I was pushing Sofia, my 16-year-old rescue mutt, in her stroller one recent afternoon when I ran into Thomas Nikolai and Brian Buckley with their dog, Gypsy, a 13-year-old Jack Russell. She was adopted in Buckley’s hometown of Galway, Ireland, and he brought her with him when he migrated to Provincetown in 2016.
Gypsy can often be found sitting in the doorway of Thomas and Brian’s Pilates studio on Commercial Street hurling curses and insults at passersby, although I seem to be the only one who can hear it. She is certainly foulmouthed, but curse words coming from an adorable little dog, especially one with a thick Irish brogue, are always fun.
Gypsy is also a repository of gossip and odd bits of information. From time to time, I’ve used her as a source, on background, in my reporting on the animal community. I could certainly use some of her insights now, as my investigation of the April 13 shooting of Smoochie Chute, an East End cat, has hit a dead end.
I heard from another source that there is a local cabal of wild animals known as the Salt Marsh Mafia who may know what happened. Okay, that source is a chicken — but this is no time to get hung up on logic.
I saw Gypsy’s eyes flash with envy at Sofia’s stroller. Would she be willing to divulge some inside information in exchange for a ride?
“If anyone knows anything, it’s Gypsy,” said Buckley as he handed his dog to me. “She’s always had her nose in everyone’s business.”
“She’s stubborn, though,” said Nikolai. “She’ll want something in return. Treats are fine, but absolutely no booze for Gypsy.”
I blinked a few times, then nodded. Do people think I would give alcohol to their pets to make them talk? I certainly would not.
“Move over, Sweetie,” I said to Sofia as I placed Gypsy in the carriage beside her. Sofia shrugged and lay down to nap. Gypsy took to the stroller like a bee to honey.
“This is #@*! nice,” said Gypsy. “I could get #@*! used to this.”
A half hour later I was sweating, slightly winded, and without a shred of new information. Was I the one being taken for a ride? I pressed Gypsy for answers.
“Get me a beer,” said Gypsy.
“I will not,” I told her.
“A wee pint to loosen my tongue,” said Gypsy, panting heavily. I said no, and Gypsy went on: “There once was a pirate named Gypsy,” she sang. “She was always a little bit tipsy. So don’t be a bore, run to the store, and fetch me a bottle of whiskey.”
“Tell me who is behind the Salt Marsh Mafia,” I said.
“#@*!” she said.
A young couple approached from the opposite direction with a human baby in a stroller. We were all trying to maneuver around each other on the narrow sidewalk when Gypsy muttered, “Ugly baby.”
“Gypsy,” I said.
“Your baby smells like rotten clams,” she barked.
“Gypsy, no,” I said, as I pushed down the stroller’s retractable sunroof and began zipping up the sides so the people wouldn’t hear her.
“#@*!” said Gypsy after a few minutes. “What else would you be wanting to know?”
“Are the raccoons involved?” I asked, unzipping the stroller’s cover.
“Raccoons are always involved,” said Gypsy. “But they’re too dumb to be in charge. It’s the Counsel of Herons you’ll want to be meeting.”
“Where do I find them?”
She pressed her lips together, then said, “Anything more will cost you a wee dram.”
I turned the stroller back toward the center of town. “Beware of Gypsy the terrier,” sang Gypsy. “Her size was never a barrier. She’ll plunder your treasure, a bite for good measure, no squirrel found any dog scarier.”
A flock of seabirds whirled overhead. Could the herons be organizing the other animals into some sort of brigade? And if so, who were they after?
