The Kingdom of Dog

In two days, Eastern was going to launch a $500 million capital campaign to fund new construction, scholarships, and faculty chairs. Though my public relations job was only temporary, for the winter term, I was hoping to move into a permanent position with the campaign if Mike liked my work.

As I was finishing the press release, my boss Mike stuck his head in my office door, holding a cup of coffee. “Hey Steve, did you get back the proofs for the program yet?”

Mike typified the no-neck monster stereotype of college athletes. He was thick-set and muscular, with dark hair and a heavy five o’clock shadow, even early in the morning. At thirty-five, he was seven years younger than I was, though shorter and stockier.

“Just came in from the printer,” I said. “They misspelled President Babson’s name, but I already called and had them correct it.”

On his way to my desk, he stopped to scratch behind Rochester’s ears. “My Rottweilers would eat you up, Rochester,” he said. “You’re too sweet.”

I was jealous to see Rochester look up at him with doggy adoration. But I knew that the moment I called the dog to me, he’d be all over me, slobbering on my slacks, shedding on my chair, and keeping me from getting any work done.

I watched Mike read the page proofs, waiting for him to reach the section on the keynote speaker. He lifted the cup to his lips and I said, “Don’t!”

He looked up at me, then back down at the page proofs, then burst into laughter. “Keynote speaker: President John William Baboon?” He laughed so hard that the coffee in his cup threatened to spill over as his hand shook.

“Thought you’d want to see them misspell Babson yourself,” I said. “I couldn’t let you get some coffee in your mouth, though.”

“Appreciate that.”

Mike had been a football star at Eastern, then assistant coach, then director of athletics. He’d only been the chief fund-raiser for a year or two, and I knew he was depending on the success of the fund-raising campaign to keep his job. I had a lot at stake, too; I needed a permanent gig, if only to keep a roof over my head and Rochester’s and food on my table and in his bowl.

Mike returned the page proofs to my desk. “I need a favor. Can you run down to the printers and pick these up? We’re going to need them at four to start stuffing packets. We’re setting up an assembly line in the ballroom.”

Each guest was to receive a folder with information on Eastern and the capital campaign. I had written a series of flyers on critical areas in need of funding—the science labs, the music building, and so on. Every guest would receive a no-skid pad for the back of a cell phone, embossed with the Eastern logo, along with contribution forms and a host of other materials.

“Sure. I’ll head down there around 3:30 and pick them up.”

He stopped by the door on his way out. “With winter break this place is pretty empty, but I’ve rounded up every kid I could find and commandeered every staff member who didn’t have a good excuse. I’ve even got campus security roped in.”

Mike’s mention of campus security reminded me of my own past with law enforcement, as so many things did.

I served a short prison sentence in California for computer hacking, which led in no small part to the failure of my marriage. When I was discharged on parole, I returned to my hometown, Stewart’s Crossing, just down the Delaware River from Eastern.

I moved into a townhouse my late father had left to me and met my next-door neighbor, Caroline Kelly, and her golden retriever, Rochester. She was killed while walking Rochester, and my high school friend Rick Stemper was the investigating detective in her case. As a favor I agreed to take care of Rochester for a few days after her death.

He quickly won me over, and he and I helped the police figure out who killed Caroline. My ex-wife and I had tried twice to have a child, but she miscarried both times. A psychologist might have said that I was replacing those two lost children with Rochester, but all I knew was that I liked having the big, goofy guy around.

After I checked my press release one more time, then emailed it to my list of media contacts, I walked over to where Rochester dozed, and sat down cross-legged next to him. He leaned up and put his big golden head in my lap. I scratched under his chin and behind his ears, and he wiggled around and stretched his legs.

“Who’s a good boy?” I asked, leaning down to bury my head in the soft fur of his neck. “Who’s Daddy’s good boy?”

He sat up and put his front paws on my shoulders, licking my face, as I laughed and tried to wiggle away.