Empirical son chp03

Dog gone it

Amelia-pov

Striding off the plane, getting my four bags and head to what should be my car outside. I see Clark looking like a reject from the cast Oklahoma; the Beverly Hills version. His simple cowboy outfit ala Glen Ford's film Jubal: not less than two-thousand-dollar if not more. With his three-thousand-dollar custom silver embellished boot. I've seen parade saddles with less silver trim.

He pulls it off, since he's a dead ringer doppelganger for young thirty-something Ford. Come to think about it; has he ever been on a horse? I would bet not; too dirty, and dusty. Strange that is the first time that question has popped up in my head in four years. The hanging, nearly falling toothpick on his lips. Improvement over his old nicotine habit. I'm making some progress in forcing a healthier life style on him. Soon Green leafy vegetables, maybe next year at the earliest. The slouch against the hummer; Completes the tired range hand mystic; a dozen ladies are eyeing him. I smirk, let's stir the cauldron a bit.

"Where is my bitch! Cowgirl?" I yell at him, drawing ever square asshole within a hundred yards. A dozen dirty looks from the ladies. Good!

"I hope in her cage! That damn dog of yours nearly bit me, again!" He drawls with that South Boston Nasal Irish accent, that is so the opposite of his dress.

"Put my junk in the bed, Lets go get my girl." He loads and we drive away in his tricked-out Hummer truck.

"How's Sinclair, the emails did not cut the mustard, on what has and is happening.

"About Sinclair? He in the hospital. We had to farm out the dogs." He says navigating out of SEA-TAC. "What!"

"Ok, simple words for simple minded Amelia. BAD STORM SUNDAY-MONDAY; lighting, very hot, very destructive. Hit tree, TREE VAROOMS BIG FIRE. FIRE BAD! Then many trees on fire. AH! Fire spots Sinclair's barn-kennel! Following me?" He is pissed for some reason.

"Losses?" I ask

"No dogs; But the Propane tank when up, shrapnel bit Sinclair, his girlfriend and Tommy; his Kennel-man. Not bad, but all three are still in the hospital in Olympia."

"Ok, I should have asks about them first." I apologize hoping that is it.

"Ok, it's been hard; The Stumpy Tail Cattle Dog pair and the Russia Sulimov pairs; owners when overboard. Claiming we psychological harmed the dog. Wanting not only hundred percent refund, by damages. I have Doc Wilson jumping on them. Sinclair and Tommy had everyone moved before the barn caught fire. They only when back for the breeder hard-drives."

"The remote backup?" Why did they need to go back in side?

"The remote backup company when bankrupt two weeks ago, notified us Saturday. All are backups are locked up in bankruptcy court. Tommy was in the middle of copying the hard drives to a new portable Network Hard drive." He turns off the highway. We head into the oldest, richest part of Olympia. The mansions and Victorian relics of a forgotten age, repurposed to the politicians' and moneyed elite. Where are we going?

"We had problems fostering your Bankhar, and breeding pairs of Caucasian Shepherd Dog, and Romanian Carpathian Shepherd. Their size, a temperament. The Romanian Carpathian Shepherd pair are with a rancher friend of Sinclair's up near St. Helena." Clark breathes out slow and long; calming his temper. I let him vent and calm. No reason to launch the flamethrower Amelia Grey temper tantrum. Yet?

"Tommy's cousin down outside Tillamook, took the Caucasian Shepherd Dog pair. Doc is sure a Vet down there can deal with the puppies when they come. We should still have three to four weeks before the birth. The rare breed AKC certified Doctor from Georgia the country, who specializes in Caucasian Shepherd, is flying down there in two weeks." Clark has this down pat. I relax, nothing we can't handle.

"My girl?" Asking as we pull up to the Adams mansion. Or maybe the Munster's mansion: Is this tricked out as a Hollywood film set? The place looks like ghouls and zombies will burst out the doors and windows. Maybe Vicent Price will open the door to lure us in. A very scary Victorian gothic revival. I wonder why anyone would decorate this macabre.

"This is Parkland's Bed & Breakfast. The couple are actors, very weird. The husband thinks; he is Boris Karloff reincarnated. They play up the horror movie vibe for the B&B." he says; they do not sound like dog people. Especial not for my very rare girl.

"They're fostering my girl?"

"No. A friend of Doc's with military dog experience. He's a carpenter, specializes in restorations. Let's head around back." We exit the car and take a path around to the back porch, overlooks a half-acre of wild neglected gardens. Could be fantastic with the right gardener. "GRRRR"

I look up, my Girl's on the porch. She growled at me. I lock eyes. She recognizes me, I hand sign to attend. She stays locked on the porch. I repeat the sign forceful. She stays locked. I am getting pissed.

"Troupeau de Reines!" I command. She looks unhappy.

"Erregina, go to your love." My girl leaps off the porch and runs to me. Leaping her forepaws on my shoulders and licks my face. Driving me to the ground.

My girl, my very rare and special girl. One of only two breeding purebred females in the North America. I only have a months at best with her, before she goes to a couple and their rare sheep herds; mostly Leicester Longwool, Black Welsh Mountain and Texels, at ranch near Hudson Bay.

Her sister and her will be Artificial Inseminated; to make a wide genetic spread of puppies. "Troupeau de Reines! Did you miss me?" I understand my girl. "I missed you too." Rubbing her stomach. Crawling up to my feet.

I look at the guy on the porch for the first time. That is a male to avoid when he is angry. A man's man. I bet him and dad would be best buds. "thanks"

"Not a problem; anytime you need a sitter. When I'm able." The guy seems sad and genuine.

"What are you working on?" After Elliot, I have a pretty good handle on construction and restoration.

"Their contractor screwed up the stairs. Put in a modern Scandinavian blond trim with a blond wood tread. Really blew the whole Horror movie vibe. Come take a look."

I start to walk in with my girl. "Is she ok?"

"Sure, she was outside because the non-migrating geese were teasing her. They float by around noon. She chases them away. Gets her laps in." He laughs at my girl. I laugh too remembering her chasing the pigeon under the shade trees in the park outside my Paris townhouse.

He leads into a mix of Adams family, Munster, and Vincent Price macabre. The stairs are nearly finished, look like they have been there since it was built. "The original stairs died about twenty years ago, replaced with a steel circular stairway. When Ed and Leona bought this place, last year. The spent twice what they paid to restore the ambience and upgrade the utilities. They are currently at Ed's mothers in Kirkland. Watch party for the Grand-Dame being on some hit television show. Ed and Leona wall of fame is in the parlor over there."

"Not a fan?" I ask

"I'm more sports, fishing, hunting, history shows. An I have been on This Old House, and Wood Shop several times." He strikes a pose. God he is so cute. "Well? We should have you over for a watch party, next time. Clark baby, that calendar idea is sparking right now. Hot Men and Dogs of the Northwest. Game?"

"Well, If I pick the dog and it tasteful and pays." He calls my bluff or does he.

"Amelia, we got to get going if your making dinner at your parents." Clarks laughs.

"Nice meeting your stud." I kiss his cheek and lead my girl to the hummer. Loaded up we are almost rolling.

"Thanks Ray. Doc is expecting you Sunday; something about house jacking?" Clarks smiles, totally ignorance at what Doc said.

"Take care" He turns away, turning back with a mischievous grin. "That's horse jacking, or getting doc's wife's just completed life size sculpture, That Shetland pony wind vane in the side yard, on his barn roof; your requested as well. Strong back, weak mind." He waves turning back to the house.

Laughing at Clark, priceless expression. Wish Ray had clued me in, could have photobombed him. Almost as much fun as Doc, conning him into sticking his arm up a cow's butt to assist in a birth. The photobomb pictures are priceless. Doc used one as his promotional mailer 'Don't Let Urban Cowboys. Call ###.###.##### For A Real Veterinarian'. To Clarks horror and shame. Doc said it tripled business.

Clark's idea of hard labor is attending his trust fund annual audit meeting with his older brother. Or attending that congressional tax advisor group four times a year in balmy swampy D.C… We get on the road, my girl laid down on the back seat, chewings on a large rawhide bone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The road miles and the past hectic week lull me into a stupor. Too much time to think about myself and not problem solve. Who am I? Why am I? These questions haunt me. Did I kill my brother? Drive him away? Is Elliott's problems, my fault? My spies told me about the Rehab. About Mom's overcompensation since Christian left. Or Dad's fall to earth.

I miss the days before Christian left. When I was daddy's girl. Now I'm: no one's fool, or doormat. I had to grow up and take my place in society and the world; now I have to take my place in the family. I just wish I knew what place that was. Maybe they would all be better off, if I left? These last two years in Paris everything has come up roses and gold. Finding my passions; my balances. Cooking and breeding rare endangered dogs. Forging an empire of my own.

I can remember beating that Russia creep in my brand-new café in Lyon: nearly killing that poor Russian Spaniel, savaging her for pissing on the floor in fear. Meeting and talking to Doctor Emily Book, a veterinarian, bring back several rare endangered dog breeds. Finding a passion that fulfills me and makes me happy.

Fostering my first, a young female Belgian Laekenois. Sparking my love of herding dogs. I find a hidden talent for training and caring for animals. If not a chef, I would be a veterinarian. She's on her second litters, living comfortable in Alberta: Herding cattle, and horses.

Before my girl, behind me, I cared for an ancient gentlemanly Bergamasco Sheepdog. My puppy and then teenager girl and him were joyfully mischievous to the end of his life. He died this past winter at what we believe to be around fifteen years. I miss his hugs and wakeup alarm wet nose. AH!

My next foster, is likely a Hovawart, Schapendoes, or Pumi. Several puppy pairs are getting ready to be fostered. Emily is having problems finding dedicated herding capable foster parents.

I have Sinclair's, outside Cora; Horse, and goats' breeding farm. Starts the juveniles on herding skills with his calm experienced quartets of border collies. The Wilson family outside the parents' Priest Lake House in Idaho and Mario flocks in the Ecrins National Park; advanced herding training; readying for permanent herd jobs. Although most will go to houses and families with the space for large breeds.

I spend about a third of my yearly stock profits and trust fund payout; about half million dollars on making these precious dogs survive another decade. With hope that some will do what they were breed for, be happy, and loved.

I may have to take all six. I can do this; my house on Vashon Island is big enough. My home base, where I farm out my non-profit firefighting goats' herd around the northwest.

Crossing over into Bellevue, closer we get to the manor; the more my nerves ache. No one knows me, not my friends or family. Only Granpa T knows about the dogs, and the house. The lawyer handling my trust fund only knows the dogs as investments.

The closest anyone knows me is Clark, my Tax lawyer, CPA, COO. Troupeau de Reines is getting antsy, feeling my nerves. I center and calm. Nothing this weekend, the Gala, is going to blow up my life. Just another boring Gala, and Mom and Dad's yearly depression over Christian.

The gate looms up ahead, a caterer van is exiting, Clark scoots in and we are here. Grey Manor, Moor section of Bellevue Washington. Where the well off live, breed trust fund losers and fade into entropy.

footnote: one reviewer missed the clues in chp 1 for cg anger: Razor edge, The Bill Murray movie if you don't have time to read: name he chose, and his Freudian slip