TANGO

TANGO

The Tale of an Island Dog

EILEEN BEHA

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

1. Cold Creek Kennel

2. Paws ‘n’ Claws Pet Boutique

3. The Lap of Luxury

4. Shipwrecked

5. My Name Is Tango

6. Links of Silver

7. Stumped

8. Warming Up

9. Stitched Back Together

10. The Pitiful Place

11. Kindred Spirits

12. Missing Identity

13. Lost and Found

14. A Festering Wound

15. The Recipe

16. Without Hope

17. An Empty Shed

18. A Simple Heart’s Song

19. Special Deliveries

20. The Light house

21. Orders from Headquarters

22. One Step at a Time

23. No One Walks Alone

24. Enchanted Candles

25. Low Tide

26. McKenna’s Gift

27. Encounter with a Twenty-Three-Legged Cat

28. Putting the Pieces Together

29. Without a Pack

30. Trouble Brewing

31. Cat-and-Dog Dance

32. Unlikely Heroes

33. Not for Sale

34. A Fair Fight

35. The Final Storm

36. Power Outage

37. In the Ring

38. Betrayed

39. Set Free

40. Not One but Two

41. The Truth Hurts

42. Sleeping on Silver

43. Rooted to the Red Earth

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Imprint

To Ralph. Always.

PROLOGUE

The tale of a little dog named Tango takes place on an island, cradled by waves, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

It is a peaceful province where the sea laps against sandstone cliffs, bays and inlets offer quiet shelter for pairs of blue heron, and red clay roads wind like ribbons across rolling hills.

A bountiful island where potato vines bloom into white stars, purple lupine line the ditches, and rose red fireweed sparkles along fence lines.

A magical land where around every corner you glimpse the sea.

Named Abegweit by the people of the First Nations, this crescent-shaped island has a legend. Here, a soul will discover his true kindred spirit.

A legend not only about humans, mind you—but about all God’s creatures, from the smallest of sea urchins to the strongest of shiny black seals.

And dogs?

Dogs, too, you ask?

But of course.

CHAPTER 1

Cold Creek Kennel

Early one morning, when the winds of March were raw and unrelenting, inside a puppy pen on George Bailey’s farm, a Yorkshire Terrier named Sadie was sleeping on her side. Four puppies lay curled against her belly, like little boats anchored in a safe cove.

When she awoke, Sadie said to herself, It’s time. She nudged her puppies, nuzzling each leathery black nose. It’s time.

The puppies perked their ears, thinking that Mr. Bailey had brought in their breakfast.

Years ago, when Sadie was a very young mother, she’d blessed each newborn in her litter with a name.

But after Mr. Bailey sold her first three litters, Sadie stopped naming her offspring, and who can blame her?

Year in and year out, as soon as Sadie’s puppies were weaned, Mr. Bailey scooped them up and trucked down to Boston, where he sold the litter for twice the price any small town pet shop owner would pay.

However, this spring, weeks had passed, and her four precious puppies were still by her side. Perhaps Sadie’s prayers had been answered, and her son and three daughters would live out their lives at Cold Creek Kennel.

Now, Sadie placed her paw on the forehead of the largest female puppy. I will name you Esperanza. May you bring hope and light to those who have lost their way.

To the second-largest female, Sadie said, I will name you Theresa, for you will give generously to those in need.

By this time, the male puppy’s mind was filled with wild imaginings. He thought about the tales his mother had told them of their fearless ancestors, the brave terriers of Yorkshire, who cleared rats out of shafts before coal miners entered with shovels and picks.

Maybe she’ll name me Sir Rex, he whispered to his unnamed sister.

He sat up straight and tall. Or Apollo.

He puffed out his chest. Or Zeus.

His sister howled with laughter.

At that very moment, Mr. Bailey opened the door to the kennel area.

Sadie, who didn’t hear Mr. Bailey’s footsteps, raised her paw, calling for silence. I will name you Dulcinea. Wherever you go, joy and sweetness will follow.

The male puppy stood at attention. His docked tail quivered. His mother’s paw was a royal scepter pointed to the sky.

And you, my son, I name you—

Suddenly Sadie’s eyes widened. Her paw dropped. Mr. Bailey reached into the puppy pen and clamped the scruff of the male puppy’s neck. The puppy squealed, a futile plea for release.

With a flick of his wrist, Mr. Bailey slid the trembling puppy into a plastic travel crate.

Esperanza, Theresa, and Dulcinea met the same fate.

As the imprisoned puppies rode off in the back of Mr. Bailey’s van, Sadie pawed at the pen’s steel bars until she was limp with exhaustion. The sound of Sadie’s howls twisted around the rocky hills. Even Mr. Bailey’s sheep stopped grazing in sympathy.

Inside the van, the puppies howled, too.

A few miles outside of Boston, George Bailey finally pulled his minivan over to the side of the road. He spun around in his swivel seat and shook his fist at the wailing puppies.

Shut up! he snarled, drawing a straight finger across his throat. Or else!

The four puppies huddled even closer together.

I want Mama, Dulcinea sobbed.

Shush, the male puppy admonished, or he’ll skin us alive for sure.

Now, what Sadie didn’t know was that Mr. Bailey thought that this particular litter was her finest. Under wisps of glossy gold hair, the puppies’ brown eyes sparkled. Their ears were fringed with feathers of golden fur as delicate as goose down. Their coats were charcoal gray and thick. They were strong-legged and spunky, destined to be champions.

In fact, the litter of Yorkshire Terriers was so fine that Mr. Bailey decided to bypass Boston. He drove straight south to New York City, where Esperanza, Theresa, Dulcinea, and their nameless brother were certain to bring top dollar.

CHAPTER 2

Paws ‘n’ Claws Pet Boutique

The owner of Paws ‘n’ Claws Pet Boutique on Manhattan’s Upper East Side didn’t hesitate for a moment when he heard George Bailey’s asking price for the four Yorkshire Terrier puppies.

If the truth be told, breeds of dogs were like fashion in New York City: in one season and out the next. That season, Yorkies were in.

After being displayed in the pet shop window only a few hours, the three female puppies had been sold.

With every last wave of a beloved sister’s paw, the male puppy’s tiny heart shrank. He turned his back on customers who ogled him. He growled at a teenage girl who examined him like he was secondhand merchandise. He bit a loutish boy with braces who tossed him around like a football.

At six o’clock, the owner of the pet shop turned off the lights. A door slammed. The puppy heard the click of a key turning in a lock.

Dusk turned into darkness. The bubbling aquarium cast eerie blue green lights overhead. A parrot named Ray talked in his sleep. Kittens cried. Dogs whimpered. Fear gripped the Yorkie by the throat, a choke chain that grew tighter with each passing hour.

The next afternoon, a tall woman and her fiancé strolled into the pet store. She pushed a pair of sunglasses to the top of her head and swept back waves of honey brown hair that tumbled over the collar of her trench coat. The man adjusted the gray cashmere scarf he’d tossed casually around his neck.

The pet shop owner rubbed his palms together. Such wealth, such privilege the pair radiated. His smile beamed as the woman fondled the Siamese kittens and the man scratched a Rottweiler puppy’s ears. Acting on a hunch, the shop owner slyly placed a new price tag on the pen in which the Yorkshire Terrier was displayed.

A few minutes later, when the woman smiled down on him, the lonely little Yorkie couldn’t bring himself to turn his back. Eyes glistening, the two-pound puppy jumped up and down against the bars of the cage. He balanced on his two hind legs and spun until his body toppled.

Oh, look, Diego, the woman said. He’s dancing.

The man called Diego raised one eyebrow. You call that a dog?

The woman nuzzled the puppy’s furry frame against her cheek.

Diego scrunched his nose. There are rats in this city twice his size. He rubbed his hand over the day-old growth on his chin. No—three times his size. They could eat him for lunch.

We’ll put him in private school, countered the woman in a teasing tone of voice. Please, Diego—please? I love him already.

What could Diego do? The little dog had won the woman’s heart.

An hour later, the woman, whose name was Marcellina, and Diego, burdened with bags of pet supplies, emerged from Paws ‘n’ Claws.

Horns blared, city buses grumbled, taxi drivers squawked, and tires squealed. Inside a fancy plaid pet carrier, the puppy trembled.

Diego, I’ve decided, Marcellina announced as they crossed Madison Avenue.

You’ve decided what?

His name, Marcellina said. We’ll call him Tango.

Like the dance.?

Like the dance.

Not surprisingly, the tango was the in dance step that season.

Tango? What about Rex—or Zeus? the puppy wanted to ask. Have you considered Apollo? Or Spike?

Marvelous, Diego agreed. Tango it is.

The little dog now known as Tango groaned. What would his mother think if she knew that he had been given such a silly name? His ears burned; he could almost hear his sisters laughing at him.

And so it was that Tango made a vow: somehow, some way, someday he would bring honor to his name.

Whining, he scratched on the carrier’s mesh door. Diego unzipped the flap and tumbled Tango into the crook of Marcellina’s arm.

Hordes of humans hustled past. Tango looked up, down, and all around. Where were the trees? Where was the grass?

I know! Marcellina said, pointing to an expensive jewelry store. Let’s go here!

Why? I just bought you a twenty-four-carat dog, grumbled Diego.

No, silly. Not for me—for him. She squeezed Diego’s hand. Tango has to have an identification tag. A silver heart would be lovely, don’t you agree?

Knowing that it would be futile to protest, Diego nodded. And a silver collar, too, no?

But of course, replied Marcellina.

CHAPTER 3

The Lap of Luxury

Almost three years later, on a drizzly afternoon, Tango strained against a pearl-studded leather leash, gripped by his personal dog walker. Tango had finished his daily walk through Central Park and was eager to get home to Marcellina’s apartment building, where the dark-suited doorman would give him a treat. After that, Tango planned to take a delicious nap on a willow green silk chaise lounge, custom-made to his size.

Once inside, Marcellina removed Tango’s yellow hooded raincoat and four candy apple red boots.

She was bubbling with excitement.

Squiggle-butt, I have fabulous news! Diego’s birthday is two weeks from tomorrow. We—you and I—are going to give him the best birthday party ever. And when I say the best, I mean THE BEST.

Marcellina tapped Tango’s snout. But don’t you tell him. It’s a surprise.

With one exception—the sound of Marcellina unzipping an empty suitcase to pack for a trip—Tango loved surprises. And today, his mistress had a second surprise: Marcellina herself was going to give him his bath.

The people from Suds ’n’ Scissors can’t make it today, Poochie-pie, she explained.

Soon Tango was soaking in bubbles that smelled like exotic calla lilies in bloom. His mistress massaged him with gentle fingers, rinsed him with lukewarm water, and toweled him dry. After she blow-dried his coat, Marcellina curled the steel blue strands into fluffy waves.

Even before Tango was dry behind his ears, Conrad—designer of couture fashions for Manhattan’s most discriminating dogs—arrived.

Conrad ran a tape measure from neck to tail along Tango’s spine. Twelve inches, he murmured, marking his notepad.

He wound the tape around Tango’s neck, chest, and midsection. Nine, eleven, twelve—perfect!

With a ruler, he measured Tango’s legs. Seven inches. He smiled. Simply perfect!

By seven o’clock on the night of Diego’s birthday, Marcellina’s penthouse was ablaze with black candles. Outside the glass walls, the cityscape glowed and glittered. Every time Marcellina opened