Copenhagen Cozenage Read online

  I pressed my forehead against the cold metal railing and sobbed. I felt foolish. My limbs pulsed with adrenaline and there was nothing left to fight. Although, flight seemed like a plausible option, especially when the camera guy put his arm around my shoulder and offered me a clean white hanky for my dripping face.

  Once my emotional display had run its course, I mumbled a quiet “thank you” to my rescuer. Fleeing the quiet concern that shadowed his eyes, I trudged off the bridge to find August’s dog. My luggage was all tangled up in the leash, but I had ceased to concern myself with the soft pink leather and attractive brass zippers. I simply dragged the whole lot behind me in the dirt. I found my shoe half buried in a sludgy heap of water grass below the bridge.

  Finding Leroy was a bit more difficult. I located him snuffling through a drooping sea of purple and white crocuses. Although their glory was nearly spent, the crocus lawn was immense and still impressive. Large stone spheres stood sentinel along the edges, lest some enthusiastic tourist inadvertently trample the garden’s magnificence. They were no match for Leroy.

  I grabbed his collar and peeked around. Hopefully, we could avoid the vigilant gaze of the gardeners. I hung my head in mortification and hauled the great, soggy creature away from the flowers and up the cobbled path toward Rosenborg Castle.

  All I got was a raised eyebrow when I marched past the elaborate lamp posts that were scattered throughout the walkway and tried to purchase admittance for myself and Leroy. Newfoundland dogs were descended from the Viking Bear Dogs that arrived in the New World via Leif Erickson’s sea-going vessel. Copenhagen used to be a small Viking village. But did this bit of fascinating history mean that the descendants of Leif’s fuzzy passenger were welcome to view the crown jewels? No, not so much.

  A soldier dressed in green and wearing a black beret stood guard near a maze of scaffolding that encased part of the walls. Apparently, they were being refurbished.

  I did not push for Leroy’s admittance and instead sent messages into the castle for August via three different well-tipped individuals.

  Never argue with a man holding a gun. Was he guarding the crown jewels?

  Perhaps August’s theory about the jewel thief was less farfetched than it had appeared.

  I plopped down on a short brick wall to wait.

  Two statues of fat cherubic children topped the gate near its center. The castle rose above me in all the beauty of the renaissance age. Its base and towers were of brick and warm brown stone, roofed in something green. Green slate perhaps? Row after row of leaded windows gazed out across the gardens, many of them had little pointy roofs of their own. Curves and curls in the stone decorated the central spire, along with a robed statue standing within an arch four stories above the ground. The towers had tiered roofs, rising like wedding cakes on green pillars, getting smaller and smaller until they ended in delicate needles thrust up against the clouds. It was all majestic and lovely, but not the kind of sight I had dreamed of gazing upon, in the company of a massive and sopping dog.

  August did not come.

  None of my messengers could find him.

  His phone went straight to voice mail.

  Leroy started to whine. He sniffed around my feet, whimpering and turning in circles. I tugged him back, but he became more and more desperate. I had untangled the leash from my luggage and clipped it to his collar once more, but it provided me with little control over my hairy charge. After yanking him back four or five times, Leroy put his head down and simply dragged me back toward the gardens. He sniffed to and fro, here and there, down the paths. Leroy paused when he found a secluded patch of rose bushes. The dog turned around and hunched over a particularly delicate white bloom.

  “No, bad dog. No poop!”

  But it was too late. A massive pile of dog doo sat heaped upon the unfortunate rose bush.

  Every tourist within a mile radius glowered at me as though they were just one breath away from gathering their pitchforks and torches. I rushed about looking for a baggy, or a bucket, or a flat shovel-like stick. In the end, I scooped up the poop with an old newspaper, under the stern glare of the head gardener, and dumped the whole thing in the trash. He then escorted me to the road.

  “You may flag a taxi from here, Ma’am. Please do not return.”

  Not only did the gardener ban me from viewing a most noteworthy sight in Copenhagen, he had the gall to stand ten feet behind us and make sure that we actually left as directed. I almost wished we were back at the bridge, so I could dive into the moat and hide.

  This was the end. I didn’t care about August and his grandfather and their dumb jewel thief. And I most certainly did not care about his ill-mannered dog.

  Leroy was going to the pound.

  4

  The Pound

  Once more, I hailed a taxi and was forced to pay for Leroy’s half of the seat. It cost double this time, although the journey to the pound was shorter than our trek to the castle. I can only imagine that the increased fare was because of Leroy’s inescapable wetness. Wet dog odors wafted through the taxi, and the vinyl squeaked as Leroy stretched and squirmed against the seat. I scooted against the door and sent August a text in all caps. TAKING YOUR DOG TO POUND!!!

  My cabbie was new to the business, and his English turned out to be…creative. Not only did he have trouble landing on the exact word he intended, his accent was difficult to decipher. He lingered on the vowels, drawing them out with more emphasis than I was accustomed to and said “Ya?” as a question not an answer.

  I clutched my shiny, new Danish-to-English dictionary and shouted out shaky sentences from the book that eventually led him to believe I wanted to visit the famous Little Mermaid statue by the waterside at Langelinie promenade.

  The beautiful bronze lady knelt on a rock near the sea. She scanned the horizon for her prince with a longing look that transcended the cold metal of her form and brushed at the soul. A hundred years old and still she waited, stunning and sad and true.

  However, I was not eager to linger near this delicate legend with Leroy in tow.

  I flipped through my dictionary and continued my instructions in a frenzy of badly accented Danish. A lot of people rode their bikes to work and it was slow going away from the water.

  Finally, we arrived at Nyhavn Canal. A long row of bright buildings pressed against each other on the bank and tables with umbrellas offered a shady place for a canal-side lunch. Sail boats swayed with the water and the sun was gentle and warm. Everything was marvelous, except for the fact that it was most definitely not the pound.

  I had never taken an animal to the pound before. Being required to find homes for ten savage felines every month had ingrained it deeply into my psyche that the pound was never an option. But when my cabbie finally pulled up outside the long, concrete building, I hauled Leroy from the seat and toward that dreaded establishment with an eagerness that surprised me.

  Leroy wagged at a little girl eating strawberry ice cream on a bench nearby.

  She slid from the bench and stooped over a hairy caterpillar. It was crawling up a decorative maple planted in a little square in the sidewalk. Her scoop promptly tipped from its cone and splatted onto the pavement.

  Leroy perked his ears as the girl’s mother rushed forward and her father snapped a few pictures of the pound with his phone.

  I ignored the dog’s obvious interest and dragged him past the ruined ice cream and through the heavy door.

  A thin woman with a brown and gray braid hanging down her back sighed and waved us toward the necessary forms and a pen. She hunched over the computer mumbling as she typed. “Why they all have to bring in something that I’ll have to brush for an hour a week, I don’t know. What happened to all those nice, hairless cats and hypoallergenic breeds I keep hearing so much about?” Her English was excellent. Was she mumbling in my native tongue on purpose? Perhaps it was a hint that I should keep the monstrous beast myself.

  Well, I wasn’t biting. The bulletin board said this
was a no-kill shelter. Leroy would be fine. A date in small black print caught my eye. I stopped and squinted for a closer look at the bulletin board. What? I reread the sentence.

  The Copenhagen Home for Underloved Animals is a No-Kill Shelter

  (Until April 24th due to overcrowding and a lack of sufficient funds)

  Hmmm…Leroy had a few days. Surely August would come for him before then. Right?

  I propped my no-longer-pink luggage in the corner and got to work. There was a lot of paperwork involved in dropping an animal off at the pound.

  Only a few of the forms were available in English. Leroy lay at my feet watching the receptionist grumble into the phone for thirty minutes while I sat in a molded plastic chair with my Danish-to-English dictionary propped up on my knee and scribbled furiously.

  Q. How did you come to be in possession of the animal?

  A. It sneaked into my taxi.

  Q. Do you know the owner of the animal?

  A. We met by the baggage claim where he shamelessly flirted with me before releasing his dog into the airport and now he won’t answer his phone. Good luck finding him.

  Q. What is the reason that you cannot provide a forever home for the animal yourself?

  A. This is a joke right?

  My hand cramped. I set the leash down beside me and shook out my fingers before filling out the final page. When I looked up, Leroy was gone.

  A quick scan of the room revealed that the monster dog had not traveled far. The receptionist had left her desk and Leroy was in her place. His massive front paws straddled her computer and his thick wet snout hovered over her lunch. She had an open-faced sandwich on dark brown bread and a small pile of grated carrots. First Leroy snuffled the sandwich. She must have had mustard or something spicy on the bread because he cringed back and moved his probing nose over to the carrots. He slurped up a few carrots, rolled them around in his mouth a few times, and then carefully deposited them back on her plate.

  “Leroy, come here.” I tried to make my voice firm without being so loud that the receptionist would hear.

  Leroy hopped down and ambled in my direction. He had just turned in a circle and plopped at my feet when the receptionist stalked back into the room. She glared down at Leroy as she walked past, plopped into her seat and took a firm bite from her sandwich.

  “Um…”

  “Do you need something, Miss?”

  I stared into her stern, sharp eyes. “Nope, I’m just about done.”

  “Well, then get on with it and bring me all the papers when you actually are.”

  The mom and the little girl with the ice cream came into the reception area. The girl now had a chocolate cone. Mom asked about adopting a quiet pet that was already housebroken while her daughter climbed onto one of the plastic chairs and began to jump from seat to seat. She got all the way across the room before the inevitable occurred. Hop, hop, hop, splat! Chocolate ice cream covered the floor and the girl burst into a storm of tears that was remarkable both for its amazing volume and the energetic kicking that accompanied the wails.

  “You’ll have to clean that up yourself, Ma’am. I don’t have time for dogs and ice cream ridiculousness.”

  The mom was trying to make sure that her daughter hadn’t sustained some sort of life threatening injury that would explain the tirade, when Leroy lumbered over and sat down in front of the little girl.

  He gave her a quick slurp on the cheek, which startled her into silence. Then he looked pointedly at the spilled ice cream. Leroy looked back at the girl and thumped his tail. She stared. He gave a quiet woof. She sniffed. He held out his paw to shake hands. She smiled. He spun in a lopsided circle and chased his tail. She giggled. Then at full speed, he flopped down on the floor and played dead. Leroy’s legs sprawled across the floor, one of them twitching in a realistic looking spasm. He even let his tongue loll out of his mouth.

  “Doggy?” The little girl sat up and gave him a careful pat.

  Leroy sprang to his feet and sat at attention. She put her arms around his shaggy neck and he slobbered her face with a doggy kiss. When she let go, he looked down at the ice cream and gave her a pitiful whine.

  She didn’t stand a chance. The little girl pointed down at the mess. “Good boy, eat it.”

  As Leroy cleaned the floor until it gleamed, I closed my eyes. Who was I kidding? There was no way I could leave this ridiculous animal at the pound. I threw my pile of forms into the trash. Then I clicked my way across the cement floor.

  Leroy was thoroughly washing the little girl’s ears.

  I picked up the grimy leash. “Come on, boy. Let’s go find August.”

  5

  The Marble Church

  The next taxi I hailed was no more eager to admit Leroy than the previous two. But after paying an exorbitant price, I shoved the panting behemoth into the seat while the cabbie tossed my scraped and stained luggage into the trunk.

  We must have made a humorous pair. The little girl’s dad was still outside the pound talking on his phone, but he laughed and told his caller to wait while he snapped a few pictures of me sliding Leroy across the seat with my heeled foot so that I had room to sit down. Ha ha ha, so glad I could entertain everyone.

  I sat in the taxi staring at Leroy. What on earth was I to do? He could not accompany me to the fancy brunch my grandmother had purchased. Plus, I was supposed to attend church at some famous local cathedral in twenty-eight minutes. My navy dress was rumpled from the rescue on the moat bridge and covered in dog hair. In addition, I had the actual dog that belonged with all that hair tagging along. The cathedral would not welcome us with open arms. August had mentioned poking around some fancy hotel for clues and so I sent him another text, trying not to sound like a crazy person.

  WHERE IS YOUR HOTEL? STILL HAVE DOG.

  I did not add that he should probably buy me two new dresses and a high-heeled shoe. Or that the herringbone braid I’d hastily constructed in the airport bathroom was now sweaty and tangled and full of bits of grass and at least one ladybug. Nor did I mention how gassy the dog had become after eating all of that little girl’s ice cream. No, I would just hand over August’s oversized canine and call it good as long as I never had to see his handsome face again. But first, I needed to make it to church, regardless of the massive creature trying to thwart me.

  It was almost 10:00 AM, and so I asked the cabbie to take us to a public restroom. I left Leroy in the cab and speed-changed into a pale blue dress with a swooshy skirt and white heeled sandals. I attempted the French twist thingy with my hair again. Since I did not have the instructional video to aid me, my success was somewhat limited. When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I sat in the front seat with the cabbie to reduce the amount of dog hair upon my newly changed person and asked him to take us to the Marble Church.

  This was easily accomplished as the beautiful state church was a popular tourist attraction as well as a place of worship. However, it was not necessarily a popular location for walking large dogs.

  I slowly approached the enormous green dome of the marble church with a suitcase in each hand and Leroy’s leash wrapped around one wrist. What on earth was I supposed to do? I had always wanted to worship in a cathedral. Our local church was friendly, with challenging messages, and superb coffee. But we had beige walls, brown and green speckled carpet, and a small gym where they held the annual “Shoot One for Jesus” fund raising event every winter. I don’t think it counted as a cathedral ceiling if it was covered with florescent lighting and drop-down basketball hoops. I had been swept away by glorious music, the testimony of a visiting missionary, and the impromptu prayers of our hilarious kindergarten worshipers. But I had never been overwhelmed by the building itself.

  I wanted to worship at the Marble Church. Wanted this experience with a deep driving ache reminiscent to that week in eighth grade I’d spent on the couch with the flu. A cathedral was built to glorify God in every stone and arch. I needed a chance to worship in a place as grand as Heave
n on earth. Even a young woman with no past could get a glimpse of what she might become in such a glorious structure.

  But what would I do with this miserable dog?

  Solid marble walls rose up. The great fronton was supported by massive Corinthian pillars and stated “The word of the Lord endured forever” in Danish. A glorious green dome crowned the mighty church, making everything around it seem small and pale.

  I crept past several stern bronze statues toward the elaborate entrance. My luggage squeaked and clattered across the brick road. Delicate carvings graced every available surface. I rambled to a stop, just staring up at the overwhelming magnificence.

  I totally shouldn’t have, but I found a little nook with a handy pillar nearby. Leaning my luggage against the beautiful stone, I tied Leroy’s leash to the pillar and slid inside the marble church.

  All of my brochures waxed eloquent about the friendliness of the Danish people. At home, the Can Lady, who lived on West 22nd Street, always tied her Chow/Corgi mix outside Bob’s Grocery when she came by every Tuesday. Leroy would be fine.

  The enormous arched ceiling rose to heaven, resplendent with carvings and shining like gold. Pillars stretched on either side down the aisle toward the rows of seats beneath the massive cupola. Divided into twelve segments, the inside of the dome housed angels and apostles depicted with elaborate detail. The altarpiece was a massive Roman arch, baroque in its styling, built to surround the cross that adorned the altar.

  The congregation stood as the bishop read from the Bible. He was robed in black and wore a large golden cross and a massive white collar that stuck straight out from his neck at least two or three inches.

  When we sat to sing, the music reverberated around me as though a choir of angels had condescended to approach earth and touch us with their radiance.

  I closed my eyes, content for a moment to just be plain, old Morgan, worshiping God. Who cared what I was and where I was going, if I could simply be here in this glorious place with my Lord.