Dog Crazy

by Meg Donohue

  “She’s the one doing me a favor with the photos.”

  He gives me a look. “Maggie.”

  “Okay,” I say, smiling. “You’re welcome. And apology accepted. Now can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you buy her that camera?”

  He nods. “For her fourteenth birthday. Did she tell you?”

  “No, but I had a feeling. Billy, the camera . . . you seem to anticipate your sister’s needs.”

  “Except in your case. I didn’t realize she needed a friend.”

  “You found me; you reached out to me. I wouldn’t be in Anya’s life if it weren’t for you. I’d say you’re three-for-three.”

  Henry smiles. He sits back in the armchair and turns his head from side to side, looking around the living room. “Where’s Giselle?”

  “Upstairs. She’s not mine—I said that, didn’t I? She belongs to my friend Lourdes, who lives upstairs. I rent this apartment from Lourdes and her husband, Leo.”

  “You mentioned it, but I thought maybe you were just saying it.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I just figured you must love dogs and probably have one of your own. How else could you summon the empathy I imagine you need to do a job like yours? I figured Giselle was yours and maybe you worried that it was hard for your patients to see you with your very-much-alive dog. I thought maybe you just told patients she didn’t belong to you so they wouldn’t feel . . . envious.”

  “You’ve been thinking about this a lot.”

  “Four, five hours a day, tops.”

  “Ah. Well, no, Giselle really isn’t mine. In fact, if we listen closely, we can probably hear her running around upstairs.”

  We’re both silent, but no sounds drift down from upstairs. The fire cracks. Henry cocks an eyebrow. “Your story is full of holes.”

  I laugh. “I have a secret,” I say, “but this isn’t it.” Flustered, I look down into my wineglass. Why did I say that?

  Henry just smiles. He has a nice smile; it floods his serious face with light. “Interesting. I’ll file that little tidbit away for further dissection later.” He moves to top off my glass with more wine but I hold my hand over it.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ve had enough. I have an early appointment with a patient in the morning.”

  “Oh.” He looks embarrassed. “I should go.”

  “There’s no rush,” I tell him. I hold up my glass and the bit of wine left in it catches the light of the fire. “Let’s at least finish our glasses.”

  He nods and shifts back in his seat again. “So, what brought you to San Francisco? When I spoke with your old boss at the hospital, he sounded like he was still disappointed that you left.”

  “Oh, I was overdue for a change. I’d been in Philadelphia my whole life, and had held that same counseling position at the hospital for years. I’d been toying with the idea of starting my own practice and really wanted to focus on pet bereavement. And my friend Lourdes was giving me the hard sell to move out here and rent this apartment . . . and . . .” I hesitate. “I was in a relationship with a guy who—well, a relationship that had run its course. It seemed like a good time for a fresh start.”

  “Job dissatisfaction, great apartment across the country becomes available, relationship crumbles . . . sounds like the perfect storm.”

  I smile. “The winds of change blew me all the way to San Francisco.” I start to take a sip of wine, then realize that if I do, I’ll be finishing off the last bit and Henry might take it as his cue to leave. I lower the glass without drinking. “Well, you’ve seen my résumé and interrogated my former bosses . . . is it too soon to ask what do you do?”

  Henry laughs. “Seems a bit nosy, but I suppose I can oblige. I’m a physician by training but I haven’t practiced medicine in a few years. I’ve been working with a partner—an engineer—to develop a new type of medical device for patients with heart disease. A group of investors is funding our work, and we’re about to begin a trial at a cardiovascular center in Los Angeles.”

  “Hence the upcoming move.” I realize we’re treading into troubled waters here, and hope I don’t sound judgmental again.

  Henry seems unfazed—he’s either forgotten or forgiven how I’d chided him for leaving his sister during such a difficult period. “The timing is terrible on a personal level, but I have to oversee the trial. Our ideas . . . we really do think they could revolutionize cardiac patient care.”

  Maybe it’s the wine making my thoughts a bit soggy, but as I listen to Henry it occurs to me that he and I have the same professional impulse—we see a wounded heart and want to fix it. He looks down at his wineglass, empty now, and then at mine. I smile, lift my glass, and take the final sip.

  “Well,” Henry says, “I suppose I should get going.” We stand and walk toward the door together. “How about I call first next time?”

  I’m not exactly clear on what he means, but I smile and nod.

  “Good.” He steps outside, then turns back toward me. “Aloha, Maggie Brennan.”

  “Good night,” I say. He heads up the path and I shut the door behind him.

  Much later, as I’m closing the shades in my bedroom, I catch sight of myself in the reflection of the dark window and realize that I’m still smiling.

  Chapter 12

  The photos that Anya took of Seymour and Giselle turn out to be every bit as wonderful as I’d hoped. In the best of the bunch, his golden coat glows richly and his mouth is open, midpant, so that he looks like he’s grinning up at the camera, revealing his pink tongue and a neat row of bright white teeth. His big, black nose, wet with good health, nearly balances out his long ears. He looks playful and happy. There’s still a hint of anxiety lingering in his honey-brown eyes, but it gives him a depth of personality that I hope is more endearing than worrying. Giselle, even in her pristine breed-standard glory, actually seems a bit overshadowed by Seymour, which serves our purposes well. Seymour is the star.

  I upload the new photo to the SuperMutt website and tweak Seymour’s bio for the umpteenth time. I don’t want to misrepresent him; it would be completely beside the point and probably harmful to the poor guy if he ended up in a new home only to be moved once again because I had not been forthright about his issues with loud noises and leashes. But I decide there are ways to reveal Seymour’s flaws while focusing on his many positives—his sweet nature, the trust in his eyes, how well he gets along with other dogs.

  I do some research on basset hounds and golden retrievers and incorporate bits of each breed’s temperament in Seymour’s description. I even learn that his particular crossbreed—basset retrievers—is highly sought by those looking for the temperament of a golden in a smaller, potentially lower-energy package.

  Well, what do you know, I think as I click through pictures of basset retrievers on my laptop, goofy-looking Seymour is actually a “designer” dog in the vein of Labradoodles and cockapoos. I stick that surprise bit of information in his description, too, and also add a little note to make it clear that Seymour is up for adoption, but the poodle in the photo is not.

  I e-mail Sybil to let her know that I’ve updated Seymour’s photo and description on the website. I think Saints Grant and Chip are willing to foster him a bit longer, I write, and I really think we’ll get some new interest in him soon. I let her know about a few final auction items I’ve secured for the SuperMutt fund-raiser. The gala is three weeks away, and I know she’s busy pulling together all of the final details for the event.

  As usual, Sybil replies immediately. That photo is perfect! What a stroke of luck to find a photographer who is not only talented but also clearly “gets” dogs—and is willing to work for free! Do you think your friend Anya would be willing to photograph the dogs that we’ll have up for auction at the event? I’m thinking we could blow them up (maybe black-and-white?) and hang them around the cocktail party space. We would of course give Anya credit for the photos and include her cont
act information or anything about her business that she’d like to share—I bet she’ll get a ton of interest. It’s not in the budget to pay her at the moment, but maybe she’d be willing to do the work in exchange for the fantastic publicity? Maybe she’d even want to auction off a photo shoot? Or am I pushing my luck? You know me, Maggie . . . I get greedy when it comes to the dogs!

  It’s a great idea on many levels—great for SuperMutt, and great for Anya, too. I e-mail Sybil right back to let her know that I’ll ask Anya about the additional work.

  The sooner the better, Sybil responds. The clock is ticking. It won’t be long before we’re toasting ourselves to a job well done. Couldn’t do this without you, Maggie, and I can’t wait to finally meet in person!

  “WHY WOULDN’T YOU go?” Lourdes asks when I tell her about the SuperMutt fund-raiser. “I thought the curtain fell on The Agoraphobic Therapist.”

  I picture myself trapped below the heavy velvet folds of a stage curtain. “It did,” I say. “Or it’s in the process of falling. But this is different. You know I’ve never liked parties.”

  Lourdes rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but whenever I dragged you to one in college, you had fun. Admit it. You should go to the fund-raiser. Maybe you’ll meet someone.”

  “How am I supposed to start dating again when I still can’t walk outside without your poodle glued to my hip?” Giselle, smart girl, trots over to where we’re sitting at the kitchen table and puts her head in my lap.

  “Where there’s a will there’s a way.”

  Leo is out with some friends from work, so I’d had dinner with Lourdes and the kids and then helped her put them to bed. Now we’re sitting at the kitchen table doing what we do best: working our way through a bottle of red wine and a bowl of spicy garlic-and-Parmesan popcorn. I’d invented the popcorn recipe when we were in college, and over the years it had become our happy place in food form.

  Lourdes brightens. “If you don’t want to go to the party, will you at least let me set you up with one of Leo’s friends? We could have him over for dinner—a double date! You wouldn’t even have to leave home. Problem solved. Now that you’re doing better, I really think you should start dating. But you should meet a lot of guys. Don’t get serious until you find one you’re sure you actually like this time. Don’t jump into anything.”

  “What do you mean, ‘one I actually like this time’? I liked John.”

  “Sure, you liked John. And you liked Rich and Simon and . . . who was the guy before him?”

  “Another Rich. Rich the First.”

  “Right. Rich the First. He was likable, too.”

  I throw a piece of popcorn into the air and catch it in my mouth. “This is a problem because . . .”

  Lourdes pulls a face. “You know why this is a problem. I’ve been telling you this since college. Just because you like a guy doesn’t mean you should date him for years on end. Like isn’t love.”

  “I loved all of them, too. I liked them and I loved them.”

  “Rich? You loved Rich?”

  “Which one?” I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I loved both Riches.”

  “Okay, but even love isn’t always love. You need to start cutting your losses earlier. These relationships you find yourself in drag on and on. It’s like watching some boring French movie that you know is never going to actually go anywhere—it’s all talking, talking, talking and jokes you feel obligated to laugh at just so you can be sure you’re still alive.”

  I grin. “Tell me how you really feel.” As usual, Lourdes’s assessment of my love life is pretty accurate; I have a history of sticking with relationships that aren’t likely to go anywhere. Lourdes thinks dating is like driving, that if you’re alert and conscientious you can see the “Dead End” sign in plenty of time to turn off the road and take another route. Unfortunately, I seem to be one of those daters who get caught up in the motions of a relationship, rocked into complacency by pleasant scenery and a warm seat. Asleep at the wheel, Lourdes calls it. And I’ll give her this—my relationships with men do all seem to end with a crash.

  “I mean, take John, for example,” Lourdes continues, on a roll now. “You told me a month into dating him that you knew you weren’t going to be with him long term. And then you stayed with him eight more months! You’re not a dog. You don’t have to be loyal to someone just because he buys you dinner.”

  “I know, I know,” I say. “You’re right.”

  Lourdes does an exaggerated mouth drop. “I’m sorry, what did you say? I think this wine is affecting my hearing.”

  “You’re right!” I repeat in a sort of stage whisper, cupping my hands around my mouth as though I’m yelling. I don’t want to wake the kids.

  Lourdes takes a satisfied sip of wine, watching me over the rim of her glass. She sets the glass down, her eyes narrowing. “Wait a minute . . .” She presses her elbows onto the table, leaning toward me. “Holy shit! Have you already met someone?”

  For some reason I think of the way Henry’s shirts fit him—close but not tight. I think of the line of his chin, how sometimes there is stubble there, and sometimes it is clean. How I can’t decide which I like better. He looks like someone who cares about his looks but doesn’t obsess over them. I’d never realized it before, but it turns out that I find the absence of vanity very sexy.

  “You caught me, Lourdes,” I say. “Vern and I have finally succumbed to an attraction that’s been building for months.”

  Giselle, fed up with my lack of focus and languid pets, sighs and heads for her dog bed.

  Lourdes looks at me from the corner of her eye. “Who is Vern?”

  “Vern! Vern. Our mailman. He prefers ‘mail carrier,’ actually. He’s quite evolved. And you know I’m a sucker for a man in uniform.”

  Lourdes snorts. “Maggie. You are not allowed to hook up with our mailman. He’s sixty years old!”

  “He has the calves of a twenty-year-old triathlete.”

  “And a comb-over.”

  “Love’s a funny thing.”

  “Okay,” Lourdes says, “but when you’re running your hands through Vern’s two hairs, who are you really thinking about?”

  I give up. There’s no point in trying to keep anything from Lourdes, anyway. She always gets it out of me eventually. “It’s nothing. It’s silly. He’s the brother of the woman I’m helping. Anya’s brother Henry. It probably isn’t even ethical. Nothing’s going to happen.”

  Lourdes lofts her eyebrows. “Not ethical? I thought you said she isn’t your patient.”

  “Well, she isn’t. Technically. But we met in a patient-therapist context. It’s complicated.” I give a little shrug. I really don’t think of Anya as a patient, not a patient patient, anyway, though admittedly she’s not a friend friend either. “It would just be weird.”

  Lourdes takes a large gulp of wine, finishing it off, and then begins gesticulating with her empty glass. “Life is fucking weird, Maggie! If you like someone, date him! Chuck the fucking vitamins already! Get your hands dirty! Go outside! Fuck the fear! Wear a sundress in the rain! Catch the flu! Feel it all! Fuck the rules!”

  “That’s it,” I say, reaching for her wineglass. “I’m cutting you off. I feel like I just walked into Andrew Dice Clay’s fortune-cookie factory.”

  LATER THAT NIGHT, I e-mail Grant and Sybil letting them know that I’d like to help Seymour work on his leash skills and anxiety issues with the hope that it will aid in getting him adopted. Grant e-mails back right away to let me know that he’ll make me a spare key first thing in the morning and that I should feel free to pick Seymour up for walks anytime. His relief is practically palpable.

  Next, I e-mail Anya and ask if she minds if I bring Seymour along on our daily walks. The walks I take with Anya won’t be baby steps for Seymour either—they’re often pretty long—but we usually wind up in a park, and I suspect Seymour will enjoy the open space and be considerably more comfortable with heights than I am.

  If Seymour proves to be too
much of a distraction, I write, I’ll work with him another time.

  I don’t mind, Anya responds. That ball of nerves needs all the help he can get.

  Chapter 13

  I arrive at Grant and Chip’s apartment with Giselle in tow and my pockets bulging with counterconditioning incentives. Giselle had eaten the last of Toby’s biscuits, and I only had a few scoops of his boring old kibble left in my apartment, so I’d scoured Lourdes’s kitchen for special treats. I have a bag of Giselle’s organic peanut-butter-and-molasses cookies, some cold cuts sliced into strips, diced chicken nuggets that Lourdes keeps in her freezer for Portia and Gabby, and even a few bites of leftover salmon from a salad. I’ve brought double the amount I think I’ll need so that I can give Giselle a treat each time I give Seymour one—it doesn’t seem fair to only reward Seymour. Besides, Giselle has earned every goody I can offer her and then some.

  Grant is clearly in a hurry to get to work and runs Seymour downstairs when I ring the doorbell. I immediately drop down to Seymour’s level and tell him what a good dog he is and ply him with a few of the fancy peanut butter treats. He’s shaking a little, but wags his tail slowly. The whites of his eyes are only slightly visible, which I take as a good sign.

  “Seriously,” Grant says, handing me the extra key he has made. “Come by anytime for Seymour.” It’s amazing that after one meeting he’s willing to give me a key to his apartment, but I know it’s an indication of how hopeful he is that our walks will eventually deliver Seymour into the arms of a more suitable family. Plus, I suppose he can see that I’m a dog person, and in my experience dog people tend to give other dog people the benefit of the doubt.

  I’m relieved when Giselle and Seymour and I turn off the block before a train passes. I steer us down some of the quieter Cole Valley streets on our way to Anya’s house, and continually ply the dogs with meat and fish and peanut butter snacks. I can only hope that Seymour’s stomach can handle the smorgasbord of snacks and he doesn’t end up leaving a nasty surprise behind Grant’s couch after I return him to their apartment. Both dogs are plastered to my sides, gazing up at me with such unwavering intensity that they occasionally trip over their own paws. They’re not exactly demonstrating impressive leash skills, but at least Seymour is so focused on the food that he hardly seems to be aware of what else is happening around him. His ears give a little twitch, his eyes widening slightly, each time a car passes, but if I hand him a treat in the exact same moment, he keeps pace with me. And he doesn’t once try to back out of his leash.