Dog Crazy

by Meg Donohue

  “But you aren’t her therapist.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Henry gives me a tight smile. “No, no, it’s fine. Let’s forget I said anything.” He looks into the street, away from me.

  He’s leaving, I remind myself. Even I can’t ignore that ticking clock. I can see it already: I fall for Henry and we date for a year, trying to make the long-distance thing work until eventually we acknowledge the “Dead End” sign that has been looming right in front of us the whole time.

  What is taking Anya and Huan so long in there? I shift in my seat, pulling my feet away from Seymour. He peers up at me, knotting his brows together, concerned.

  What’s wrong? he seems to ask. His huge ears flick back and forth and his big black nose twitches and his eyes widen, picking up all of my signals.

  I look away. Rain continues to pour, forming narrow, black slurries that hug the curb. I feel Seymour’s body shift at my feet, hear his old-man sigh as he lays his head back down, but I keep looking out at the rain, and begin to count my breath.

  Chapter 14

  Despite Seymour’s new picture and upgrade to “designer” dog status, there hasn’t been any interest in him over the past few days. Sybil and I decide that we’ll include him in the small group of dogs that we’ll showcase for adoption at the SuperMutt fund-raiser. At previous fund-raisers, Sybil tells me, all of the dogs up for adoption had new homes by the end of the night, so it’s as close to a sure thing as you get in the world of dog rescue. If Seymour doesn’t find a forever home in the next few weeks, he’ll find one that night.

  Anya has invited me to another Sunday breakfast at her house. No burned eggs this time, she’d written in her e-mail. Apparently it was Henry’s turn to cook. At the bottom of the e-mail, Anya wrote: Please bring Seymour and Giselle. I’d like to piss off Clive as much as possible.

  When Grant opens the door for me on Sunday morning, Seymour immediately comes out from behind the couch and trots over to me. His head is so low that the bottoms of his ears drag on the ground, but his body is doing a sort of submissive wagging thing and he’s looking up at me with what is unmistakably happiness in his eyes.

  “Good morning, little man,” I say to him, handing him the first of many counterconditioning treats he’s certain to receive that day. Giselle snorts into his ear and his tail wags faster.

  “Seymour! You’re willingly out of your cave!” Grant says, surprised. “He’s really taken a shine to you, Maggie.”

  I hold up the bag of treats. “Food,” I say. “The way to every dog’s heart.” I tell Grant about our plan to include Seymour in the SuperMutt auction.

  Grant’s face falls. “So he’ll be here until then?”

  “Does it soften the blow if I tell you that Sybil is sure he’ll be adopted the night of the event?”

  Grant sighs. “Sure. We can hang in there a few more weeks, can’t we, Seymour? That’s only one more run to the market for those behind-the-couch piddle pads we’ve all grown so fond of.” Despite his sarcasm, I can see that Grant is relieved to know that his record of keeping foster dogs until they find their forever homes will remain intact.

  WE MANAGE TO speed-walk off Carl Street without seeing or hearing a train. I ply the dogs with treats the entire way to Anya’s house, and I’m happy to see that Seymour’s tail is no longer tucked between his legs. He’s not walking with the same happy-go-lucky confidence as Giselle, but frankly, that makes two of us. At least we’re all outside, trying, and there have been no negative incidents to derail our progress.

  “For some reason,” Anya says when she opens the door, “Henry isn’t making his usual waffles. He’s making some complicated quiche thing and a salad with strawberries. You know someone’s trying to be fancy when they put fruit on lettuce.” She gives me a meaningful look that I pretend not to notice. “It’s like he thinks the queen is coming.”

  From the direction of the dining room, someone bellows, “Breakfast!”

  Anya rolls her eyes. “Clive.” She looks down at the dogs. “Okay, team. I’m counting on you to be as annoying as possible.”

  In the dining room, Rosie lies on a hospital bed that is angled into a seated position, and Clive and Terrence sit on either side of her. Rosie looks smaller than she had when we first met, but she seems to recognize me and a faint smile passes over her lips. Her hair is wrapped in a beautiful red turban embroidered with shimmering gold thread.

  “Do you like it?” she asks me, touching the turban. “If I’m going to be confined to a bed, I thought I ought to at least wear something snazzy. I don’t want anyone to accuse me of fading away.”

  “Impossible,” I tell her. “And I love it.”

  “Hello,” Terrence says, nodding to me. He, too, looks different than he had the last time I was here—he seems paler and his eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. I wonder if he stayed over at the hospital with Rosie earlier in the week.

  “Morning,” Clive says.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  Henry pushes open the door from the kitchen and flashes a small, uncertain smile when he sees me. “Hi, Maggie,” he says, and sets a golden-brown quiche on the table.

  “This looks delicious,” I say. Anya waves for me to sit in the same seat I did last time. Giselle and Seymour settle down into the tight space between my chair and Anya’s and I give them a couple of peanut butter treats.

  “I hope it is,” Henry answers. “I’m trying something new. But I think I made too much.” He looks over at Terrence. “No Laura or the kids? It’s been ages since I’ve seen them.”

  “They have the flu. They haven’t left the couch all weekend. I’m trying to keep my distance from them so I don’t pass anything on to Rosie.”

  Rosie doesn’t turn toward Terrence, so I’m not sure she’s heard him until she says, “How much distance can you keep from your own family? If I get the flu, I get the flu.”

  “We want to keep you healthy,” Terrence says, sounding plaintive. I can’t help but feel sorry for him. It seems like he’s continually trying, and failing, to win his grandmother’s good favor.

  “Well, you look like shit,” Clive says, cutting into the quiche. “You probably have the flu despite your valiant efforts. Thanks for spreading disease.”

  Terrence runs a hand over his face and sighs. “I’m just tired. Long hours at the stores.”

  “I suppose that’s what it takes to have a great big house in St. Francis Wood. The house that mattresses built! Who knew? And here I went to law school like a chump.”

  “You’re not exactly starving, Clive,” Terrence says.

  “But from the looks of things, I’m not eating quite as well as you, Terrence.” Clive barks out a laugh and Terrence’s round face reddens.

  Rosie says, “Are you four going to keep squabbling like this when I’m gone or is it just for my benefit?”

  Everyone falls quiet, looking at her, and then Clive says, “Of course it’s for your benefit. There’s nothing we love more than your attention.”

  This makes Rosie smile. She attempts to lift a hand to Clive’s cheek, but it falls back to her lap. Clive reaches out and grasps it and it seems to me that for a split second his bottom lip quivers ever so slightly.

  Terrence turns toward me, the red blotches spreading on his cheeks. “Forgive me, Ms. Brennan,” he says, “but I’m confused. Are you here in a professional capacity?”

  “No,” Henry says quickly. He clears his throat. “Maggie and Anya are friends.”

  I nod. “If anything, Anya is the one helping me in a professional capacity. She’s been taking wonderful photographs of the foster dogs that are up for adoption through an organization that I—”

  “You have time for that, Anya?” Terrence interrupts. “Volunteering? On top of looking for Billy and working at the frame shop and your classes?”

  Anya, I’m pleased to see, has already polished off half of a slice of quiche. The dark smudges below her eyes seem to be fading, and a pink rosiness blossom
ing below her pale skin. “I stopped going to class. And I’m not working at the frame shop right now,” she says calmly. “You know that.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Terrence’s voice seems to be getting louder. “Were you fired? What happened?”

  “She’s taking a short break,” Henry says.

  “A break from working part-time at a frame shop?” Terrence shakes his head. “Must be nice.”

  “Maybe you could use a break, Terrence,” says Anya.

  “I sure could. But I have bills to pay. Responsibilities.” It doesn’t sound to me like Terrence is trying to be cruel; it’s more like he is so tired he doesn’t know what he is saying. His shoulders are slumped, his large forearms as motionless as felled trees on either side of his plate. He looks around the table, blinking slowly.

  “Is it just me,” Anya asks, “or does it seem like Terrence is in a particularly bad mood this morning?”

  “He seems stressed,” Henry agrees.

  “Oh, Terrence is always stressed,” Clive says, waving his fork dismissively. “He just usually hides it better. Under that mustache, I think.”

  Rosie releases a wheezing laugh. “Clive,” she says, coughing and smiling. “You’re a terrible person.”

  Clive waves his fork in the air again, does a little bow, and grins.

  “Forgive me,” Terrence says, turning toward me again. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around what exactly is going on here. You’re a pet bereavement counselor, and Anya has lost a pet, but you’re not her therapist, you’re just her new friend? And you’re going on all these walks with her out of some devotion to this brand-new, sprung-from-nothing friendship?” He looks around the table. “Am I the only one who finds this odd?”

  “Terrence,” Henry says. “What’s gotten into you? You’re being rude.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell Henry. I smile at him, grateful, but I don’t need anyone to protect me. Well, except, you know, a dog. I reach down to pet Giselle, but Seymour’s nose moves below my hand first, probably angling for another treat. “I know he’s just looking out for Anya.”

  “Maggie believes me,” Anya says. “She believes someone stole Billy. It’s nice to finally have someone on my side.”

  I look at Anya, swallowing.

  “Is that right?” Terrence asks me. “You believe that someone stole Billy? You believe he is alive?”

  “Yes,” Anya says. “She does.”

  “I’m asking your new friend Maggie.”

  Everyone looks at me. “Well, I . . .” My voice trails off. I feel Seymour lick my hand, and I reach down to pet him, hoping everyone will just move on.

  “Maggie?” Anya says. “Tell him.”

  “Oh, just tell her the truth, Maggie,” Clive says. “Put the poor girl out of her misery. You know as well as anyone that no one stole that dog. He ran away and he’s not coming back.”

  Anya drops her fork and it clatters against her plate. “Shut up, Clive!”

  I take a breath. “Anya,” I say softly. “I told you from the beginning that I have no idea if Billy is alive or not, but that I’d like to help you.”

  Anya stares at me. “But I thought you believed me. I thought you were helping me look for Billy. You said if you were in my shoes, you’d do the same thing.”

  “I would. If I were in your shoes, I’d probably do the same thing. That’s completely true.”

  “But—but you don’t think I’m actually going to find Billy! You think he’s dead.”

  “I don’t know what I think, honestly,” I tell her. “How could I claim to be sure of something that I have no way of knowing?”

  “You could trust that I know,” Anya says, locking eyes with me. She shakes her head, and her dark hair falls into her face. She doesn’t bother to move it away. “I fucking hate that you’ve just been humoring me. I’m not a child. I’m not some fucking crazy person.”

  “But why does it matter whether Maggie thinks Billy was stolen?” Henry interjects. “You can’t fault her for not being able to ignore the facts, can you? She’s been nothing but honest and supportive since the moment she met you.”

  Anya stands abruptly from the table. Giselle and Seymour swing their heads to look up at her, tensing. I feel my chest constrict.

  “Honest?” she spits. “You think Maggie’s being honest with me, Henry? With you? You think she’s training that poodle to be a therapy dog?” Her hard, empty laughter cuts through the room’s thick silence.

  No. No. No.

  “Anya, please . . .” I say quietly, but I can’t seem to get any more words out. I try to breathe in deeply, but come up short on air.

  “Anya, sweetheart,” Rosie says, her face twisted with concern. Terrence takes his grandmother’s hand and whispers something to her.

  “Stop looking at me like that!” Anya cries. “All of you! You all look at me like I’m crazy! You think I don’t see it? I don’t feel it? I know what you’re thinking. But she’s the crazy one.” She swings her gaze to me, pointing her finger at my head. “This therapist you hired, Henry, to try to make me better? You think she’s being honest? Here’s the truth: Maggie can’t leave her house without a dog. Even with a dog, she hyperventilates. She gets all panicky and pale and falls to the ground. You should see her!”

  I can feel her eyes burning into my scalp, but I just stare at Giselle and Seymour, frantically trying to arrange my thoughts within the fog of shame and embarrassment and panic that swirls darkly through me.

  “It would actually be funny if it weren’t so fucking sad,” Anya says. “She’s supposed to be helping people? Helping me? She’s the nutcase! You think I’m obsessed with Billy? She can barely even talk about her dead dog. That’s what a mess she is. Right, Maggie? Apparently it’s honesty hour. Time to come clean. You don’t believe Billy was stolen, you don’t believe he’s still alive somewhere, and, oh yeah, you’re fucking crazy!”

  I stand and hear my chair screech against the floor behind me. I grip the dogs’ leashes in my shaking hand. My mouth is dry. I want to stay and defend myself. I want to admit to my flaws, my irrational fears, my storms of panic—and to explain what I know is true: despite my shortcomings, and perhaps even, in some way, because of them, I can help people. My fear makes me weak, but it also makes me strong. But I look around the table and all I see are faces twisted in confusion and anger and concern, and I can’t say any of it. I can hardly breathe.

  I look at Anya and see that she is crying—sobbing, really. Henry rushes to her side, wrapping his arms around her.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  The dogs trot along beside me as I make my way to the front door. We step outside, and then we run.

  “MAGGIE!” LOURDES CRIES when she opens her door. “Are you okay?” She moves to hug me but I hold out Giselle’s leash.

  “Stomach bug,” I croak. “Better keep your distance.”

  “That came on suddenly . . .” she says, but I’m already hurrying down the path toward my apartment.

  I stand in the bathroom, scrubbing my hands in the sink, tears running down my cheeks. I try not to think of how Seymour’s tail had been tucked between his legs our entire run back to his apartment, how I hadn’t given him a single treat or comforted him in any way, how lucky it was that he had not tried to run away. Who am I to say I can help him? Or Anya? I choke down a fistful of vitamins, feeling the scrape of each one in my throat, and then drag myself to the living room and collapse in an armchair, exhausted.

  I miss Toby. He would have shoved his snout under my hand again and again until I petted him. He would have clambered up into my lap because even though he was big he believed he was a lapdog and I would have laughed under the weight of his love. I would have felt his beating heart and taken comfort in feeling sure it was steady, unchanged and unchangeable.

  But I would have been wrong about his heart. It was not unchanged. It was not unchangeable.

  It was his heart that brought us to the veterinarian. We needed a new sup
ply of heartworm pills. What would have happened if I hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave Philadelphia? I would have picked up a year’s supply of pills from the vet he’d always seen, probably just purchasing them at the reception desk, never questioning whether it made sense to buy a full year’s worth of medication ahead of time, despite Toby’s age. Of course he’d live the year. He’d live far longer than that. I’d have purchased the pills without seeing the veterinarian and I would have had, what? Another month with him? Another few weeks? Or would I have noticed sooner than that what I had been too busy to notice in that first month in San Francisco? Would I have seen that Toby had slowed down, and that he was in pain?

  The new veterinarian in San Francisco seemed like a nice man. He was handsome, even, something I noted in the moments before he pressed his stethoscope to Toby’s chest and frowned. He peered into Toby’s mouth, inspecting his gums. He moved his hands down the length of Toby’s body, all the while chatting sweetly to him, telling him what a good-looking fellow he was, what a gentleman. When his hands reached Toby’s hips, he fell silent. Toby licked his muzzle—a sign, I knew, that he was experiencing pain. The vet’s brow furrowed and suddenly my heart was racing.

  How was his appetite? the vet asked. Had he had any trouble with incontinence? Did he seem lethargic? No, no, no, I replied, my certainty shrinking with each answer.

  “What is it?” I asked finally. “Is something wrong?”

  He couldn’t answer . . . yet. There would need to be tests. The clinic had an X-ray machine. Could I leave Toby for the afternoon?

  I sat in the waiting room for three hours. I didn’t take out my phone, or read a magazine, or chat with the receptionist, or walk out for coffee or something to eat. I sat there. The hours felt like days. I knew I would hear bad news—that afternoon, or in a month, or in a year. But I knew it was coming. That’s the rub with dogs. We pack a lifetime of love into a too-short span of time. We have to watch them die. We have to let them go.

  When the vet finally called me back into the exam room, Toby greeted me with his usual bright-eyed grin. He had cancer, the veterinarian told me, a bone tumor, and in all likelihood was in a considerable amount of pain. Worse still, the X-ray showed that the cancer had already spread to his lungs.