Dog Crazy by Meg Donohue Page A

answer, Clive cuts in. “Anya, I thought you said someone stole Billy,” he says. “One of those dastardly thieves that rove the city looking for smelly old mutts to nab. I hear it’s practically an epidemic. Front page of the Chronicle week after week. ‘Flea-bitten Mutts Targeted by Crime Ring! Humane Society Paralyzed with Terror!’ ”
    I can feel the anger radiating off Anya. “Someone did steal him, Clive!” Her bony fingers with their blood-rimmed nails fan out on the table in front of her and I have the sense that she’s about to launch herself across the table at her brother. “Some fucking prick stole my dog. And when I find out who did it, I’m going to rip out his rotten heart and crush it.” She swings one of her legs up so that her huge black boot lands on the table. A crust of mud falls off the bottom and lands an inch from my plate.
    Everyone is silent.
    I don’t have siblings, so I never experienced the sort of fiery, combative banter that seems to be status quo for Anya and Clive, but I know every family has its own idiosyncrasies. I look around the table, trying to get a read on where Anya’s outburst falls on the range of normal for this family. Clive is biting blithely into a piece of toast. Henry is glaring at him. Terrence is keeping a close eye on his grandmother, who, in turn, watches Anya, her brow knotted. Huan appears to be frozen in the act of staring at his own plate.
    â€œAnya,” Terrence pleads, “your behavior . . . You have to get ahold of yourself.”
    â€œIt would be easier for her to do that,” Henry says, “if Clive stopped taunting her.”
    Clive snorts. “She knows I’m only joking!” He looks at Anya. “Since when are you so sensitive?”
    Anya slides her boot off the table. “Wow, Clive,” she says. “What a touching apology.” The flush has cleared from her face and her voice even has a hint of warmth in it. I’m amazed at how quickly she is able to shift from rage to sarcasm.
    If I’m not careful, I think, I’m going to walk out of this breakfast with food poisoning and whiplash.
    â€œHey, Huan,” Clive says. He slides the platter of eggs down the table. “Have some eggs.”
    Huan stares at the cold, black-flecked mound of eggs. Slowly, carefully, he puts a spoonful on his plate. He takes a bite, looks stricken, and turns to Anya.
    â€œThey’re really good,” he says in a solemn voice.
    Clive and Rosie both laugh. Even Henry is struggling to keep a straight face. With his serious expression finally lifted, I realize he is actually quite handsome—not a showy, manicured handsome like my ex-boyfriend John, but a subtler, more thoughtful version. He catches me looking at him and I quickly glance away.
    â€œThank you, Huan, ” Anya says, shoving her empty plate to the center of the table. “The rest of you can go to hell.” She stands and gestures for me to follow her. “Let’s go find Billy.”

Chapter 7

    I follow Anya out of the dining room, feeling oddly invigorated. All of that verbal sparring, those undercurrents of anger and love bubbling up to the surface in ever-so-brief bursts—it’s a therapist’s dream, really, and it’s more real-life action than I’ve seen in months. My enthusiasm quickly fades, however, when we step outside and head off in the direction, Anya tells me, of Buena Vista Park. Before we’re even a block away, I look for Sutro Tower, and I feel better when I see it.
    Anya charges down the sidewalk, her eyes darting back and forth as she searches each driveway we pass. For such a wiry little person, she makes an awful lot of noise, her boots crunching loudly against the sidewalk with each step. When the leaves of a hedge rustle, she whips her head toward the sound, but it’s just a bird hopping out onto the sidewalk in front of us. Giselle bounds