixie Highway, directly behind the all-night, open-air Laundromat, and I only knew her to wave to as I pa.s.sed. Unlike Mrs. Nedermier's murder, this crime did not afford us the tidy self-denial of an inside job. The victim was chosen at random, and the attacker was a stranger who snuck into her house while she was in the backyard hanging her laundry on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon. When she returned, he bound her wrists with telephone cord and shoved her beneath a mattress as he ransacked the house for money. He fled with his plunder as my frail neighbor slowly suffocated beneath the weight of the mattress. Police quickly arrested a drifter who had been seen hanging around the coin laundry; when they emptied his pockets they found his total haul had been sixteen dollars and change. The price of a human life.

The crime swirling around us made us grateful for Marley's bigger-than-life presence in our house. So what if he was an avowed pacifist whose most aggressive attack strategy was known as the s...o...b..r Offensive? Who cared if his immediate response to the arrival of any stranger was to grab a tennis ball in the hope of having someone new to play catch with? The intruders didn't need to know that. When strangers came to our door, we no longer locked Marley away before answering. We stopped a.s.suring them how harmless he was. Instead we now let drop vaguely ominous warnings, such as "He's getting so unpredictable lately," and "I don't know how many more of his lunges this screen door can take."

We had a baby now and another on the way. We were no longer so cheerfully cavalier about personal safety. Jenny and I often speculated about just what, if anything, Marley would do if someone ever tried to hurt the baby or us. I tended to think he would merely grow frantic, yapping and panting. Jenny placed more faith in him. She was convinced his special loyalty to us, especially to his new Cheerios pusher, Patrick, would translate in a crisis to a fierce primal protectiveness that would rise up from deep within him. "No way," I said. "He'd ram his nose into the bad guy's crotch and call it a day." Either way, we agreed, he scared the h.e.l.l out of people. That was just fine with us. His presence made the difference between us feeling vulnerable or secure in our own home. Even as we continued to debate his effectiveness as a protector, we slept easily in bed knowing he was beside us. Then one night he settled the dispute once and for all.

It was October and the weather still had not turned. The night was sweltering, and we had the air-conditioning on and windows shut. After the eleven o'clock news I let Marley out to pee, checked Patrick in his crib, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed beside Jenny, already fast asleep. Marley, as he always did, collapsed in a heap on the floor beside me, releasing an exaggerated sigh. I was just drifting off when I heard it-a shrill, sustained, piercing noise. I was instantly wide awake, and Marley was, too. He stood frozen beside the bed in the dark, ears c.o.c.ked. It came again, penetrating the sealed windows, rising above the hum of the air conditioner. A scream. A woman's scream, loud and unmistakable. My first thought was teenagers clowning around in the street, not an unusual occurrence. But this was not a happy, stop-tickling-me scream. There was desperation in it, real terror, and it was dawning on me that someone was in terrible trouble.

"Come on, boy," I whispered, slipping out of bed.

"Don't go out there." Jenny's voice came from beside me in the dark. I hadn't realized she was awake and listening.

"Call the police," I told her. "I'll be careful."

Holding Marley by the end of his choker chain, I stepped out onto the front porch in my boxer shorts just in time to glimpse a figure sprinting down the street toward the water. The scream came again, from the opposite direction. Outside, without the walls and gla.s.s to buffet it, the woman's voice filled the night air with an amazing, piercing velocity, the likes of which I had heard only in horror movies. Other porch lights were flicking on. The two young men who shared a rental house across the street from me burst outside, wearing nothing but cutoffs, and ran toward the screams. I followed cautiously at a distance, Marley tight by my side. I saw them run up on a lawn a few houses away and then, seconds later, come das.h.i.+ng back toward me.

"Go to the girl!" one of them shouted, pointing. "She's been stabbed."

"We're going after him!" the other yelled, and they sprinted off barefoot down the street in the direction the figure had fled. My neighbor Barry, a fearless single woman who had bought and rehabilitated a rundown bungalow next to the Nedermier house, jumped into her car and joined the chase.

I let go of Marley's collar and ran toward the scream. Three doors down I found my seventeen-year-old neighbor standing alone in her driveway, bent over, sobbing in jagged raspy gasps. She clasped her ribs, and beneath her hands I could see a circle of blood spreading across her blouse. She was a thin, pretty girl with sand-colored hair that fell over her shoulders. She lived in the house with her divorced mother, a pleasant woman who worked as a night nurse. I had chatted a few times with the mother, but I only knew her daughter to wave to. I didn't even know her name.

"He said not to scream or he'd stab me," she said, sobbing; her words gushed out in heaving, hyperventilated gulps. "But I screamed. I screamed, and he stabbed me." As if I might not believe her, she lifted her s.h.i.+rt to show me the puckered wound that had punctured her rib cage. "I was sitting in my car with the radio on. He just came out of nowhere." I put my hand on her arm to calm her, and as I did I saw her knees buckling. She collapsed into my arms, her legs folding fawn-like beneath her. I eased her down to the pavement and sat cradling her. Her words came softer, calmer now, and she fought to keep her eyes open. "He told me not to scream," she kept saying. "He put his hand on my mouth and told me not to scream."

"You did the right thing," I said. "You scared him away."

It occurred to me that she was going into shock, and I had not the first idea what to do about it. Come on, ambulance. Where are you? Come on, ambulance. Where are you? I comforted her in the only way I knew how, as I would comfort my own child, stroking her hair, holding my palm against her cheek, wiping her tears away. As she grew weaker, I kept telling her to hang on, help was on the way. "You're going to be okay," I said, but I wasn't sure I believed it. Her skin was ashen. We sat alone on the pavement like that for what seemed hours but was in actuality, the police report later showed, about three minutes. Only gradually did I think to check on what had become of Marley. When I looked up, there he stood, ten feet from us, facing the street, in a determined, bull-like crouch I had never seen before. It was a fighter's stance. His muscles bulged at the neck; his jaw was clenched; the fur between his shoulder blades bristled. He was intensely focused on the street and appeared poised to lunge. I realized in that instant that Jenny had been right. If the armed a.s.sailant returned, he would have to get past my dog first. At that moment I knew-I absolutely knew without doubt-that Marley would fight him to the death before he would let him at us. I was emotional anyway as I held this young girl, wondering if she was dying in my arms. The sight of Marley so uncharacteristically guarding us like that, so majestically fierce, brought tears to my eyes. Man's best friend? d.a.m.n straight he was. I comforted her in the only way I knew how, as I would comfort my own child, stroking her hair, holding my palm against her cheek, wiping her tears away. As she grew weaker, I kept telling her to hang on, help was on the way. "You're going to be okay," I said, but I wasn't sure I believed it. Her skin was ashen. We sat alone on the pavement like that for what seemed hours but was in actuality, the police report later showed, about three minutes. Only gradually did I think to check on what had become of Marley. When I looked up, there he stood, ten feet from us, facing the street, in a determined, bull-like crouch I had never seen before. It was a fighter's stance. His muscles bulged at the neck; his jaw was clenched; the fur between his shoulder blades bristled. He was intensely focused on the street and appeared poised to lunge. I realized in that instant that Jenny had been right. If the armed a.s.sailant returned, he would have to get past my dog first. At that moment I knew-I absolutely knew without doubt-that Marley would fight him to the death before he would let him at us. I was emotional anyway as I held this young girl, wondering if she was dying in my arms. The sight of Marley so uncharacteristically guarding us like that, so majestically fierce, brought tears to my eyes. Man's best friend? d.a.m.n straight he was.

"I've got you," I told the girl, but what I meant to say, what I should have said, was that we we had her. Marley and me. "The police are coming," I said. "Hold on. Please, just hold on." had her. Marley and me. "The police are coming," I said. "Hold on. Please, just hold on."

Before she closed her eyes, she whispered, "My name is Lisa."

"I'm John," I said. It seemed ridiculous, introducing ourselves in these circ.u.mstances as though we were at a neighborhood potluck. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Instead, I tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and said, "You're safe now, Lisa."

Like an archangel sent from heaven, a police officer came charging up the sidewalk. I whistled to Marley and called, "It's okay, boy. He's okay." And it was as if, with that whistle, I had broken some kind of trance. My goofy, good-natured pal was back, trotting in circles, panting, trying to sniff us. Whatever ancient instinct had welled up from the recesses of his ancestral psyche was back in its bottle again. Then more officers swarmed around us, and soon an ambulance crew arrived with a stretcher and wads of sterile gauze. I stepped out of the way, told the police what I could, and walked home, Marley loping ahead of me.