was a chance that you'd pet him or feed him or scratch his ears, he was happy to see you. If Charles Manson had showed up with a dog biscuit in his hand, Ogilvy would've greeted him as if he were a long-lost relative.
I hadn't said a word so far, but Harlan didn't seem to notice. He just kept on scratching Ogilvy between his ears. The dog's tongue lolled happily. “I sure remember Ogilvy, too,” Harlan went on.
The owners of Ogilvy's mother had not realized immediately that her new family was not purebred, so they'd bobbed all the puppies' tails. Poor Ogilvy has always seemed to realize that he'd been short-changed in the tail department. He'd apparently decided a long time ago to make up quantity with quality. Now, at the sound of his name, he wagged his stump with such vigor, his entire rear end wagged, too.
“Yep,” Harlan said, smiling, “I recognized Ogilvy the second I saw his picture in the paper.”
So that was how he'd found me. Not exactly a surprise. Ogilvy's photo had appeared on the front page of the Louisville Courier-Journal yesterday morning. I'd known, of course, that the picture was going to be in there. Fact is, I'd been worrying for a week, ever since a staff photographer from the C-J had shown up at my front door, asking who I was and what Ogilvy's name was.
I'd briefly considered refusing to tell the guy anything. And, even more important, refusing to give permission to print the picture. And yet, how could I do that without attracting even more attention? The reporter, no doubt, would have been curious as to why I was so publicity-shy. What's more, it wouldn't have taken much to dig up the whole story. I sure as hell had not wanted another story about the bank robbery showing up on the front page of the Courier .
I'd seen enough stories about that to last me a lifetime. The headlines back then had all but screamed at me: LOCAL WOMAN ARRESTED IN BANK HEIST! BANK ROBBER REFUSES TO NAME ACCOMPLICE! And let's not forget my personal favorite: ROBBER GETS TEN YEARS!
As it turned out, that last headline had been in error. I'd been paroled for good behavior after serving just a little over three years, after which I'd moved into this rental house in Valley Station, a suburb of Louisville. I'd gotten a new job working as a secretary; and I'd been more or less taking it one day at a time, trying to make up my mind what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. The last thing I needed was the Courier taking a walk down Memory Lane. Compared to that, just having a picture of my dog appear in the paper seemed like a cakewalk.
I hadn't counted on Ogilvy's photo being on the front page, though. Or that the damn thing would take up almost one quarter of the page. Or that it would give the address of the church beneath the picture. That's what made me mad. Because the second I'd seen the photo and, even more significant, the headline in big bold type over the photo, I'd realized that I should've expected this. I mean, how stupid could I be? It was the Christmas season, for God's sake.
It being the Christmas season, in fact, was what had started it all. The house I'd rented was right across the street from the Valley Station Baptist Church. Ever since the church had set up their Nativity scene the day after Thanksgiving, I'd been having trouble with Ogilvy. I couldn't keep him in the backyard. Having apparently inherited his father's remarkable talent, Ogilvy kept jumping the back fence and running across the street.
What was the attraction? Oddly enough, Ogilvy seemed to be convinced that the church, in its infinite generosity, had erected a doghouse just for him. That this doghouse only had three walls, that it had a glowing neon star attached to the roof, and that it sheltered weather-worn statues of Mary, Joseph, and the Holy Infant, did not matter in the least to Ogilvy. All Ogilvy wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep on the nice soft straw, his body curved around the sandaled feet of Joseph. I'd
I hadn't said a word so far, but Harlan didn't seem to notice. He just kept on scratching Ogilvy between his ears. The dog's tongue lolled happily. “I sure remember Ogilvy, too,” Harlan went on.
The owners of Ogilvy's mother had not realized immediately that her new family was not purebred, so they'd bobbed all the puppies' tails. Poor Ogilvy has always seemed to realize that he'd been short-changed in the tail department. He'd apparently decided a long time ago to make up quantity with quality. Now, at the sound of his name, he wagged his stump with such vigor, his entire rear end wagged, too.
“Yep,” Harlan said, smiling, “I recognized Ogilvy the second I saw his picture in the paper.”
So that was how he'd found me. Not exactly a surprise. Ogilvy's photo had appeared on the front page of the Louisville Courier-Journal yesterday morning. I'd known, of course, that the picture was going to be in there. Fact is, I'd been worrying for a week, ever since a staff photographer from the C-J had shown up at my front door, asking who I was and what Ogilvy's name was.
I'd briefly considered refusing to tell the guy anything. And, even more important, refusing to give permission to print the picture. And yet, how could I do that without attracting even more attention? The reporter, no doubt, would have been curious as to why I was so publicity-shy. What's more, it wouldn't have taken much to dig up the whole story. I sure as hell had not wanted another story about the bank robbery showing up on the front page of the Courier .
I'd seen enough stories about that to last me a lifetime. The headlines back then had all but screamed at me: LOCAL WOMAN ARRESTED IN BANK HEIST! BANK ROBBER REFUSES TO NAME ACCOMPLICE! And let's not forget my personal favorite: ROBBER GETS TEN YEARS!
As it turned out, that last headline had been in error. I'd been paroled for good behavior after serving just a little over three years, after which I'd moved into this rental house in Valley Station, a suburb of Louisville. I'd gotten a new job working as a secretary; and I'd been more or less taking it one day at a time, trying to make up my mind what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. The last thing I needed was the Courier taking a walk down Memory Lane. Compared to that, just having a picture of my dog appear in the paper seemed like a cakewalk.
I hadn't counted on Ogilvy's photo being on the front page, though. Or that the damn thing would take up almost one quarter of the page. Or that it would give the address of the church beneath the picture. That's what made me mad. Because the second I'd seen the photo and, even more significant, the headline in big bold type over the photo, I'd realized that I should've expected this. I mean, how stupid could I be? It was the Christmas season, for God's sake.
It being the Christmas season, in fact, was what had started it all. The house I'd rented was right across the street from the Valley Station Baptist Church. Ever since the church had set up their Nativity scene the day after Thanksgiving, I'd been having trouble with Ogilvy. I couldn't keep him in the backyard. Having apparently inherited his father's remarkable talent, Ogilvy kept jumping the back fence and running across the street.
What was the attraction? Oddly enough, Ogilvy seemed to be convinced that the church, in its infinite generosity, had erected a doghouse just for him. That this doghouse only had three walls, that it had a glowing neon star attached to the roof, and that it sheltered weather-worn statues of Mary, Joseph, and the Holy Infant, did not matter in the least to Ogilvy. All Ogilvy wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep on the nice soft straw, his body curved around the sandaled feet of Joseph. I'd
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