Death from the Ankles Down

Nancy McKenna was destined to be a Home Ec teacher. Granted, she may not have expected she'd do it in southeast Idaho, but no matter where her path led, her Scandinavian blood and good, hearty mid-western upbringing ensured she'd spend her days teaching people to bake, sew and perform minor household repairs. Nancy was a natural at unstopping a drain, replacing a drier cord; she even mastered the laying of carpet and linoleum. She brought her own special flair to home economics, taking the kids on field trips to grocery stores where they were graded on how many items they could purchase with a mere $20. Having converted to Mormonism back in her twenties, she'd perfected the jell-o salad and could produce a hundred varieties of fruit punch. A mid-westerner by birth, she could whip up potato and macaroni salads which made her a natural leader among the Relief Society women. Nancy's pride and joy, however, had been the introduction of her six week project on parenting. Each student was assigned an egg, which she herself had initialed with her signature purple Sharpie. Students had to name the egg and care for it, had to arrange for and pay people to babysit it when they went out. It was the culmination of her work as a teacher and she took great pride in it.

Nancy was good and dependable and had only three flaws: first, despite her height, her trunk was rather short, which only made her long, lean neck look even longer. This led to the nickname that dated back to before I myself was one her students, The Turtle. Second, regardless of the fact that she'd spent the majority of her life in Idaho, far from the green and rolling blandness of Minnesota, she'd retained her Minnesotan accent, pronouncing words like book as "boook", and saying things like, "You betcha," beginning her sentences with 'So' and ending them with 'then,' as in, "So, it' time to turn your homework in, then." She never quite learned the Idaho way of saying things, like "woof" instead of "wolf," "warsh" rather than "wash," "supposably," and "libary." And third, she was just too good and too dependable, which meant that it was impossible not to like her, and people in Idaho love nothing more than a reason not to like someone. And yet the people in her ward and the parents of the children she taught recognized Nancy as a fine woman, a strong member of the community, a good Mormon, even if she never acquired a taste for Idaho's famous Fry Sauce (a mixture of ketchup and mayonnaise) or, despite the numerous sightings, adamantly denied drinking any caffeinated beverages.

It was in July when Nancy's world began to crumble. Stories had started appearing in the news and online about Oscar, a cat which had somehow become a harbinger of death. Nancy, like everyone else, had been fascinated by the story of the nursing home cat whose presence signaled impending doom for those patients with whom he chose to cuddle. The story ran in the Washington Post and The Idaho State Journal, but Nancy didn't learn of it until it appeared on Fox News. It was the talk of The Old Timers, those long-time faculty of the high school who met for lunch at Perkins once a week.

The story made Nancy nervous. While the rest of the group didn't like the thought of Death coming in the innocuous shape and size of a friendly feline, Nancy was particularly concerned because her dog Nike had been doing much the same thing for most of the Summer. Nancy knew if anyone found out it could be the sort of thing that could ruin someone. No longer would she be The Turtle, or the inventor of the Egg Parenting Program; no, people in the supermarket would know she kept Death on a leash and let him sleep at the foot of her bed nightly.

Nike was not a friendly dog. The chihuahua had been rescued from the side of the road in March while Nancy, her husband Paul and their two grandchildren had been driving home from a weekend trip to Salt Lake City. They'd discovered the dog at a rest stop not far from the Utah border and had instantly taken a liking to him. Nike, as his tag read, did not take to them. No one knew how long he'd been there, or what he'd been subsisting on, but from the moment they put him the back of the mini-van, his gas had been a clear indication that they were off to a rough start. At first the two grandchildren had giggled at each squeak and toot that emanated from the little thing, but not twenty miles later, Nancy's granddaughter started complaining, ten miles past that her grandson began coughing and by the time the reached home, the windows were open and all four of them were gagging.

Paul demanded that until they could take the thing to the vet Nike would have to sleep in the garage. No one opposed him.

Except Nike, who chewed a hole in his lawn mower's grass catcher.

After the vet cleared him as healthy, if not just a little underfed, Nike moved into the McKenna house full time. The family had been without a dog since right after the kids went away to Boise to school and Nancy was eager to teach Nike a few tricks and get him house broken. She secretly fantasized about letting the little thing cuddle on her lap while she crocheted him a sweater, or tucking him into her bag (or "beg" as she pronounced it with her Minnesotan accent) while she perused Vines Department Store for new shoes. Nike's warm, little body and soft weight would be her secret. She imagined Nike barking at Paul when her husband came home from work out at the I.N.L., smelling of grease and plumbing. She entertained the idea of slipping him soft treats that would seal their relationship for eternity.

The only trouble was that Nike took no interest in Nancy or Paul, or even the grandchildren when they visited on the weekends. Nancy had purchased a dozen different toys for the dog, from pink fluffy squeaky mice to Kong balls that could be stuffed with peanut butter. The children came with miniature tennis balls and feathers on nylon cords tied to plastic sticks. Nike was more than happy to play; he simply took the toys and ambled under the bed to gnaw on them without being disturbed. If anyone came too close he simply farted them away.

It was on Nike's second trip to the vet that things began to change for Nancy. She'd picked him up and placed him in a cat carrier in the back seat and drove to the clinic. Nike hadn't minded, had hardly seemed to notice in fact. Nancy, however, was acutely aware that Nike seemed indifferent to everything, herself included; her dreams of shopping trips and fuzzy boas flung across his narrow little shoulders had been dashed. Quite frankly, Nancy was beginning to admit she didn't like the dog at all.

Nancy preferred this clinic to others because the waiting rooms for dogs and cats were divided. Once in the foyer you either turned left for dogs or right for cats. Nancy liked things that could be so easily demarcated and never paused to wonder where someone with a guinea pig or a parakeet would go. She simply turned left as she had done since she'd brought Lehi, her children's now deceased golden lab, here. She clutched Nike in the nook of one arm, her purse in the other. The waiting room was empty, with only two receptionists sitting behind the big desk, one of them a former student, the other a silver-haired woman who had worked at the clinic since before Nancy had began bringing Lehi here.

She greeted but them, but both women merely smiled until Nike caught their eye. Nancy had never much paid attention to how people fawned over small pets, cooing baby talk at them as if they were infants or capable of understanding anything at all, but now, as the women spotted Nike under her arm and began ogling him, she became distinctly resentful of it, especially because Nike had never greeted her with anything even remotely resembling enthusiasm.

"Careful," she said. "He's not very friendly." Lisa, her former student pulled away, but May reached in and scooped the lazing chihuahua up. Almost immediately Nike rolled over in her arms, perked up his ears and allowed his long tongue to fall out of his mouth. May squealed in delight as Nancy leaned forward to see for herself. Nike was smiling.

"He's never done that," she said, shaking her head in wonder. Curled up in May's big hands Nike looked exactly as he had in Nancy's dreams of the perfect dog, the Paris Hilton dog, the dog who would be her best friend.

May scratched under Nike's chin and the little dog pushed his head back, closed his eyes and grinned like a gremlin, his big ears lolling back and forth. His paws reached out, his back arched and his hind legs kicked playfully against the woman.

"You just have to know how to do it," May chirped, not looking at Nancy. "Isn't that right, Little One? You just have to know how to do it." As if in response, Nike perked up and swiped his pink tongue across May's chin.

Nancy gasped. "Honestly, May. He's never done this," she shook her head. "We thought he didn't like us. Even Doctor Merry said she'd never seen a more disinterested dog."

"Nonsense," May scoffed and handed Nike back to Nancy, who took him as if her were a delicate statue. She was careful with him, not wanting to break the spell. Nike, for his part, paid Nancy no attention but turned to look at May again. His ears shot up and flipped in her direction, two giant dishes on his head.

The trouble began ten minutes later while Doctor Merry was examining Nike, who was standing politely, if not more than slightly aloof, on the silver examining table. Nancy was still telling the doctor the effect May had had on Nike when there was a loud crash from outside the room, followed by a scream. Nancy and Doctor Merry froze, but Nike merely laid down, licked his paw and closed his eyes. A moment later the door was flung open and a wide-eyed Lisa was standing before them.

"It's May," she cried. "She collapsed!"

For the next twenty minutes Nancy stood frozen in the corner of the lobby–unaware that several people had come over with their cats–watching as the paramedic team tried to revive the fallen receptionist. Nike, still clutched in her arms, slept the entire time.

She'd returned home that afternoon and anxiously recounted the day's events to Paul over dinner. She kept shaking her head and saying, "She was fine one minute. How were we to know she'd have a massive coronary embolism and die?"

"You couldn't know," Paul said over his mouthful of green bean casserole.

"So, she's dead, then," she muttered. "Right there in front of my eyes. I've never seen such a thing."

Three weeks later Nancy saw it again. A late Spring storm hit southeast Idaho, blanketing the entire region in five inches of snow. Idaho is quite proud of its ability to manage sever weather, however this storm caught the residents and county officials off guard. The trees had been blooming and the additional weight of the snow had downed several limbs, knocking out power lines and closing down the city. Paul had managed to catch the bus to the I.N.L. earlier that morning, but school had been shut down and Nancy was home alone with Nike.

Once the storm had exhausted itself in the tight little valley, battering against the narrow mountains on three sides, Nancy decided to shovel the walks. From next door she heard John Blackwell, her neighbor, scraping the snow and ice off his own walk. As she was bundling up in her scarf and coat, pulling on her big black boots, Nike jumped up on the couch, yipped once or twice, his tail wagging and scratched his tiny paws against the window. Thinking it could do no harm, she decided to let him roam in the snow while she worked on the driveway.

Nancy went out through the garage, carrying her heavy shovel with her. As soon as the garage door came up Nike dashed under it and trotted, head up, into the snow. He darted into it and vanished under the white powder, his two ears the only visible part of him. She watched as he leapt again, pushing snow before him in strange little advancing wakes, yipping each time. Slowly but with determination he moved across the yard, pausing long enough to take a sound reading with his satellite dish ears, adjusted his course and moved steadily toward John Blackwell. When Nike cleared the snow, he burst onto the sidewalk like a bullet, a trail of powder billowing after him like smoke. He landed at John's feet, practically under the man's shovel and barked.

"Nike, get down," Nancy called, moving quickly toward him.

John put his shovel down and scooped Nike up in his arms. "Who's this little fella?" he asked, bringing the happy dog to his face. Nancy struggled not to slip and reached them just in time to see Nike licking John's bearded chin.

"Oh, Nike, stop that," she scolded, but did not move to take the dog away. It was another one of those magical moments, seeing the dog excited and playful, responding to someone in ways he'd never responded to anyone in the McKenna home.

"Oh, he's fine," John replied, letting Nike lick all over his face. His tail wagged so hard clouds of snow caught in his short fur wafted up around him and fell down the front of John's coat. "I've never seen such a happy little fella in all my life," John laughed.

"Me neither," Nancy said, not quite truthfully.

After a few minutes of neighborly chat, Nancy reclaimed Nike, who'd started shivering but had not ceased his affection for John Blackwell, and walked him back toward the house. The familiar sound of John's shovel grating over his icy sidewalk resumed behind them. Nike climbed up her shoulder and barked twice at the man before Nancy carried him inside and went to fetch a towel. It took her several minutes to find one suitable for her dog and when she returned to the front room, Nike was again perched on the back of the couch, wagging his tail and barking softy out the window. She scolded him, scooped him up and rubbed his small body vigorously under the old towel. The dog did not move at all, simply waited it out and once she was finished, climbed back into window and watched John Blackwell.

That night over her prized Sunshine Glazed Carrots, Nancy explained to Paul that John's wife had found him face down on the sidewalk in front of the house. He'd had a heart attack and died instantly.

She did not tell him that Nike had taken a strong interest in John just as he had May. In truth, the thought had not completely formed in Nancy's head. Rather, it was a distant foggy idea that would not materialize until May, when Paul's brother brought their great aunt Iris to Sunday dinner. Nike had loved and loved that woman and sure enough, that night she suffered a stroke and died in her sleep. After Iris, Nancy began to suspect. A month later she caught Nike humping the garbage man in the alley, blushed out an apology and took him inside, only to read of the man's death in the next morning's obituaries.

By July Nike wasn't allowed outside and Nancy had put a strict moratorium on visitors to the house. The idea had firmly crystalized in her mind that Nike was a killer. She no longer trusted the dog and when Paul began to question her about her dislike for him, Nancy reluctantly explained. Paul listened while he washed down his peach cobbler with a glass of milk and shrugged. "Iris was ninety-seven," he said simply. "And I went to school with George Saighman. He was a bum of a man!" It was not a very Christian way of thinking, but Nancy had to agree; she'd never liked George.

It was the day before school started that Nancy's panic reached its peak. Paul had insisted they take the dog with them to Battle Park for a walk before the sun slipped down behind the western mountains. She agreed, but only because she knew it would be all but deserted on a Sunday afternoon. The park was mostly ignored by the community, except for the Veterans of Foreign Wars and West Side's students who used it as a place to smoke cigarettes during their lunch breaks.

She was shocked, therefore, to discover her new principal, Laurie Murphy, walking her own dog near the enormous anti-aircraft guns and the World War Two tank that had been erected near the VFW Hall on the south side of the park. She gasped and tightened her grip on Nike's leash. Laurie Murphy had not seen her yet; perhaps she and Paul could cut across the river that split the park in two and make a clean getaway before Nike mounted his pale horse and claimed another victim.

But, as any good story would have it, it was too late for Laurie Murphy. At almost the exact moment she spotted Nancy and called out, Nike had spotted her.

Nancy, not wanting to be responsible for the possible consequence, relinquished Nike's leash to Paul and entwined her arm through his and tried to pull him– ever so slightly –in the direction of the foot bridge.

"Nancy," Laurie Murphy said as she scooped her dog into her arms. "It's nice to see someone else enjoying the park." She held her hand out to Paul and introduced herself. "This is Higgins," she said, holding out her Benji look-alike for them to see. "Who is this little one?" She asked, bending down and tentatively holding her hand out for Nike to sniff. Nancy held her breath and waited for what seemed an eternity. She tightened her grip on Paul's arm and felt the muscles in her long neck strain.

"This is Nike," Paul said. Nancy did not speak. She kept her eyes glued on Laurie Murphy and Higgins. She was just beginning to relax when Nike suddenly perked up and pulled on his leash. Paul, caught off guard, let the leash slip from his hand. Nancy startled as Nike jumped up against Laurie and whined, his tail flapping energetically from side to side. Higgins, caught in Laurie's arm sniffed and whined back. He wiggled and Laurie was forced to tighten her hold on him as she gave Nike one last pat. Nike barked twice and tried to climb onto her foot.

Oh my God, Nancy thought. I've killed my boss.

Laurie laughed and scratched Nike's back, causing him to arch and dance on his hind legs. She smiled and rose to her feet.

"Don't let this little one keep you up; it's a school night," she said, shifting Higgins from one arm to the other. She tried to ignore the look of utter horror on Nancy's face and smiled at Paul instead. "Have a good night. Maybe we can make a play date for our little ones some time."

"Sure," Paul said, trying to extricate himself from Nancy's grip. "That would be great. Nice to meet you," he said, pulling Nike back even as he freed himself from his wife.

"So I've killed her, then," Nancy murmured, shaking her head. "She's dead for sure, you betcha."

It was with great reluctance and fear that Nancy awoke the next morning and made the short drive to school, taking 8th street past the College Market, where she occasionally stopped for a cup of coffee–for thirty years her mid-western love of caffeine had trumped her Mormon promise of salvation–made a left on Benton and took the overpass to downtown and West Side High. Traffic was a bear and as she sat at the stoplight on Main and Center she couldn't help but wonder what had befallen Laurie Murphy during the night. Had her new home caught fire? Perhaps she'd contracted bird flu or some other horrible and foreign disease in the night. What if she'd transmitted it to Paul and herself? She'd have to be on the look-out for any affection or interest from Nike. By the time she pulled into the teachers' lot and had found a parking space, Nancy was sick with worry. Her hands were shaking as she crossed Arthur Street and entered the building, which smelled clean and old and full of new cologne and perfume. Trembling she made her way through the hall, toward the administration office.

Before she opened the door she spotted Patty Dunlap, the bursar, and Janice Mason, the registrar, huddled over the large desk which divided the room in two. Both women bowed their heads and shook them softly back and forth. Nancy felt her eyes sting back the tears as she pushed the door open and entered the office, her heart racing in her chest.

"Oh, Nancy, there's terrible news," Janice frowned. Patty Dunlap did not look up at her. Nancy thought her a witch of a woman, whose own Brooklyn accent even Nancy couldn't abide.

"When did it happen," Nancy cried, her hands drawn up in tight little fists at her chest. "How did it happen?"

"Old age," Janice said. "The old heart just gave out."

Nancy, prepared to cry out at news of the disaster, caught her gasp in her throat and choked it back. "Laurie died of old age?" she asked. "She couldn't be more than thirty-five!"

Patty sighed. "Not Laurie! Higgins, her dog. Laurie found him dead this morning. She won't be in until after the assembly."

That night Nike was taken to the shelter and Nancy McKenna never had another pet. You betcha.