Dedicated with love to our mothers,

Dorothy Geer Hidler and Claire Darling Gibson

Th is is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and

events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously.

the dog who danced. Copyright © 2012 by Susan Wilson. All

rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For in-
formation, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New
York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

library of congress cataloging-in-publication data

Wilson, Susan, 1951–

The dog who danced / Susan Wilson. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-67499-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-5054-1 (e-book)
1. Middle-aged women—Washington (State)—Seattle—
Fiction. 2. Shetland sheepdog—Fiction. 3. Loss
(Psychology)—Fiction. 4. Human-animal relationships—
Fiction. 5. Homecoming—Fiction. 6. New Bedford
(Mass.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3573.I47533D64 2012
813'.54—dc22
2011041345

First Edition: March 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 1

ou gonna finish that?” Artie stubs a blunt finger in the di-

Y rection of my English muffin. We’re sitting in a Travel
America rest stop, one of the several that we’ve visited on this
west-to-east run. He likes to keep on schedule; I like to pause
for an hour and get the blood flowing in my legs again after
hours in the cab of the eighteen-wheeler, inhaling Artie’s ciga-
rette smoke and drinking warm, flat Coke. TAs are little shop-
ping centers, catering to folks who live on the road, modern
Gypsies, with anything you can think of for your vehicle from
oil to mud flaps to little bobblehead dashboard figures of foot-
ball players and Jesus. The restaurants offer big man’s meals, all-
you-can-eats—chicken-fried steak, biscuits, apple pie. How
hungry can a man be who has sat in a rig all day, keeping busy
with radio and Red Bull?
“No. Take it.” Unlike the majority of the people jammed into
the booths and bellied up to the counter, I have no appetite, no
desire to heap my plate with eggs and sausages. The good hot
coffee is enough for me. I’m hoping that Artie will stay put long
enough for me to visit the ladies’ shower room.
I’m riding shotgun with Artie Schmidt because I need to get
back to the East Coast. He comes into my bar pretty regularly
when he’s not on the road. It was Candy’s idea, hitching the ride
instead of flying. She knew that round-trip airfare would make
me have to choose between rent and food; and a one-way ticket
might mean that she would have to find another girl. Besides,
this way I could take Mack with me. The idea of being in my
stepmother’s presence without an ally was unthinkable. Going
with Artie meant that I could take my dog with me, and there is
no way I’d subject my Sheltie to being cargo.
Frankly, it was Candy who convinced me that I had to go
east in the first place. My stepmother didn’t reach out often, or
at all, so when she called to say my father was failing, it was al-
most impossible to get past the fact that it was Adele on the
phone, rather than take in the fact of my father’s dying. Wicked
stepmothers are only in fairy stories, right? I’m here to tell you
that Cinderella had it good compared to what that woman put
me through. But Candy said I should go, that it was important.
Family is important. Right. Despite my better instincts, I set my
course eastward and signed on with Artie Schmidt. Mack, my
blue merle Sheltie, right alongside me. The boyfriend who gave
Mack to me is long gone, but my little man stays, keeping his
long, pointy nose at my heels wherever I go.
Candy Kane—and that’s her real name—runs a decent tav-
ern just outside the city limits of Seattle. I’ve lived pretty much
everywhere. Starting when I walked out of the house the day
after high school graduation, getting as far as Somerville, where
I bunked in with a pair of roommates I found on a message
board in a coffee shop. Then down Interstate 95 to Brooklyn,
where I might have stayed; then Florida, then Louisiana and
Texas. I have made my way as far west as California, and as far
north as Washington State, where I’ve stayed put longer than
anywhere else. When I look at a map of the United States, touch
all those big cities and little towns that I’ve spent time in, I see
that I’ve been moving in a slow clockwise circle around the

The Dog Who Danced • 5

country. When we’re getting the place ready to open, before the
first happy-hour customers come in and want to watch ESPN or
CNN, Candy calls me over when Jeopardy is on; I can nail the
geography questions.
My point was never to return to my starting place, New Bed-
ford, Massachusetts. I’m like the old-time whalers, seeking my
fortune far from home. Instead of the ocean, I travel along ma-
jor highways. Instead of ships, I own clunkers good for only a
few thousand miles. Instead of whales, I’m not sure what I’m
seeking. Ahab had revenge in mind. I just haven’t found the one
place that will hold me still. When I was young, I thought that
there would be a man to tie me down, but it never worked out
that way. And no job was ever lifelong interesting; not one has
ever gotten me to sign on for the retirement plan.
You might think that having a kid would have kept me in one
place, or at least slowed me down, but even that failed to root me.
Every time I pulled up stakes, I told my son that no matter where
we were, we were at home as long as we were together. For a
long time, that was true, but then, well, it wasn’t.
So, here I am, circling back to my starting point in a direct
run down Interstate 90, New Bedford–bound.

“I’d like a shower.”

“And I’d like to keep on schedule. You’ve already slowed me
down with twice as many pee breaks as I take.”
“You pee in a bottle.”
Artie pulls off his greasy Tractor Supply cap and runs his fin-
gers through his stringy hair, resettles the cap, and drags a long
breath. “Five minutes, or I swear to God I’ll leave without you.”
Artie has said this before. I smile and grab my duffel bag,
which nestles at my feet. It contains everything I need and noth-
ing that I don’t. That bag and I have a longer relationship than

6 • Susan Wilson
most married couples. I pull a couple of dollars out of my back
pocket and drop them on the check. “Give me seven and I’ll
meet you at the truck. Go buy yourself a pack of gum.”
“Justine. I mean it. I come in late with this load and I’m fucked.”
“Then don’t hold me up talking to me.” I shoulder my duffel
and stride off to the showers.
Once Artie figured out that I meant it, that I was paying him
three hundred bucks to let me ride east with him, and that didn’t
include any physical stuff, he’d turned sullen. It’s funny how the
barroom personality can be so different from that of the real
person. Mr. How’s My Girl quickly became Mr. Cranky. Tough.
I’m not taking this ride for the company. I keep Mack between
us, and get out of the cab while Artie catches a few hours’ sleep—
walking Mack around quiet parking lots, sitting at empty picnic
tables and sipping cold coffee—then unroll my sleeping bag and
crawl into Artie’s man-smelly bunk to catch my own z’s. Artie
doesn’t want Mack in his bed, but that’s okay. The dog curls up
on my seat, his little ears twisted in my direction, so I know he’s
not really sleeping. On guard. Shelties, miniature collies, are
guard dogs by breeding. His instincts are to watch the hills for
wolves. Artie is on notice every time Mack stares at him with
his eagle eyes.

There are three shower stalls. One is broken, and the other two
are in use. I should forget about it. I wash my face and brush my
teeth. Whoever those two women are, they are flipping taking a
long time. I floss. I wait. I know that Artie is getting pissed. Fi-
nally, the shower turns off. Now I have to wait for Miss America
to dry off and get dressed. “People waiting out here!” I shove my
washcloth and toothbrush back into my bag.
No answer. The second shower shuts off. The room is sud-
denly quiet except for the sound of towel against skin. I look at my

The Dog Who Danced • 7

watch. My time is done. I pick up my duffel, and, miraculously,
Shower Queen exits the booth. I can do this in one minute. I
can’t stand the feeling of dirty hair. I hate that I smell like day-
old sweat and Artie’s cigarettes. I can get in and under and out
in two minutes, tops. I won’t dry my hair.
Artie will be pissed, but I’m confident that he’ll just bitch,
not leave. I strip.
Five minutes later—it can’t have been more than five
minutes—I emerge from the shower room, wet towel rolled up
under my arm, duffel over my shoulder, and my hair, wet and
unstyled, hanging to my shoulders. I’m in the second of three
T-shirts I’ve brought and the same jeans I started out with. But I
feel better. I’ll finish the job in the truck, put on the mascara and
finger-wave my hair.
As I promised, and only a couple of minutes late, I head out
the automatic doors, making straight for the truck lot. Maybe
thirty semis are lined up in rows, Roadway, Bemis, UPS, May-
flower Movers, and independents with family names on the cabs
and unmarked trailers behind. Rigs with full berths above, rigs
with shiny red and chrome, fancy lettering, rigs with more lights
than a carnival midway. And campers. Campers snuggled up
between the big guys, tagalongs and fifth wheels; double-axle
motor homes. Four-wheel-drive trucks with engines that rival
those powering the big rigs.
I don’t see Artie’s truck. I look to the diesel pumps and then the
line for the truck wash, but he’s not there. I start to trot down
the lane between trucks. His rig isn’t distinctive, a plain dull
green. He’s hand-lettered his name, Arthur B. Schmidt, on the
driver’s door in an uneven attempt at block letters—the Schmidt
is narrower than the Arthur. He’s hauling a trailer that he was
hired to haul. Nothing to distinguish it from the others. But I
can’t have missed it. It’s been my home for the past two days.
“Artie, for God’s sake, stop teasing.” I say this under my breath,

8 • Susan Wilson
but the panic is rising, a sour taste in my freshly brushed mouth,
the taste of trouble. I stop looking for Artie. I know that he’s
gone. The mean SOB has called my bluff. He’s taken my three
hundred bucks and abandoned me in Ohio.
Then it hits me, like someone has punched me in the stomach.
Mack was in the cab. My dog was in the truck, where I’d left him
after giving him a quick walk in the doggy rest area. He’s been
waiting for us to come out and give him a little treat of Artie’s left-
overs, a bowl of fresh water. I can’t believe that Artie would have
driven off with him. There’s no chance Artie would keep him. He’s
dumped him into the middle of this parking lot of bulls.
I call and whistle. Mack won’t know where I am, and he’ll be
frantic. I am frantic as I begin to run, my wet towel lost on the
pavement, my duffel banging against my back. “Mack! Mack!
Come, boy. Mack!” My mouth dries out and I can’t whistle any-
more.
Mack is obedient; if he hears me, he’ll come like a shot. He’s
not the type of dog that would wander around; he’ll be looking
for me, his nose to the ground, maybe heedless of the danger of
being in this active parking lot. All of a sudden, it seems like
every truck in this parking lot starts its motor in a cacophony of
diesel. Mack can’t hear me over the noise; I bend to peer be-
neath the behemoths, looking and looking for the flash of white
and gray that will be Mack. I can’t find him. I stop dead in the
path of a moving truck. The driver slides a hand out his window,
waving me across the lane.
Okay. If Mack isn’t here, then Artie still has him. I circle the
TA building. Artie’s yanking my chain. If he’s still got Mack,
then Artie hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s not going to do that. He’s
got to be here. If he’s back on the road, there’s no way he’s going
to turn around and come back; the time he’d lose in playing me
would be too precious.
But there are no trucks on the other side of the building, just

The Dog Who Danced • 9

family cars, a horse trailer, and a Harley with a one-legged rider
parked in a handicapped spot.
“Have you seen a dog? A Sheltie? Gray with black streaks.
White ruff ? One blue eye and one brown eye?” I keep talking,
as if adding to the description will make the answer become yes.
The one-legged rider shakes his head, which is swathed in a
fi lthy red bandanna. “Nope. Sorry. Th is is a tough place to lose
a dog.” Like a lot of the rugged men I meet, he has a sympa-
thetic voice, which does not match his tough appearance.
I collapse onto a bench in front of the building, all the strength
in my legs gone, my heart thumping with a disconcerting loud-
ness. I fight back the tears. In my experience, tears have never
been useful, neither relieving pain nor offering comfort once
shed. What I need is a plan. I need to stop Artie.
Artie has driven off with Mack.

Mack sleeps with his brushy tail curled up over his pointy nose.
Tucked up like this, he’s a small package of dog, burrowed into
the sleeping bag Justine has left unrolled on the bunk behind the
driver’s seat. He’s quite pleased to wait, dozing, waking, dozing,
for the people to return to the truck. There might be a taste of
something good as a reward for being quiet and patient.
This mobile living is a bit boring, but he is satisfied with the
almost constant presence of his Justine. Usually he has to doze,
wake, doze for a long time every day until Justine comes back
from her day away from him, smelling of beer and fried food.
He loves that smell; once, when she took him with her to work,
just to pick up her check, he immediately recognized the place
as where she went during the day. The lovely odors defining her
away time and making it comprehensible to him. Who wouldn’t
want to be in a place that smelled like burgers?
When only Artie got back into the cab, Mack merely opened

10 • Susan Wilson
one eye. He isn’t a big fan of the guy, but that’s mostly because of
the stink of his cigarettes and the fact that the man ignores him.
Mack is more accustomed to having Justine’s males be friendly,
sometimes even presenting offerings. Good stuff, like rawhide
chews and squeaky toys. This guy just talks and smokes and, once
in a while, gets too close to Justine. That’s when Mack will find a
reason to squeeze himself onto Justine’s lap. No need to show
teeth, just be there, a reminder that he is in charge, that she is his
person.
Artie lights up another cigarette, not even rolling the window
down to release the smoke. Mack tucks his nose deeper under his
tail, his jack-in-the-pulpit ears turning like miniature radar de-
tectors to catch the sound of Justine’s feet on the pavement. Artie
drums on the steering wheel, fidgets with the arrangement of
knickknacks on the dashboard, cranks down his window, and
ejects the butt of his cigarette. “Goddamn. She’s pushin’ me.”
Mack keeps still. He wishes Artie would be quiet so that he
can listen better for Justine. The dog lifts his head to sniff the air
as the window goes down, but the cigarette stink is an impene-
trable barrier, obscuring even the fresh air outside, and Artie’s
head blocks his view. She’ll come. Justine will be back. She al-
ways comes back.
The first day that he lived with Justine, he learned that les-
son. A mere baby, a pup of few weeks, he’d been taken away from
his mother, his littermates, and the only human hands he’d ever
known. He was boxed and carried to Justine. When she took
him up and rubbed her inadequate human nose against his
pointy one, he fell in love. And then she left him, putting him
back in the box that would be his cave, his home, until he out-
grew it. Then she came back and let him out. Fed him, cuddled
him on the couch, named him. He never worried about her ab-
sence again.
Mack is startled back into full awareness as Artie hollers a

The Dog Who Danced • 11

stream of tongue language that Mack doesn’t recognize word for
word, but he gets the meaning. The man is angry. There is no one
here for him to be angry at, unless he’s angry at him, so Mack
shrinks even more into the dim closet of a bunk. Suddenly, Artie
starts the truck, and the rumbling vibration of the big engine fills
the air. The gears grind and the truck moves forward. Justine isn’t
here. Maybe Artie is going to find her. Mack’s soft whine is shad-
owed by the sound of the diesel engine. They pull away from the
other trucks and shoot down the TA access road. In a minute,
they are back on the highway. Justine is not there.

12 • Susan Wilson