Stuart, p.1
Stuart, page 1
Stuart
Copyright © 2023 Nina Navarro and Sammy Oriti
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design and illustration by Emmy Lupin
Vellum layout by CJ Anaya
Ebook: 979-8-9880366-0-9
Paperback: 979-8-9880366-1-6
Printed in the USA
In memory of Stuart Louis, the buddy boy.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
There are some who believe the “California Dream” to be an urban myth (well, at least a suburban myth). Sunny skies, pleasant climate, beautiful homes, beautiful humans.
The truth varies quite a lot.
One place where the myth meets reality is the town—really the general vicinity—of Newport Beach. Chuck Jones, the animator who created the Road Runner and Coyote cartoons (among many others) grew up there when the houses on the beach were half a mile apart. Long time ago. Newport these days is an upscale community featuring a wide sandy beach that gets groomed daily and a handsome fleet of boats moored in its marina. John Wayne’s boat, a converted WWII minesweeper called The Wild Goose, is still there.
This isn’t about John Wayne’s boat.
It is a lot about Newport. And its people. Some rich. Most just regular folks. It’s also about…well, you’ll find out. Not the joggers. Not the bike riders. Not the occasional busker or the fish market on the pier. On one of Newport’s main streets you’ll see a huge billboard advertising the services of Sylvia Jensen, the Queen of Realty. Not the Queen of Reality. To find someone like that you’ll have to look in a different part of the Los Angeles basin. Realty. Home sales. A good business to be in in a place like Newport.
I should know. Newport is my home. Always has been, hopefully always will be. But you never know. Life can turn strange for any of us, at any time, without warning. That’s realty (sorry, reality).
Anyway—Newport. Great beaches, great restaurants, great people. There’s even a terrific bakery where the merchandise is just for dogs. The Barkery also offers treats and coffee for people. Jensen, the realtor? There’s another one. Sylvia’s daughter Jen, she’s in there a lot. She advertises herself as “the Pet Friendly Realtor”. Smart gal. All I can add is that if you’re planning to start a family, this is definitely a great place to be. For one thing, your dog will love it! Why? Well, because Newport has the best dog park in the whole world, that’s why.
Did I mention that the Pet Friendly Realtor also happens to be my best friend? Here she comes now. Right there, in that white car. The one with the slightly askew magnetic advertising plaque clinging to the side that reads—well, you already know how she advertises herself. Yes, it’s the one pulling into the driveway over there. She’s the greatest. My very, very best friend, Jen.
See those “Open House” signs she’s carrying? Always thinking ahead, is Jen. Never know when your neighbor or the couple across the street might decide to list their place. Best to be prepared. Although I don’t know why anyone would want to move away from here. But you probably already realize that’s my opinion. Look—she’s carrying two signs with one hand. Manual as well as mental dexterity. Me, I think I’m pretty sharp upstairs, but I can’t carry stuff worth a darn.
I love watching her come home. Sometimes the suspense until the door opens just kills me. But that’s all part of being in love, I suppose. I mentioned Jen’s name but I guess I forgot to tell you mine. I’m Stuart Louis. Or as Jen calls me….
“Potato head! I’m home!”
“Potato head”? That’s a favorite one of hers. I suppose, descriptively speaking, it’s not all that far off. Oh well. As long as Jen’s saying it, I’m good with it.
You could apply the moniker “potato head” to most Boston terriers, I suppose.
“Stuie Louie!”
That’s more like it! Now, where did she put my leash? Right there on the hook by the front door just next to the kitchen closet, with the brooms and mops.
Putting the two For Sale signs down in the foyer, Jen was confronted by a dog that was small in size but large in personality. Black, white, and perhaps just a smidgen tuber-headed, he sat on his hindquarters holding a leash in his mouth. His nub was wagging, his butt was moving, and his eyes were as expressive as Chaplin’s on a good day.
“Stuart, put your leash on, don’t just sit there. Oh, right—no hands. Sometimes I forget.” Crouching, she snapped the buckle on one end of the strap onto the terrier’s collar, then straightened. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Once outside, the terrier made a beeline for the nearest tree, took a pee, and then headed for the white car. He strained at the leash even though he had neither the energy nor the mass to move even a small human. But one had to put in the effort. A demonstration of enthusiasm was demanded. To exhibit anything less might mean no drive for the day, no walkies, or worse, a potential trip to the vet. Always better to strain at the leash, even when it wasn’t necessary.
Me again. Don’t worry about me. I know how to work it. Been doing it for some time now. See, Jen and I, we go way back.
Way back.
I was a Sweet Sixteen present. Tiny little thing, was I. Much smaller than the massive, domineering descendant of wolves I am now (believe that one and I have a used doggie dish to sell you). She named me immediately.
I remember the following year, she took up the guitar. We used to wrestle on the floor. She’d giggle, I’d lick. Dogs don’t have many inherent physical abilities—another consequence of not having hands—but we’re masters at licking. Ask any dog owner. Or dog.
Maybe licking someone’s nose isn’t exactly finding a cure for cancer, but it’s non-invasive, doesn’t cause stomach upset, and immediately improves the mood of just about any human fortunate enough to be the subject of such attention.
It took a couple of years for me to get the hang of balancing a treat on my nose. Jen would keep treats handy in a small bucket and bring it out when she wanted to play. I’d balance the treat until she gave the command and then flip it into my mouth (the treat, not the bucket). And they say cats have quick reflexes (bleh…cats!).
I’d do anything for Jen. Or a bucket of turkey bacon. What’s on your bucket list?
We also have a better sense of humor than cats. Cats are just—well, they’re spoiled. And sarcastic.
I mentioned Newport’s best-in-the-world dog park. That’s where we’re headed now. I mean, I love Jen and all, but nobody wants to spend their entire lives in the presence of a single other person. Husbands need friends besides wives. Wives need friends besides husbands. Dogs are no different. We need time with our friends, too.
Cats. But I digress.
We’ve been driving in Jen’s car for a while now and we’re close. Near enough that I can see the park through the car window. Sometimes Jen lowers it so I can feel the wind in my face. When that wind is a sea breeze, like in Newport, a dog’s meteorological delight is doubled. But she’s careful not to lower the window too much.
I admit I’m the excitable type. That’s good for playtime. Not so good for, say, leaping out the window on the 405 Freeway at seventy miles per.
Hey, there’s Ringo and his human, Hector! Gotta admit, Ringo is one fit and handsome canine. Noble, even by German shepherd standards. I suppose that’s to be expected of a police dog. Ringo has medals for outstanding service with the police department (I’m not so sure about Hector, but yeah, probably). They’re a fine team, those two.
Of course, any human could probably partner with Ringo and win medals and promotions. He’s the big dog on campus. But he’d never tell Hector that. Ringo is far too polite. Except when he’s chewing on the leg of some mugger or car thief.
His growl is intimidating. Sometimes he even scares me, without ever intending to. He just doesn’t know the strength of his own bark.
See over there? Next to the three women sitting at the park table? No, never mind them. By them. The dogs who are playing nearby. Those are my bestest friends. As to the humans, well—the one who’s as black as half of me? With the braided fur…I mean, hair? That’s Wanda James. The one with the blonde hair who looks a little like an Afghan? Her name’s Shapiro, Cindy Shapiro.
And the last one, who’s tan like a Boxer? Nina Gomez. That’s Southern California for you. They’re almost as fit as their dogs. Wonder what they’re gabbing about?
“She’s late.”
Shapiro shifted her legs beneath the table. Though her comment referenced the missing member of the group of friends, her eyes were on a pair of lifeguards stationed atop a lookout on the beach. They were in their late twenties, same as her and her companions. For a momen t she thought of unexpectedly developing a sore ankle and hobbling over to start a conversation, during which her supposedly injured leg would doubtless have to undergo a proper and close inspection. With a mental shrug she set the scenario aside. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. The weather would still be good even if she wouldn’t be.
“She’s always late,” Gomez muttered. “I suppose I understand. I mean, real estate is one of those professions where you sit in an office all day following up on or hunting down leads, right? And then calling up those leads and trying to get them to let you drive them all over creation to look at houses they’re not gonna buy.” She shook her head sympathetically. “I could do it, if I had the patience. Which I don’t.”
“We know.” James flipped her braids back just because, as she regarded her friend. “If she’s always late, then she ain’t late. She’s right on time.”
Shapiro sipped something from a small plastic glass. “So now you’re a philosopher.”
“Honey, I’ve always been a philosopher. I didn’t have to take philosophy to tell me that’s what I was. I’ve always known. It’s all about your outlook on life. Being in control, understanding the world around you, keeping your calm on and your chakra straight and DAMMIT MARLEY DON’T YOU GO PEEING IN THAT KID’S SAND PAIL!” Lowering her voice, she coughed delicately into one closed fist and smiled. “It’s all about maintaining a personal balance.”
Enough about the humans! Bouncing around in the back seat of the white car, Stuart could hardly contain himself. The other three.
Marley there, the Puli? Hairy guy, isn’t he? It’s the breed. Maybe not the best coat for running around the beach, but he’s fine in the rest of Newport and he doesn’t get chilled from the over pumped aircon in Trader Joe’s. Cupcake, the Pomeranian? She’s no short hair herself. Unlike her owner, she comes by her hair color naturally. Funny, isn’t it, how so many humans pick dogs who look at least a little like them? I don’t understand that. Of course, Jen doesn’t look anything like me. Fortunately for her. We’re kind of like human-dog proof that opposites attract. As for Gizmo there, he’s about as laid back as a male Chihuahua can be. Which means, not much. Sometimes I think he’s going to shake himself to death. Whether from nerves or glee I never can tell.
So there they are: Gizmo, Cupcake, and Marley: my park buddies. Good friends, beautiful place, great weather. It’s gonna be a swell day, I can tell. I just have to be careful not to piss off Ringo. Not that he would actually ever do anything to me or any of my friends. He’s got too much class for that. Not to mention that if he picked on a Chihuahua, or a Pomeranian, not to mention a Boston like myself and word of it got back to his station, both the human cops and the other shepherds would tease him unmercifully. He’d never live it down. It’s always good to know that one of the main things keeping a big guy from beating you up is that he’d look really stupid afterwards.
Also, Hector would put nothing but dry food in his dog dish for a month afterwards. For a dog, food can be a wonderful motivator. So can its absence. And Whoa! Who is that?!
Even viewed at a distance through the rear car window, she was gorgeous. Trotting through the park, she was straight and clean, a brindle beauty, and trotted along with her head held high, her ears pricked forward, and her tongue lolling teasingly. Even though he hadn’t seen a female Boston in some time he could tell right off that this lady was special.
I’d share a pig ear with her any day!
Pressing his nose against the window glass he could hardly contain himself, whining and making little barely controlled jumps. Had the window been down it would have been difficult for him to restrain himself. He would have, though. He and Jen had engaged in numerous conversations about the danger of jumping out the window of a moving car. Of course, she had done most of the talking. Well, all of the talking. Of one thing Stuart could confidently boast: he was a good listener. Didn’t always follow through on what he was told, but boy could he sit still and listen.
That was one thing about humans. Even good ol’ Jen. They love to talk. Love to lay down the law; sometimes gently, sometimes loudly and forcefully. Whereas dogs, or at least the smart ones like himself, were perfectly content to sit and pay attention, eyes wide open, panting patiently. What humans didn’t know was that half the time, a dog’s attention was actually elsewhere, pondering more serious matters like going for a walk, circling trees, chasing whatever nearby creature happened to be smaller and weaker than themselves, sleeping, and most importantly of all, what was for dinner.
Come to think of it, he told himself, except for the tree-circling bit, maybe dogs and humans weren’t that different after all. One might even make the argument that a dog’s outlook on life made more sense. At least there was no hypocrisy in their actions. And when they fouled up, dogs didn’t make excuses. Whereas humans could go on and on and on about how they were not responsible for their actions.
By Turkey Bacon, he told himself, if I’m caught chasing off a seagull, I’ll own up to it.
“Hang on, buddy. There’s a spot.” Reaching back, Jen rubbed the top of Stuart’s head. Something else humans and dogs had in common, he knew. He’d seen humans tousling each others’ head fur all the time. But just their head fur. They were woefully deficient in hair elsewhere. Except for one thick-bodied middle-aged male he and Jen sometimes saw at the park who was almost hirsute enough to pass for a dog. What he was doing there without a dog Stuart could not have said. Possibly looking for the human equivalent of his own female terrier. Human-wise he appeared to be in good condition, though Stuart had doubts as to whether or not he could have, if challenged to do so, catch a squirrel.
Having found the one open parking spot, Jen pulled in, shut the vehicle down, and slid out of the driver’s seat. It took one, possibly two, seconds for Stuart to bolt off the rear seat and past her, his gaze fixed on the female Boston.
“Stuart, no!”
He was free! No restraints this time. Nothing to hold him back. He was free to greet, to sniff, to lick, to run, to…urk!
He had forgotten the small matter of being leashed, the unyielding leather strap secured by a small bolt to his collar. That would not have mattered either, except that part of the leash whipped itself around the car door handle and snugged tight. His rear legs went out from under him, his eyes bulged, and if not for a well-developed innate sense of balance he would have landed squarely on his butt. As it was he found himself jerked up short and flipped around. All he could do was hope that the object of his latest affections had not been looking in his direction when the Keatonesque farce had occurred.
On the other paw, maybe she was the kind who appreciated a good pratfall. One could never be sure with females. They hid their true feelings behind smiles, wide eyes, and the occasional plaintive whine. Again, just like humans.
Not for the first time he bemoaned his lack of thumbs. Humans thought it was their brains that had let them dominate their surroundings when really it was all about thumbs. Cats felt the same way, although they had succeeded in controlling their surroundings even in the absence of manipulative digits. Cats had developed other ways of manipulating their humans.
Unlike some dogs he knew, Stuart didn’t actually hate cats. Mostly, he was indifferent to them. Or found their presence distasteful. They were stand-offish creatures, hard to make friends with and often featuring inexplicable personality traits. The few house cats he had met were friendly enough, in their way. The feral ones, though… Best to steer clear of them, no matter their size. And he had seen a few who would have given even Ringo a rough time.
It was amazing how much torque a dog could exert when properly motivated, and nothing beat motivation more than an attractive female. Jen had little choice but to follow along, holding her end of the leash, as Stuart pulled her inexorably in the direction of the female Boston he had spotted from the back of the car. From what he had learned of human behavior, he felt that putting leashes on human males during such encounters would have considerably ameliorated certain unpleasant aspects of such encounters.
