Play Dead by Leslie O'Kane Page A

and how to squeeze house hunting
into my busy schedule.
    The O’Farrell clan lived on a street
perpendicular to the South Boulder Rec Center, in a two-story colonial. I rang
the doorbell, and a thin-faced, thirtyish woman with a remarkably pointy nose
introduced herself as “Sarah Adams, John’s wife,” and ushered me inside. From
somewhere in the back of the house came the sounds of TV cartoons.
    “John had to run to the store, but he’ll
be here in a moment,” Sarah said, unsmiling. “Let me introduce you to the rest
of the family.”
    “Kids?” Sarah hollered over her shoulder, “Shut
that thing off and come say hello! The dog doctor’s here!”
    I smiled at the thought that, from their
mother’s description, her children might well expect me to be a dog wearing a
white lab coat and stethoscope. She arched an eyebrow and studied me. Wearing
my tan cotton twill slacks and favorite striped shirt, I may not have looked as
professional as I had yesterday, but I was infinitely more comfortable.
    “Let’s go sit in the living room,” Sarah
said, leading the way into a small room where an enormous sectional sofa left
almost no space to walk. “Where the kids go, Mugsy goes, so I’m sure she’ll be
here momentarily.”
    To my surprise, not a fox terrier but
rather a Scottish terrier bounded into what little floor space was
left. The terrier was the classic solid black with pointy upright ears, a
muzzle that I think of as sprouting a goatee, and those stubby legs that, truth
be told, always struck me as disproportionately short. Not that I was anyone to
talk. A split second later, a chubby, redheaded boy appeared around the corner,
swinging into the room while gripping the door trim. He had a wooden gun in his
hand that fired rubber bands. He pointed it at me and said, “Pow!”
    “Pow yourself,” I replied, eyeing his gun.
The dogs of my youth had been lucky. We didn’t have rubber-band guns back then,
just air-propelled popguns that could spit corks all of five feet.
    “Benjamin!” his mother scolded. The
Scottie, in the meantime, began to bark, planting herself firmly in the center
of the room between Benjamin and me, next to Benjamin’s mother.
    “Hi,” the boy said confidently, meeting my
gaze. He walked over to stand directly beside his dog. “My name is Benjamin. I’m
six-and-a-half. My little sister’s shy.” He turned and shouted with excess
volume, “It’s okay, Emmy! She’s kinda pretty and she doesn’t look mean!”
    A little girl peered into the room. I
caught a quick glimpse of carrot-colored curls. She immediately ducked from
view. Maybe she disagreed with her brother’s assessment of my looks.
    “Hi, I’m Allida Babcock,” I said to the children—or
at least to the boy and to the doorway Emmy was hiding behind. “I thought you
said you had a fox terrier,” I said to their mother. “Mugsy’s a Scottish
terrier.”
    “Did I?” She clicked her tongue and shook
her head. “John’s always correcting me. Yes, Mugsy’s a Scottish terrier.
Terriers all look the same to me.”
    That was a bit hard for me to understand;
not unlike claiming that all mountains look the same. Besides, Scottish
terriers were quite popular. Their owners tended to name them “Scottie,” just
in case anyone missed the point.
    “Yep,” Benjamin said, grabbing the poor
dog’s head in a hammerlock which instantly forced me to bite my tongue, this
being too early for me to offer advice. “Mugsy’s a Scottie dog!”
    It was not, however, too early for one of
my patented, paint-peeling glares. Benjamin took one look at my face and
released his grip on the dog. I love children, but my utter intolerance of pet
abuse takes priority. Mugsy whined a little and backed away from Benjamin, but
bravely maintained her post in the center of the room, looking in all
directions as if she were a sheepdog whose flock was so scattered she didn’t
know which one to rein in first. Judging from her bearing and the