The Dog I Loved

by Susan Wilson

  The novelty of solitude is wearing off. It’s becoming plain old loneliness.

  I keep thinking about Tucker’s story of Dogtown, and how the lonely widows, or witches, if you prefer, found comfort and companionship with their dogs. I keep thinking about what it would be like to have a dog. One that I wouldn’t have to give up. Or one that wouldn’t become the catalyst for tragedy.

  * * *

  “Absolutely not. We don’t have the time for a dog.” Charles was never one to mince words. If he thought something was a bad idea, then it was a bad idea, case closed.

  Nonetheless, I kept persisting. “These are little dogs, nothing that’s going to take up a lot of space, and, Charles, I’d love to have a companion. Something to keep me company during the day.”

  Charles had a way of becoming solid when he was unhappy with me. His jaw tensed; his whole body would set like concrete with the effort of containing his displeasure, as if he was holding it in, afraid of softening, of letting an issue or subject go. His eyes would go dead. Charles never touched me in anger. His violence was a withholding, the act of separating himself from me. I would find myself cajoling, then apologizing, explaining myself and my foolishness, admitting a fault I didn’t necessarily believe I had, all in order to get him to soften, to accept my apology. Hours, even days later, I would wonder why I couldn’t stand up to that rigidity; why it bothered me so much to be on the wrong side of that human wall.

  This time, I decided that rather than chance a full-blown argument, a fait accompli was a good idea. I had the puppy already picked out, paid for, and ready to go. A Maltese-poodle cross, a designer dog. An armful of dog. “It was just a thought, Charles.”

  “Keep it that way.” The tension loosed in his face and he smiled. “Aren’t I companion enough for you?”

  “Are you suggesting that you’d like to be on my leash?” I joked back.

  It went on from there to a logical conclusion, and all the time I was thinking about the moment when I would bring the puppy home: Charles, you’re going to fall in love with her. I was so certain.

  * * *

  I’ve been lucky so far; the summer warmth persists and I am comfortable in the unheated house even in the cool night, in my well-rated sleeping bag. The various interior workmen have made a little progress, at least as far as I can see. The remnants of the last occupant’s twentieth-century enhancements are gone—the rugs, the linoleum, a grungy old Barcalounger. The next step in the process, according to Tucker, is to remove the battered wallboard from the interior walls. He’s hopeful that doing so will expose fireplaces in both parlors. Then, once everything’s stripped to the studs, the electrician will commence rewiring the whole place. In the meantime, I have electricity in the kitchen, further confining me to that space if I want to read or listen to the radio. Without a suggestion of Wi-Fi, that’s my only source of entertainment unless I want to ding myself on data charges. Pete gave me the phone, yeah, but the bill is all mine.

  And so it is that I am sitting under the standing lamp that I have set up in the corner of the kitchen where one of the two outlets is, rocking in the ancient rocking chair I saved from the same fate as the Barcalounger. I’ve got the radio on, tuned to a Boston station, but I’m barely listening. I’m deep in my book. I’ve been bingeing on bestsellers from the Sawyer Free Library—a name that feels apropos to a newly free woman—drunk on having a choice of current novels. One of the librarians, Shelley Brown, is getting to know my taste and has set aside some really good reads for me. No crime novels. No thrillers. Alone in my derelict house on the edge of Dogtown, it would not do to have my imagination stoked. I haven’t taken Tucker’s suggestion that I hike around what is now conservation land and see for myself the cellar holes and landmark boulders. I have no desire to walk alone in the woods. Some might take refreshment in being outdoors, but I am, at heart, a city girl. People get lost in the woods, and, from what Tucker mentioned oh so casually, it is a rite of passage for Gloucesterites to get lost in the Dogtown woods. No thank you.

  * * *

  It has begun to rain and a change of wind direction rattles the panes in the window. A whisper of colder air slips under the back door, swirls around my bare ankles. I shiver and pull them up under me. That’s when I hear it, a faint scratching. “Oh, geez.” All the time I’ve been living in the Homestead, I’ve worried about vermin—mice in particular. I’ve been diligent about food scraps, using Tucker’s composting can, and keeping the rough floor as crumb-free as I can. This is not the sound of mice. Rats? My toes curl at the thought. Louder scratching. I shut off the radio. I slip my bare feet into my sneakers. Scratch. Scratch. It’s not at the back door, but the one that leads to the dogtrot.

  Woof. A deep, mellow request for admission. Woof.

  Do coyotes bark?

  The rain begins to pound in earnest, one of those coastal deluges that make you think of the end of days. A quieter Woof, as if the creature is shying away from his own request. Please?

  I open the door.

  At first, I think that maybe it is a coyote. It’s huge, gray, and wet. It looks at me with an expression that suggests I have taken way too long to open this door. He marches in, gives a great water-laden shake, flops down on the cheap braided rug that I found at HomeGoods, and commences doing what dogs do, licking himself dry.

  “Hey, who the heck are you?”

  He leaves off licking his nether parts. He’s one of those dogs that has what they call “furnishings,” bushy eyebrows and chin hair. But he’s no breed I’ve ever seen before. His coat is all wiry, like a wolfhound’s, except that he’s not quite that big. Maybe a greyhound mix, if there is such a thing. Doesn’t matter; he’s big and he’s got to be the maker of those prints. Which makes me feel better. Not a coyote, just a big stray dog. Collarless. Friendly, because he’s on his feet and greeting me in dog fashion, tail sweeping from side to side. It has a little hook in the end of it. His eyes are soulful, the little eyebrows giving him a very human expression. “Are you hungry?”

  The tail swishes more dramatically. I think he must speak English.

  I don’t mind sharing my leftover chicken breast with him. He eats slowly, unlike my dear Shark, who inhaled food and then looked around, as if surprised it was gone. I won’t make a habit of this; he’ll need a proper diet for a large-breed dog. Because, of course, I’m going to keep him.

  * * *

  It is still deep night, but the rain has stopped; the silence is what must have awakened me. I sense the warm presence of this other living creature in the room, listen for the soft breathing. He knows that I am awake, waits for me to pat the covers and invite him to me. “Good boy,” I whisper to him, which is ridiculous, because we are the only ones here. His tail wags. I am no longer alone.

  Shadow

  The woman invites him inside. Offers him food. She has no fear of him, no apprehension, unlike most of the humans he’s met. She makes him feel like she knows him. Within moments, he allows attachment to settle his future. He will stay with her. He already understands that she needs him.

  Meghan

  One of the stranger things about independence is how quickly Meghan has gotten used to it. From complete dependence to mostly complete independence has been a long long journey, and now that she’s achieved it, she’s already begun to take it for granted. She equates it to when she was sixteen and champing at the bit to get her driver’s license. It seemed that it would take forever, and the dream of being in the driver’s seat, going when and where she wanted, was such a prize that she was certain she’d always be excited about it. But within weeks of getting the coveted prize, she was annoyed to be the designated errand runner. Within a month, driving was just something she did. The specialness of automotive freedom had subsided, turning into an ordinary activity. And now the routine of getting ready for work, waiting for the city bus with its handicap accessibility, rolling into the lobby of the building, and grabbing a coffee for the ride up in the elevator had gone from magic to
mundane—except for Shark, who made this independence possible. She would never take him for granted. “Shark, button.” The dog stands on his hind legs and noses the button for her floor. When they first started this, he hit virtually every button, but now, somehow, he’s refined his skill to hitting only one or two incorrect floors, and half the time he’s spot-on. When others get into the elevator at the same time, she’s noticed that no one reaches for the elevator buttons until Shark does; she’s sure they’re admiring his skills. One passenger always says, Thanks, buddy, when Shark happens to hit her number.

  Meghan’s cell phone dings with a text alert. Rosie. Call when u get a chance. Big news, the message says.

  She taps in a quick Will do but doesn’t send it. The elevator has reached her floor.

  She’s got a few minutes before her first meeting of the morning, so she thumbs Rosie’s number. Rosie isn’t one of those dramatic types who uses “big news” willy-nilly. If she’s got news, it’s got to be interesting.

  Rosie answers on the first ring. “Meghan, hey. I didn’t think you’d call so quick.”

  “I’ve got a minute before I have to meet with some folks, so give me the short version.” She hopes that she doesn’t sound rude, but Rosie is Irish enough to have the storytelling gene. No story worth telling is worth telling briefly.

  “Okay. Are you ready for this?”

  “What?”

  “Meghan, I got a dog.”

  “Oh, Rosie, that’s so great.” If anyone deserves to have a dog of her own, it’s Rosie. “What kind?”

  “God only knows.”

  “Good breed, I hear.”

  “Check your texts; I just sent you a picture.”

  Meghan does and laughs out loud at the photo of this giant gray dog. “How many hands is he?”

  “Ha-ha. Let’s just say I don’t have to bend over to pet him.”

  “Where did he come from?” She’s expecting a story of a rescue, a visit to a shelter.

  “He just showed up. I think he’s been hanging around, because I’ve seen these giant paw prints, but I thought they might be a coyote’s. Last night, in the middle of a rainstorm, there he was, asking to come in, like he freakin’ owns the place. Plopped down on the rug in front of the woodstove and, booya, that was that. Completely at home.” Rosie takes a breath. “It’s like he is just meant to be with me.”

  “What are you calling him?”

  “Shadow. Mostly because he sticks to me like my own shadow. Plus, he’s grayish, so it suits him.”

  “I bet you’re going to have a blast with him. Rosie, I couldn’t be happier for you.”

  “Well, getting out of prison was pretty much my happiest moment, but this is a close second. He’s already done two things for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Given me someone to talk to, and today, when the workmen arrive, I won’t feel quite so vulnerable.”

  “You feel that way?”

  “All the time.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s fine. Really.”

  “You have PTSD.”

  “No. I’m just a little shy. Shadow is going to help me get over myself.”

  A head pops into the doorway of Meghan’s office; it’s Bob Watson, signaling that their nine o’clock meeting is about to begin. She holds up a finger. “How’s the house coming?”

  “Inch by inch. Every step forward requires two steps backward. Now Tucker’s insisting that the sills—you know, the timbers that the house rests on—have to be analyzed for rot. Could mean jacking the house up and having new sills installed. I don’t know if I can stay in the house if that happens. It’s hard enough without hot water.…”

  “Still?”

  “Yeah, don’t ask. Anyway, I’m not complaining, I’m grateful to be here and not you know where.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I’d love for you to see the place. When it’s done, of course.”

  “Can’t wait. Hey, sorry, they’re waving me into the meeting.”

  “Go. Love you.”

  “Me, too.”

  Shark

  It doesn’t seem silly to him that Meghan tells him things, as if he should have an opinion. Most times, he has no idea what she’s talking about; he just enjoys the atmosphere of a happy, if one-sided, conversation. He utters little woofs, a yip or two, just to keep her going. This time, he recognizes the Rosie word and knows that something has made Meghan laugh. That’s good. Because in the next minute, she holds the phone in her lap and sighs. The presence of inner trouble that rises to the surface in ways only perceptible to a perceptive dog has arrived.

  Rosie

  That little sign-off comes so naturally. Love you. It’s what good friends say. And yet I can’t help but feel that our friendship is suffering. Oh, we talk, but the common experience that fostered this friendship—my being a prisoner, and her being my visitor—has changed, and we haven’t quite figured out the new dynamic. I vow to call less frequently. She’s got a life, and I have to respect that. It isn’t just the changes in my circumstances; she’s moved on, too. Maybe things were fading even as she moved on to her life in the city. Maybe I just hadn’t noticed it.

  I hear Tucker’s truck. The dog, Shadow, is on the alert; his ears are pricked forward, and his tail is stiff. As he doesn’t yet have a collar, I have no way to restrain him should he take an aggressive stance with my general contractor. “He’s a friend, Shadow. Be good.” I know from my days of training dogs that if I’m not excited, or afraid, or concerned, if I keep my voice modulated and make no fuss, the dog will take my lead. However, I haven’t trained this dog. This dog is a blank slate. I don’t know what his purpose has been up to this moment. For all I know, he’s a loose guard dog. He woofs. I open the back door. “Hey, Tucker!” I keep my voice bright.

  Tucker is still in his truck when the dog paces over to it. The dog is tall, but not quite tall enough to look in the driver’s window—that is, until he puts his feet on the running board and lifts himself to examine Tucker through the open window.

  “That’s some dog.”

  “Yes, yes he is.”

  “The print maker?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Guess you won’t have to worry about coyotes anymore.”

  “I don’t believe I will.”

  Tucker pops open the door and the dog stands there.

  “Shadow, he’s a friend.” I snap my fingers. “Come.”

  In some kind of canine decision making, the dog accepts my command and returns to sit by my side, letting Tucker get out of his truck and be introduced properly. Tucker lets the dog sniff him, puts out the back of his hand and waits patiently while Shadow gets to know him. Satisfied, Shadow’s hooked tail is swinging. Tucker risks a pat on the dog’s head, and suddenly all is well.

  “I brought you these.” Tucker hands me a pamphlet and some computer printouts. “They’ll give you a little more info about Dogtown.”

  “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”

  “Now you have a reason to go hiking. Big guy like this is going to need exercise. Can’t think of a better place than the woods.”

  “I’ll think about it.” But already I know that I will.

  * * *

  I set aside the novel that Shelley Brown had recommended in favor of studying the material that Tucker has given me. I have a glass of wine in my hand, and nearby the soft light of a lamp I’d found in a thrift store that I’ve set up on the kitchen table. As usual, by this hour, what local traffic there was along my narrow lane has stopped and only the now-familiar slap of a loose shingle inserts itself into the ultraquiet of my solitary evening. Ha, no longer solitary, but certainly quiet.

  It is a strange story, the history of Dogtown. As Tucker said, the Commons, as it was originally, was a thriving eighteenth-century village, reduced in the early nineteenth century to a ghost town; in between, it became a place where the outliers of Cape Ann once lived. A place that once was the preferred
location of the settlers, safe from the threat of “Barbary pirates,” it had been all but abandoned in favor of a more lucrative livelihood provided by the sea. In the meantime, the place was essentially deforested for firewood. Even the pasturage was inadequate, rocky and, in places, so boggy that it swallowed livestock. By the end of the Revolution, and then the War of 1812, the only people clinging to the Commons were war widows and other outliers. It became inevitable, it seems to me, that those women, essentially indigent, would become known as witches, prostitutes, and, of course, crazies. All that is left are their names recorded in the brief histories of Dogtown: Tammy Younger, Granny Day, Easter Carter. Their names and the cellar holes.

  As for the name, Dogtown, I like it. I like the idea of women keeping dogs a lot.

  Guess it’s a good place for me. I cannot seem to shed the feeling I do not yet belong in society. I feel like there is some kind of taint about me, a scent of injustice. I am exonerated but not whole.

  * * *

  I’ve promised, and now Shadow is anxious to get his walk started, and he nudges me with his cold black nose. The Homestead is situated a quarter mile or so from an entrance to the trailhead for Dogtown. An easy walk from our funky old house. My dog, Shadow, gambols about, puppyish as he flushes rabbits and an occasional grouse out of the thick roadside underbrush. His exuberance is uplifting, and I find myself flush with a kind of pleasure I haven’t had in years. A momentary cessation of internal hostilities. I am not the child estranged from her family or the newly released prisoner blinking in the sunshine; I am just Rosie, happy to be walking down this country lane, a good dog at my side.