Cynophobia The Fear of Dogs

Dognapped

~~ Sammi ~~

“In you go, Sport.”

The golden retriever is already in the van and staring at me with soft, gentle whiskey brown eyes. A whelp from the Best of Breed winner at Westminster two years ago, Sport is far from his home of birth.

While most people rescue a dog from the shelter, people like Sport’s owner buy purebred dogs for status. Sport is pure of heart and has show dog qualities. He could have been the next Westminster winner, had a rich dude not purchased him in Florida.

I buckle Sport into his seat belt while dodging his explicit kisses. Valuable dogs must be buckled into the seat and catered to, like my client demands.

“Stop that.”

My giggles encourage the dog to give me more kisses. I’m sure he doesn’t get to give as many kisses as he wants in his kennel at the beachside mansion. By kennel, I mean an entire wing dedicated to the dog overlooking Belleair Beach. Monetarily, the dog wants for nothing.

Emotionally, I’m sure he’d love to run on that ‘no dogs allowed’ beach and swim in the forbidden ocean. I’m sure he’d love to spend quality time with his jet set owner. Servants and guards surround the dog at home, but I spend more time with Sport than Mr. Goodman does. This man has no family, it’s just him and Sport. What does he do that pays so damn well but keeps him away from home so much?

I hit the button to shut the van door as I hurry to the driver’s side. I jump in before I notice the man sitting in the passenger seat. My heart seizes with shock before I recognize the man.

“Who are you?”

My voice comes out a lot more polite than I intended.

He’s wearing the same dark gray pullover hoodie I’ve seen him wearing at the park for the past week. The hood is up, but his profile is etched into my memory.

A week ago, at this same park, I saw him leaning against a tree watching the dogs play in the dog park. The wind caught his hood and revealed a fairly attractive face with a shock of wildly wavy, dark brown hair. His green eyes flashed to me as he pulled his hood back in place.

I offered him a smile at the time. He’s got a powerful swimmer’s build that tells me he works out, even though he’s wearing a big old pull-over sweatshirt in the Florida heat. A rebel bad boy or criminal? I dismissed the idea of approaching him. He’s out of my league. I don’t work out and I tend to enjoy rebel bad boys from a safe distance.

A few moments later, he was gone from his shady spot by the dog park.

He’s been back every day since.

A lone figure, just watching the dogs and their owners. The others noticed him too, and there was speculation as to what he was doing there. I caught his eye, and he returned my smile. It was a kind smile. He seemed younger than me then, around twenty-five, I’d guess.

I said to the older lady with the toy poodle, “I don’t think he’s doing anything bad.”

“Anyone wearing what he’s wearing in this weather is up to no good.”

“Lots of athletes wear sweats when they work out. Maybe he’s just taking a breather.”

Now, as I stare at the barrel of the gun pointing at me from the pocket of his pull over hoodie, it looks like I was wrong. The old lady had been right. Who wears a hoodie in the tropics during May?

But then, I’m always wrong when it comes to the opposite sex. I was also wrong to think my average looks and shitty clothing wouldn’t get me robbed, either.

“I only have ten dollars in my wallet. If you’re taking my van, just let me get the dog out first.”

“Close the door, Sammi.” His voice was conversational and controlled. Like he was a friend.

“Do I know you?”

“No. Close the door.”

I pull the door shut but ask, “How do you know my name?”

“Stop talking and listen.” He lifts the barrel of that gun and my gaze goes back to it.

I gave up on life five years ago when my dad died, and I quit my safe office job in a moment driven by crazy grief. It was my fault, really. I was the one who started coming in and cleaning the office every Saturday. Nobody asked me to do it and I certainly wasn’t getting paid for it, but I didn’t mind until they got pissed at me for not doing it because my dad was in hospice.

I wish I could say that I stood up for myself for once in my life. I wish I’d gone in that weekend and trashed the joint, then called my boss and told her off, but I didn’t. I just slipped off like a chastised dog and never returned. I never even got my stuff from my desk or my last paycheck. Turns out, nobody cared. They probably didn’t even notice I didn’t show up for work for a few days.

That’s how memorable I am to people.

But to dogs?

They see all the good in me. They notice every ball I toss, every step I take during our walks, and they appreciate the affection they receive from me. My clients see how happy their dogs are when they come home at night.

If people greeted each other like dogs greet people, this entire world would be a lot better place to live.

From the outside, it looks like I’m living my dream as a dog walker to the rich of Pinellas County. My sparse friends envy me even as they dismiss my career with phrases like, “It must be nice to play with dogs all day.”

On the inside, I’m already dead. I took a time out from life to mourn my dad and never got back on track. My dad was the reason I got my first dog walking gig. A sweet old lady who bought a million-dollar condo from my dad needed someone to walk her standard poodle every day for her.

Word of mouth is how my dad made his money in real estate. He knew everyone, and everyone loved him. What wasn’t to love? Dad was a good man with a genuine interest in other people. Unlike me, people appreciated him.

“Take the dog’s collar off.”

“You’re robbing me for Sport’s collar? Those aren’t genuine diamonds, you know.” Nobody left an actual diamond collar on a dog.

The hood turns my way, and I meet those sea-green eyes. They are extraordinary up close. Lined with thick lashes that give the impression this thief wears guyliner. “Haven’t you heard anything I just said?”

My lips twitch up into a smile. It’s a defense mechanism. I smile when I’m stressed and laugh when I shouldn’t. “Uh, it’s hard to focus when you ‘re pointing a gun at me.”

He speaks slowly, like I’m simple or something. “The collar.”

Right.

When dad died, I had a breakdown and retreated into myself. I was an orphan in this big old world. My boyfriend of two years left me the day I buried my dad. The guy who was living with me, dicking me down nightly, didn’t show up to my dad’s funeral because he was late and was too nervous to walk into the funeral after it already started. I didn’t think I could fragment anymore than I already had, but Edward proved to me I had more pain to feel.

That was the day I stopped feeling.

Sport whined and licked my hands as I removed his expensive looking collar. He sensed something was wrong with me, but he was no guard dog. Not that I’d let him attack anyone if he gathered his courage. I’d never risk Sport’s life to save my own. Never again would an animal pay over something stupid that I did.

The thief had large hands with long, elegant fingers. He stuffed the collar into his hoodie pocket next to his gun and left his hand inside. “Start the van and head towards Seminole High School.”

I put the key in the ignition but glance at the man beside me. He seemed older now. Thirty? “You’re not going to shoot up the school. Are you?”

Green eyes with golden flakes in them widened slightly with shock. “No?” Like I’m the one who had the dumb idea to rob someone at gun point today.