Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-11

Lyndy Life Observation: A favorite eighties-era road trip story goes as follows: Me and Mr. Chan are in the Central Valley on a manhunt, staying in a rotgut cheap motel with two twin beds. It’s like 8:30 PM and Mr. Chan wants to go straight to bed, while naturally I want to go out partying at a honky-tonk bar. I stumble in sloshed at 1:00, falling asleep stomach down atop the bedspread. Several hours later I’m shaken awake by Chan, who is in an incomprehensible rage. While the room is dark and I’m groggy, tears streaming down my face pleading: “what did I do?”, he explains I had left the front door open about halfway, allowing a family of raccoons to invade, wake him up and nearly devour all our snack foods. He didn’t see the humor in this.

Rochelle had been adamant this powdery concoction came with no warranties, just as everything else in her unconventional life. She also mentioned long-term effects had not been studied in mammals, and changes to DNA could be permanent. No big deal.

Admittedly, that second statement had come from the label on a bottle of acid reflux medication.

Watching it steep in the bottom of a cup was rather anticlimactic. No fizzing or foaming like one would expect from Alka-Seltzer tablets. No mystical aromatic vapors. Just a pale brown tea with a smell hinting of witch hazel.

Given the events leading up to this moment, obviously they’d be expecting her.

She was taking no chances this go-around, waiting for nightfall and parking the white Ford under a bright light in the most heavily trafficked shopping center for miles. It was the one anchored by a Whole Foods, and the parking lot was packed to the gills with European luxury vehicles, looking in many ways like a high-end dealership. No, she wasn’t here to purchase a pint basket of organic berries for 20 bucks. Her purpose wasn’t to blend in at all, rather it was so heavily trafficked she figured it would lessen the chances of another ambush.

Rochelle had also warned to have clothes ready, so she wrapped the larger sweater in plastic bags, stuffing it out of view under the bumper near the tailpipes. She concealed the keys in there as well. No telling how long the spell would last—Rochelle had forecast several hours—but regardless her plan was to be back here in plenty of time.

Perhaps they’d be expecting a Spitfire. But not a Catfire!

Her leg muscles were tense. Standing beside the car, elbows on the roof, she had her back to a row of trimmed hedges and other well-kept landscaping. From here she could observe people coming and going at the supermarket entry. In front of her, arms-length, the paper cup. It was less than a quarter full. Anxiously she swirled it a few times hoping to mix the contents, but hadn’t tried it. How much time was needed before it took effect? Minutes? Then what? Would it impact her already under-performing cardiovascular system? Maybe she’d wasted her money. If nothing happened it wouldn’t be the first time a potion failed her.

Sliding the cup nearer so she could tilt it under her nose, she sniffed again. Nothing much had changed. She surveyed her surroundings, mainly to be certain a hapless stranger wasn’t approaching with a cart full of groceries. Then turning around facing the bushes, she pressed the cup to her lips. Squinting her eyes, as though preparing to swallow some gnarly cough syrup, she sipped it.

“Oh Jesus, that seriously tastes like pee,” she grumbled, wiping her forearm across her lips. It was so repulsive she slammed down the cup, having only ingested a tablespoon’s worth. Something else too, an awareness of it going down, like a scorching sensation from a cheap and strong liquor. She put her fist against her chest and coughed, feeling suddenly as if she couldn’t breathe. Bracing with her hands and back flat against the car—her eyes still closed—she undid her belt, unbuttoned her pants. Gradually she slid downward into a squat, the tension in her legs releasing. She took off her watch, shoved it in her pocket.

Yet still she hadn’t transformed. Just feeling ill, stomach cramps. And it was like that for over a minute. Overcome by tremors, she folded over, holding her arms close across her stomach. If someone were to stumble upon her crumpled body now, they’d think she was having an allergic reaction or the beginnings of an OD event.

There was only one incident in her life experience comparable to what happened next. At a bar, when she was much younger, a colossal bouncer had literally grabbed Lyndy by the ankles and swung her headfirst into a pile of hay. The force of flying through the air and landing on her head, she felt lucky to have survived without being paralyzed. As it went, she could hardly catch her breath for minutes. But that’s kind of what this was like.

Next thing she knew she was trotting down a sidewalk, no memory at all between crouching by the car and being alert again. Parking lot on her left, busy street on her right.  And she was feeling short, some senses altered.

First her vision seemed distorted, not black and white but faded—like an artsy vampire movie where every scene is multi shades of blue. On the other hand, her sense of smell was like nothing she could have imagined, so amplified in ability as to overload her brain. The cityscape revealed something akin to overlapping footprints, people and animals which had passed this way various times of the afternoon. As she sniffed the air it was easy to become dazzled. Another plus, she had way more energy than before. So far, so good.

Overall, her vision was no worse than an aging human, just less colorful. And at night that wouldn’t make a bit of difference.

The loud cars speeding by, more-or-less eye level with the wheels, that part was unsettling. A kid on a skateboard rolled by and she was eye-level with his heels. Yards ahead, a German Shepherd was straining on the leash, sniffing the air too.

Funny thing though, she felt like she could hear herself panting. The sensation peculiar: a wheezing sound accompanied every time she inhaled.

Cats don’t breathe like that? She glanced down suspiciously at her feet. She had noticeable black claws on her rounded toes.

“Uh oh. These are definitely not cat feet,” she thought.

Still adjacent the parking lot, she dashed in between a row of parked cars. Near a tree-lined walk, one of those blacked-out tour buses people rented for weddings taking up eight spots. It had extremely low to the ground storage panels on both sides, being the kind which lowers itself for easy access. Nobody around. And the surface was glossy and washed. She strolled over, nose in the air, her eyes fixed on the reflection.

In an instant, she knew what had happened. “Rochelle!” Lyndy griped. No words came out. She was staring at the image of a mostly-black French Bulldog. She cocked her head to the left. The reflection tilted the same way. She cocked her head the other way and likewise. She thought of perking her ears and sure enough, they shot up. Turning her body parallel to the reflective sides, she verified she was a female—that made sense. Everything remarkably translated down to the very last detail. Above her eyes, signs of aging and grayish fur.

“Well, took a while but it finally happened,” thought Lyndy. “I’m officially a bitch.”

Sounds of laughing voices, strangers coming. A trio of bubbly teenage girls, dressed alike, and one of them pointing. “Someone’s frenchie got out!” Another: “I want to pet it.”

Lyndy scampered away, back to the streetside and in the direction of the Zohara Ranch construction. How embarrassing, but at least it would wear off. Her diminutive size would still be an asset. Plus she had energy to burn. She worried though, her wide-body might be too large to squeeze between the fence uprights.

Not like she’d ever thought it through, but if one had to become a dog, this was a pretty cool one to be. Just a little short. At least she wasn’t a chihuahua.

From a secluded roost in a palo-verde, one beady-eyed raven cawed at her—a rather startling shriek. She gazed up at the tree and instinctively she barked. She hadn’t meant to do it and shook her head, taking several steps back. The raven cawed again. Almost like it knew she was a disguised human. She managed to suppress the urge to woof again.

Panting, she arrived at her destination. Cars were passing by, but the construction site looked peaceful—most workers had gone home for the day. Being located some distance from the shopping center, fewer people were out on the street.

As she’d guessed, her frame prevented her from squeezing between gaps in the fence. Lyndy tested by sticking her head in a few larger openings—this breed of dog was built like a small tank. A cat could have gotten through, but with these shoulders no way.

Luckily, she had a plan B. She paced along the front border of the construction zone—the area with all the signs—and made her way to the east corner, where it butted against the dry wash. From here she worked her way into the weedy creek bed.

Away from the oppressive illumination, the evening sky revealed itself: two bright planets, Jupiter and Saturn, a handful of stars shining brighter than the light pollution and a sliver of moon in the west. Being smaller than the wild bushes, she could easily disguise her approach under the branches. The scents here were wild, coyotes, stray cats and rabbits.

As she’d hoped, the sand was akin to a beach, making it easier to excavate. And using her new front paws, she selected a spot where the slope naturally dipped below the bottom of the perimeter fence line. She ascended the slope. It appeared animals, raccoons or possibly skunks had already been digging. She commenced scraping; all she needed was four or five inches, enough to squeeze her bulbous head under.

Pausing for a breather between vigorous digging sessions, she glanced above as she panted. Of course, there were cameras positioned everywhere—probably they were motion sensitive. She listened for the buzzing of the electric golf cart, indicating approach of security.

The core of the casino building, that unfinished thunder-dome type structure one could see from the street, all of it carried immense weight. The type of soil here required deep footings. Even a non-architect would know that. Her first goal, to reach the ground and basement levels.

Digging like this—kicking a rooster-tail of sand out—somehow came instinctively.

As soon as she assessed the hole had gotten deep enough, she lowered her ears. Then setting her chin on the dirt, wedged her snout firmly into the dip. Her head made it through okay, ears popped up, but she caught on her wide shoulders. Pushing with her back legs, her chest rubbed but she forced her way onward.

Clearing the fence, she trotted uphill into the foundation. The lot here was littered with construction debris and trash. Pathways had been marked by laying down thick plywood. In between, construction materials like sheetrock, wire spools, steel girders and insulation.

Further in she could see activity she’d not anticipated—welders on the second and third story. These folks were on late shifts. Fortunately, she wanted to explore at the ground floor, even as she didn’t yet know what she was searching for.

The day crew at least were absent this zone.

Snaking her way to what seemed the basement she found it devoid of vegetation. Still dry even with the recent rains. It was unsealed and smelled like chemicals, oil or gasoline mainly. She sniffed the occasional stone. Would’ve helped to know what she was looking for in here.

If this were an ancient village at one time, hard to imagine anything endured. It reminded her of Darrel’s old place—earth movers had done a number. Ironically, Rita would have been the perfect companion for a caper like this. She knew about many Native American cultures.

Lyndy continued exploring, deeper in. She had to be cautious, trying not to step on a staple or nail. It became harder to navigate, more shadowy the further she went as less light filtered into the recesses.

A concrete wall caught her eye, possessing imprinted patterns of woodgrain—remnants of high pressure as the foundation had been poured. Holes here and there where someone had bored sections the size of hockey pucks. For electrical? For water? She didn’t know. One small plant growing where moisture accumulated, a type of succulent. She sniffed it, not one she recognized. The spines were a silvery tone—curious to find such a plant here. She memorized the look, thinking she would research this later. She dug a few test holes but all the soil around was new fill.

A laser-like flashlight beam cut through the darkness.

“It’s down here,” whispered a voice.

Her body tensed. Her pointy ears perked and her heartbeat soared. Already they were after her? God they were efficient.

Intending to hide, she pushed her way under a pile of scrap MDF boards. There she met with an unhappy scorpion, striking inches from her snout. Jumping back she yipped, wiggling out and darting off.

“Over there!” shouted a Caucasian man. “I heard it bark.”

The beam of light came closer.

“Hey, Spudz Mackenzie,” one of the guards teased.

His buddy laughed.

“Oh man, what a couple of buffoons. That’s not even the same type of dog,” thought Lyndy. Spudz was a bull terrier.

She bounded along a row of empty pallets, then veered 90-degrees, dodging a guard as she scampered for an adjacent stack of the same. Scaling them like stairs, she went until she was twelve high. From there she halted with all four paws, having reached a dead end on a wobbly tower of pallets.

Crud! Knowing she couldn’t go back down the way she came, she quivered, stutter-stepping side-to-side. She decided to test out her lifelong theory that dogs were one of the toughest animals out there. Aiming, Lyndy took a couple steps to build momentum and then leapt as far as she could, soaring twenty feet through the air onto a huge heap of trash, all knotted in those black contractor bags. It was like jumping into a big pile of leaves from a maple tree, and her legs were no worse for the wear.

She went sprinting for the perimeter fence. Meantime she could hear the men’s boots hot on her tail. But she reached the spot she’d come in before they did, and slipped her way under and into the presumed safety of the wash.

In some ways it felt exhilarating. She hadn’t had this much energy since she was in her thirties. Filled with adrenaline, Lyndy recovered by panting in the brush.

Then something truly unfortunate happened. She felt a wire noose close in on her neck. You know those diabolical long aluminum poles that meter-readers and some mailmen have? They use them to fend off big angry dogs.

It was a helpless feeling, gasping for air. She twisted around, filling with panic, and could see a hiding guard—sneaky bastard—had been waiting here. He was gripping the pole with both hands. He dragged her up the hill with him and she was scooting on her back. Resistance was futile.

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Several minutes later …

It all came to this: Lyndy was confined in a welded steel cage, staring at two doofuses dressed in black rent-a-cop uniforms. She was winded and her neck was sore, as she cowered in one corner.

“Dude, you should offer her one of these,” voiced one of the guards. From his cargo-pants pocket he pulled out a milk-bone.

“Maybe we can sell her?” suggested his younger partner. Lyndy glared at the man, and did her best to close her mouth and frown. “I can put her on craigslist.”

The older, more heavyset fellow used two fingers to flick the dog biscuit.

The inferior treat pinged on the metal floor, an inch from her tail. She didn’t even dip her head, just stared at the man and kicked it back.

“Well, I’ll be damn. I’ve never seen one do that!”

“Ain’t a stray. I bet she only eats organic dog food,” said his partner with a laugh.

Lyndy uttered a low growl.

“Stuck up little bitch. Hope you like the kill shelter,” said the older man, and he threw a black tarp over her beefy steel cage.

“Please, please god don’t let the potion wear off now,” thought Lyndy. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she morphed inside a sturdy container such as this—it was way too small to fit a human. Would she die?

She had a lot of time to think that night, shivering alone in the darkness: the absurdity of her existence. Why the Zohara Resort was so ridiculously fortified. How humiliating it was to be dumped into a “no questions asked” pet surrender box.

A part of her wanted to pay a visit to Rochelle’s shop and demand a refund.

Her ass was bare, but at least the kennel was sizable enough to accommodate large breed dogs and easily a five-foot-eight woman. The floors at the county shelter were coarse cement, reeking of bleach and urine. The bleach was comforting in a way.

A beagle down the hall whined and whimpered half the night. The kennel across the way housed someone’s abandoned potbelly pig. That animal was quiet—which was good—but instead of sleeping it simply stared at her, rarely blinking. Super creepy. Like that pig would be a world champion at staring contests. Perhaps it wondered how a human ended up here.

If she’d had anything metal on her person, she might have escaped. They locked every stinkin door in this joint—including the cages—so people wouldn’t sneak in in the cover of night and steal their animals back without paying a fine. She possessed nothing to pick a lock.

She sighed and gazed at the pig.

Guess somebody reckoned, “you know, I would like a pig in my life,” and then what? Changed their mind? “You better learn to be more charming mister.”

Next morning at 6:15, a nervous teenager showed up. His job was to start the feeding. He asked how the heck she managed to get trapped inside a kennel, in the nude.

She responded by saying: “Clothes now!” in a forceful tone. “Whatever you got.”