Excerpts

One Few people in Wagtail were surprised by the news that sleeping with a pet in your bed has health benefits for the human and the animal. It reduces stress and increases REM sleep in humans. The animals feel better, too, because it emulates sleeping with their packs. When I rolled over in the middle of the night and Trixie snuggled up to me, that thought drifted across my mind. So it came as no big surprise when I woke in the morning and stared straight into the eyes of a dog. But it wasn't Trixie! The dog had one of those smiling mouths that turn up at the corners. He looked genuinely happy to see me awake. He reminded me of a border collie, but I suspected he was a mix. His fur was long, mostly a reddish gold color. But it was white on his chest and paws, and a white blaze traveled up the center of his face. His tail swished across the down comforter in a joyous rhythm. He was probably less pleased when I sat up and asked, "Who are you?" I stroked his head. Oddly, neither my Jack Russell terrier, Trixie, nor my nosy calico kitty, Twinkletoes, seemed upset by his presence. They must know him, I thought. He looked vaguely familiar. I checked his collar. It had no tags. I scowled at the thought of an irresponsible owner. Maybe he'd had two collars and one of them slipped off? I lived in an apartment on the top floor of the Sugar Maple Inn on Wagtail Mountain. There was a dog door discreetly hidden under a shelf in my dining room. It led to a little-used hidden back staircase that ended two floors down in the private family kitchen, which had a dog door that led to the main lobby of the inn. So it was possible that he belonged to a guest of the inn and had wandered his way to my apartment. Or maybe he'd tracked Trixie's or Twinkletoes's scent. Someone was probably worried sick about this friendly fellow. I patted Trixie and Twinkletoes before calling the front desk. It was early enough for our night clerk to answer. But there had been no reports of a lost dog. I checked the Wagtail neighborhood group online. No new mentions of missing dogs there, either. I was in the shower before it dawned on me that he looked a lot like the dog across the lake. Of course, I hadn't seen that dog up close. There were loads of dogs with similar coloring. And this one wasn't wet, so I doubted that he'd swum across the lake. I dressed in comfortable khakis the color of sand and a periwinkle shirt, glad that I could wear sneakers instead of boots now that it was officially spring. The new dog watched my every move with intelligent eyes. His ears flopped over and were fluffier than the rest of his fur, except for his tail. The three of them followed along behind me as I walked to my terrace. Mr. Huckle, the inn butler, and I had taken to sneaking up to my terrace for teatime in the afternoons while we had a lull in business. Each of us had a set of binoculars. The terrace overlooked the lake and was blissfully out of sight of guests unless they were out on the back lawn. Mr. Huckle always brought a tea cart with a three-tier server of the same goodies being served downstairs in the dining area. Finger sandwiches, chocolate-covered éclairs, miniature cupcakes, and a changing assortment of pastries. We watched a bald eagle couple, long-legged herons, and a host of Canada geese each day. Not that we would ever spy on anyone, of course, but our binoculars drifted daily to the homes on the opposite side of the lake. Soft green new leaves were coming in, closing the spots in between evergreens and slowly occluding the homes, but we had noticed a few tents being erected and the occasional RV parked near the shore. And recently we had seen a dog romping along the shoreline by himself. A dog who fit the description of the one who now placed his front paws on the railing and looked out at the lake. He could be that dog. The one across the lake wasn't there now. Or maybe that dog's people simply hadn't awakened yet to let him out. I went back inside and opened the door that led to the grand staircase. The two dogs and Twinkletoes raced down, with me lagging behind them. The Sugar Maple Inn was home to me. I loved everything about it, from the quirky guests to the sumptuous breakfasts and the beauty of the mountains as the seasons changed. But living where you work can also wear a person out. So I welcomed the rare periods when there weren't any major events going on in the little town of Wagtail. The only big thing happening that week was my grandmother's birthday, and she had already put a damper on all suggestions of a big celebration. My father's mother, Liesel Miller, whom I called Oma, German for Grandma, was having a major birthday but she didn't want a party. Even though she was the mayor of Wagtail, she insisted that she wasn't more special than anyone else, a notion that I admired. It probably lay at the root of her popularity. Even though she had a lot of clout, there wasn't a resident of Wagtail who couldn't approach her personally about some issue or problem. We coaxed her by making threats like "You know we're going to do something to celebrate. Would you prefer a surprise party?" She finally agreed to dinner at her favorite restaurant, The Blue Boar, but insisted it be limited to family and close friends. I'd been informed by the staff that Cook-whose name was actually Cook, so calling him that wasn't at all rude although it probably sounded that way to outsiders-planned to bake a Dobos torte, Oma's favorite, and serve an elegant tea for all the employees on Sunday. It was a surprise for Oma, though. I wasn't to breathe a word. In spite of her reluctance to celebrate, I knew Oma would enjoy that. Especially if it didn't involve gifts. Oma liked to say that she didn't need anything except the pleasure of someone's company. That was a gift to her. In the main lobby of the inn, I turned left and walked along the hallway to the reception desk, where I retrieved one of the GPS collars that we offered guests for their dogs during their stay. Well-behaved dogs could run off-leash in Wagtail, but adventurous dogs sometimes took off on their own. We didn't want them to get lost on the mountain. It happened most often with young energetic dogs and breeds that followed their noses without regard to their whereabouts. I buckled one onto our new friend, then let the dogs out to use the doggy potty. The newcomer followed Trixie and quickly understood what to do there. The sun shone, but the air was still crisp and not at all humid. Azaleas bloomed in bright pinks and reds, with an occasional yellow or purple one in between. White and pink dogwoods were also in bloom. Wagtail was at its prettiest. Wagtail was originally known for its underground springs. People had traveled here for their health and to get away from the heat at lower elevations during the summer. Wealthy folk had built magnificent summer homes, and the less wealthy had built darling cottages. But as the popularity of fresh springs waned, the town recognized a need to bring tourists back. They had decided to go to cats and dogs. Now the small town of Wagtail, on Wagtail Mountain in southwest Virginia, had become the premier location for those who wanted to vacation with their pets. Wagtail catered to every whim and need of dogs, cats, and an assortment of other animal pets, like birds. It had attracted a top-notch animal hospital with expert veterinarians who focused on surgeries and difficult animal illnesses, as well as a number of additional veterinary clinics, and stores that offered beds, clothing, toys, and everything else a spoiled cat or dog might want. Of course, there were plenty of animal-themed items for people, too, including pajamas that matched their dog's pajamas. Wagtail was booming again. The dogs followed me inside, where Twinkletoes had chosen to wait. She knew the routine and led the way to the dining area on the left side of the grand staircase. I joined Oma and Mr. Huckle, who were already eating breakfast. Oma's golden retriever, Gingersnap, politely sniffed the newcomer. Fortunately, all tails wagged. They soon settled down, except for Trixie, who drummed her paws, waiting impatiently for Shelley. She appeared in minutes, bringing me a mug of tea. "Good morning! I see you have a guest." Next to Oma and me, Shelley was Trixie's most favorite person because she served food. Trixie danced around her legs. "It's the craziest thing. He was in my bed this morning!" Oma and Mr. Huckle leaned over to take a better look at him. "Where did he come from?" asked Oma in the German accent she wished she could lose but I found charming. "I'm not sure. None of the guests have reported a missing dog." I looked at Mr. Huckle. "Do you think he could be the dog across the lake?" For decades, Mr. Huckle had been a professional butler for a wealthy family. When they went broke, Oma had worried about him and given him a job. He was a wizened elderly gentleman who insisted on wearing the traditional butler's waistcoat. He had quickly become a guest favorite, because their every need became his personal quest. He studied the dog. "His fur is the correct colors, but it's hard to say. My eyes aren't what they used to be." Oma patted the dog. "He seems familiar to me." "I bet he's hungry," said Shelley, "but he doesn't look malnourished." She spoke directly to him. "Today's specials are ham and spinach omelet, banana pancakes, and just for dogs and cats, we have scrambled eggs with ground beef and a touch of grated Havarti cheese." He paid attention to her every word, and when she described the scrambled egg dish, he yelped. It must have been a coincidence, but it was very cute and prompted laughter among us. "Trixie will have the same. Twinkletoes would probably prefer something fishy. Trout, if you have it. And I think I'll go for the omelet." Shelley ambled away as Oma said to the dog, "Where have I seen you?" She tapped her finger against the table. "It will come to me. In the meantime, perhaps you should check with the Wagtail Animal Guardians. Sometimes a dog escapes from them or from a foster home." "Good idea. I'll do that right after breakfast, Oma." Oma excused herself. When she was out of sight, Mr. Huckle whispered, "We're all set for Sunday afternoon. I spoke with Cook this morning. He's planning to bake the cake on Saturday. We need to keep Liesel out of the commercial kitchen that day." "We'll be at dinner on Saturday evening, but it could be tough during the day." Shelley arrived with our breakfasts. She placed Trixie's on the floor first because she was known to want to eat everyone else's food in addition to her own. Then a bowl for the mystery dog, and only then did she serve Twinkletoes's preferred breakfast of trout and my omelet. "You've got this down to a science," said Mr. Huckle. Shelley chuckled. "It's the rare cat who is interested in a dog's food. It happens, but cats are more likely to be picky eaters. Dogs will stick their noses in a cat's bowl immediately, and we don't want anyone getting scratched." My savory omelet distracted me. The aroma was heavenly. I hadn't had time to take a bite before Oma came running to our table. Her face was completely flushed, and she waved her phone in the air. "He is Radar!" Two Oma breathed heavily as she plunked her phone on the table and sat down in the chair she had vacated. "I knew he looked familiar! Here, you see? He is in many of the pictures." Mr. Huckle and I leaned toward each other, and Shelley looked over our shoulders. Mr. Huckle scrolled through a Facebook account. Oma was right, the dog in the pictures looked exactly like our mystery dog. He was certainly well traveled. In various pictures he posed before the Eiffel Tower and Buckingham Palace. He rode in a gondola in Venice and stood atop a Swiss mountain. "Who is Joshua Paxton?" asked Mr. Huckle. "Josh! It's our Josh!" I cried. It never occurred to me to follow my cousin on Facebook. Small wonder since I hadn't seen him in over a decade. "Joshua is my grandson," said Oma. "The son of my daughter. He has been traveling for quite a long time. He runs a dog rescue called Fly Me Home. I think it is the same dog. No?" The mystery dog had finished his breakfast and now lay on the floor smiling at us. I compared him to the dog in the photos. It certainly looked like he was the same dog. "I don't want to disappoint you," said Mr. Huckle, "but this one in front of the Louvre was posted yesterday. It seems unlikely that Josh's dog could be in the photo yesterday and here today." "He could have posted an old picture," said Oma. "Or he could have doctored it. I've done that," said Shelley. "Just for fun. It's pretty easy to do." As they spoke, it dawned on me that Josh might have posted pictures of his dog in Europe so Oma wouldn't know he had come to Wagtail for her birthday. Why ruin a fun surprise? "I don't know. They don't look doctored." I winked at Shelley. Oma's broad smile had melted away, which made me feel awful. It had been a very long time since I'd seen him, but I knew Josh quite well. He had been the third person who made up Oma's summertime trio. Josh, my beau Holmes Richardson, and I had worked and played at the inn together every summer when we were children. Doctoring photos to trick people was exactly the kind of thing Josh would do. In fact, now that I thought about it, I suspected Josh might be staying in one of the tents across the lake. Or in a cabin or RV, for that matter. While Oma went on about how adorable Josh, Holmes, and I were as children, I was scheming. I would do my regular duties around the inn with Twinkletoes and both dogs. Radar had been pretty good about following Trixie and me so far. I bet he wouldn't mind taking a walk through the inn. Then I would nab the inn skiff and zip across the lake to find Josh and return Radar. Excerpted from The Dog Across the Lake by Krista Davis All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.