by Steven Wolf
That night I mulled over their comments and had to admit that I was just as surprised as they were. Compared to last year, I now labored longer in the morning before getting out of bed. Comet would simply stretch her lanky body next to mine and wait. My touch on her neck and ears detected no indication of impatience. In fact, an hour or more would sometimes pass and the only movement would be Comet lifting her head from my chest to shift her position. Our walks were slower than ever, but Comet remained pleased, not the least bit anxious. I had taken her nuzzled affection during my frequent stops to be nothing more than boredom. Apparently Jana and Bill had noticed something different.
So did Rindy James, the real estate agent who sold us our original plot of land in Sedona, then helped us sell it and purchase my current abode. Rindy had become a good friend, and she and Comet had formed a mutual admiration society. Soon after we arrived Rindy paid us a welcome-back visit. When Comet saw her at the front door, she sprinted from room to room, barely able to contain herself.
“She looks so happy and healthy, like she’s fully adjusted to her new life,” Rindy commented. After greeting her long-lost pal and taking a few more victory laps around the house, Comet lay on the carpet with her head next to my slippered feet.
“Does that little girl still walk Comet once in a while?”
“Emily? Yes, she manages to avoid her homework a few times a week and earn some spending money. She still occasionally leaves the door open before she puts the leash on. But Comet just races up the street and returns after a couple of minutes.”
“You’re not worried she’s going to run away?”
“I did at first, especially after all the ‘lost greyhound’ stories. But Comet has had plenty of opportunities to bolt. She just keeps coming back. I guess I lucked out with this particular dog.” Comet’s eyes were closed, but her ears rotated like twin antennae toward whoever was speaking.
“It’s more than luck,” said Rindy. “The dog obviously adores you. Comet pays attention to you in some strange way, like she knows she has to be careful with you.”
“Maybe she knows I need all the help I can get.”
My thoughts were not really so flippant. Most people would unquestioningly accept the hazy nature of this mysterious bond, thankful for an enriched life. Not me. Vagueness troubled me, flying as it did in the face of my training and education. Everything can be quantified. Any experience can be precisely defined. I suspected that all these people, including me, were engaged in anthropomorphism—projecting our own relationships, experiences, and emotions onto simple canine behavior. Weeks passed and my denials continued, but as the weather grew chillier, Comet’s caring attention to me became impossible to ignore.
Cold is a relative term, especially if you were raised on the Great Plains. Still, temperatures in Sedona can rapidly drop into the teens after nightfall, only to climb into the sixties the next day in the ever-present sunshine. That year, winter arrived before Thanksgiving. The seesaw of changing barometric pressures coupled with the drastic temperature variations slammed my painful joints. My feet felt increasingly wooden as the weather cooled. I took more medication, which pickled my last remaining brain cells. Our morning exercise crept toward noon. On days that I struggled, Comet’s look conveyed the impression that a leisurely snuggle was exactly the right agenda. At night I was comforted by her warmth at my side. No longer content to be confined to her cushion on the floor, Comet preferred to sleep on the full, soft mattress next to me.
One difficult day, I was still in bed when Jenny, a woman I had hired to clean my house once a week, arrived at around one o’clock. Jenny had a warm and friendly outlook on life, but she brooked no argument when it came to bringing order to my hovel. Viewing the scene from the doorway, Jenny asked Comet to jump from the bed so that she could help me get to the couch. Comet refused, turning her head and staring at the wall.
“I’m just trying to do my job, so don’t you act all high-and-mighty,” chided Jenny. “I’m not a peasant. Besides, I know you have to go potty, so cut the attitude.” Jenny laughed and tried to position Comet’s rear-facing left ear alongside the other one, which pointed forward. As she turned her attention to me, her lips pressed in a firm line. “You know, you really could call your neighbors when this happens and I’m not around.” Since Jenny also worked at Rindy’s house, she had been versed on some of my struggles, including days like today.
“We’re doing all right. I was just about to get up anyway.”
Sensing my embarrassment, Jenny turned her attention to Comet. In a mock stern voice, she said, “As for you, Miss Royal Highness, I think I’m going to call you Queeny. Now get down. I mean it.”
“I don’t feel so good,” I called out to Jenny from the living room a few minutes later. The whine of the vacuum cleaner ceased and Jenny turned to where I lay on the couch. “What did you say?” Before I could respond, she frowned. “You don’t look too good. Are you feeling okay?”
“I think the pain or the meds, or both, are upsetting my stomach.”
“Well, you need to eat more than that piece of toast. I would cook you something, but you don’t have anything in the refrigerator.”
“You don’t have to be my cook, too. I’ll be okay. If I don’t make it to the store today, I have plenty of canned soup.”
Jenny turned back to her chores and remarked, “I hope you feed that dog better than you feed yourself.”
Chastened, I allowed the rumble of the vacuum to numb me into a light sleep. Hours later, a watery gurgle and fierce stomach cramps jolted me awake. A blushing coral sky signaled nightfall. Jenny was long departed, but she had left a large plastic bowl on the floor by my head. Drool from my mouth dripped into it, reeking of the stale tuna I had consumed that morning. Nausea suddenly bloomed up from my guts and I weaved toward the bathroom, desperate to spare the carpet. Once there, I commenced a retching that felt like it was erupting from the innermost soul-storing part of my body. Wave after wave, I rode the roller coaster of sickness. I periodically glanced up to see Comet propped on her deep chest, muscled legs tucked in back and hips raised in a posture that looked as if she were somehow elevated above the floor. She remained there throughout the ordeal.
Eventually the storm was spent and the waters calmed. I crawled from the wreckage and landed on the couch. A cold wetness touched my cheek and I opened my eyes. Comet emitted a small cry as her nose touched me again, her concerned affection so obvious that I felt tears trickling from my eyes even as I dropped into a weary sleep.
Overnight, the temperature dipped sharply, and the furnace battled to keep the house at sixty-seven degrees. By morning my muscles were contracted into frigid lumps. My body had expelled everything, including any remnants of pain medication. I was in trouble. More important, I was frantic about Comet. She had not been outside since yesterday afternoon, yet she refused to abandon the floor by my side or utter the slightest sound of protest. I was now endangering a loyal innocent being who had already endured her share of misfortune. Although it was barely 7:00 a.m., I called Rindy.
She arrived within the hour. A chill, not necessarily from the weather, swept into the room with her. Her expression was one of alarm mingled with disgust, as if it was all she could do to keep from shouting, “What’s wrong with you?” Comet rushed to greet her, and Rindy immediately grabbed the leash from its hook. Without a word, she left with Comet and the door slammed behind them. Angry at the unspoken judgment, I yelled at the empty space, “I’m fine, thank you!”
A short time later an obviously relieved Comet rushed inside and indulged in food and water. Her sides billowed as she calmed from a run.
Rindy removed her coat and shoes. “It really stinks in here,” she announced.
I refrained from telling her that the smell of indignation was equally noxious. “I called Jenny and she’ll come over later to clean the mess.”
Rindy sat in one of the living room chairs. “So you think you had food poisoning? That can be serious. Do
you need to go to the doctor?”
“No, I stopped vomiting a couple of hours ago. I hate to bother you any further, but would you mind getting my medicine? It’s sitting on the nightstand.”
Rindy fetched the bottle and a glass of water. “It’s not that I don’t want to help,” she said. “I’m more than happy to assist whenever I can. But I can’t be around all the time. You have to make arrangements with the neighbors to check on you and Comet.” As if to fill any space where I might interject, she rushed on, “I also know of several people who exercise dogs. I’m glad you hired Jenny, but you need more support than that.”
“I know, I know.”
That barrier now breached, a constructive conversation ensued. Rindy sternly reinforced her opinion and provided names of people who could help. Then, in midsentence, she paused and cocked her head. “What is that?”
“What is what?
“That noise. Hear it?”
Sure enough, I detected a soft friction sound, like hands being rubbed together. Then the door banged like a shot had been fired. I sat upright and turned toward the loud crack. Comet was exiting from the bedroom, rear first. Her knotted muscles levered both hind legs toward the ceiling and forced her head to the floor. Her fragile teeth pulled on an object that refused to budge. Then, with an intense tug, Comet popped her dog bed through the door opening and dragged the heavy canvas cushion across the carpet until it came to rest next to the couch.
“That is one determined dog,” declared Rindy.
I was weak and fuzzy-headed, but a deep mulelike guffaw rumbled up from my belly. Comet stared at me for a moment and then melted into the bed without any further fuss.
The dog bed was still in the living room when Jenny arrived later that day. “You didn’t lift that bed into this room, did you?” She sounded like a highway patrolman asking for license and registration. I related the earlier event and Jenny snorted, “How gullible do you think I am? Who did Queeny convince to put her bed out here right in everybody’s way?”
“I’m serious. Comet did it herself.”
Jenny stared at Comet doubtfully. Comet stared back. Jenny blinked first. “I told you that dog’s smart enough to know what she’s doing,” she said. Comet remained motionless, as if poured in bronze. To signal that this territorial skirmish was not the entire war, Jenny said on her way to the bathroom, “That bed can stay there until I’m finished, but it goes back into the bedroom and out of the way before I leave.”
Comet grunted and looked at me, her brows raised. “Hey, I have nothing to do with this little spat,” I whispered, checking to make sure Jenny had not overheard.
Once again, I slumbered through Jenny’s departure. When I woke up, the light tinting the walls a soft mauve told me the afternoon wasn’t completely exhausted. Before I could call Comet’s name to find out where she was, I heard a short rap at the front door. Then a creak, and the door swung open. A young woman with short dark hair hustled into the living room bearing two large sacks of groceries. Pam was a neuromuscular massage therapist whom I had met shortly after moving to Sedona. She had managed to keep me somewhat mobile over the past year. Pre-Comet, I saw Pam only occasionally, but my promise to Freddie that I would take better care of myself had prompted me to schedule weekly in-home sessions with Pam. I didn’t know if her expertise extended to intestinal disorders, but I had called her a few hours earlier and related my adventure in canned cuisine. I was hoping that whatever was left of the tuna could be massaged out of muscle tissue.
Pam lugged the groceries through the living room and into the kitchen as I sat up on the couch.
“You’re awake. That’s a good sign,” she said.
Hearing Pam’s voice, Comet trudged out from the bedroom where Jenny had banished her earlier. Her slumped shoulders conveyed the attitude of someone on a chain gang. She leaned against Pam’s legs.
“You didn’t feed her any of that rotten food, did you?” Pam demanded.
“Of course not.”
“I know what will make you feel better,” Pam cooed to Comet. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“There’s nothing wrong with her! She’s just mad because Jenny, the housekeeper, is trying to show Comet that a new sheriff’s in town.”
Ignoring my explanation, Pam asked, “Have you called your wife?” Pam knew all about my state of forced marital separation. I didn’t confide my innermost feelings to her, but under the soothing spell of her massages I had talked about the general situation. “Maybe you should call Freddie while I try to lift Comet’s spirits,” Pam said as the two of them left the house.
The last thing I wanted to do was talk to my wife. Any news of distress from me caused her to careen like a pinball from alarm to frustration to guilt. This was just food poisoning; I didn’t need to upset Freddie.
Pam and Comet soon returned, breathless and exuding good health. “Did you two solve all the world’s problems?” I inquired.
“Not all of them.” Pam detached the leash and Comet sprinted to me and stopped just inches from my face, pushing her cold wet nose into my cheek, a sloppy but endearing gesture. Then she trotted into the bedroom. It took her less than three minutes to once again drag her big cushion into the living room, placing it next to the couch where I was propped on a pillow. Meanwhile, Pam was heating some chicken soup. The aroma of simmering broth filled the room as she debriefed me on her walk with Comet. “She turned around after one block and practically pulled me back to the house. Now, seeing this”—Pam motioned to the inert body next to me—“I definitely think she’s worried about you.”
“Hmm,” I responded. A few seconds ticked by.
“Well, I guess I’ll set up the table for your treatment,” Pam finally said. As soon as she did, Comet lay down underneath it.
“I really am sorry I had to drag you all the way over here,” I grunted as Pam began her work.
“Would you stop? I told you I have other clients nearby, so it’s not an inconvenience.”
Facedown, I quieted and concentrated. It took a focused intent to relax knotted muscles so that the gentle treatment could penetrate. New age instrumental music wafted in the background and aided the effort. After an hour she gently placed a towel over me, signaling the end of the massage. “Don’t try to leave the table too soon. I’ll be out back with Comet.”
About twenty minutes later I found Pam sitting on the patio. “I feel much better. I might live,” I announced.
“We’re all anxiously waiting to find out.”
Pam went inside to pack up her table. When she came back out to say her good-bye, she delivered it with a parting shot.
“I know you’re familiar with the Americans with Disabilities Act. Have you ever thought about checking into getting a service dog to help you?”
Americans with Disabilities Act? Service dog? Come on! That stuff is for people who are much worse off than I am.
I started to respond, stopped, and then just sat there, too perturbed to speak. Finally Pam said, “All I’m trying to do is subtly suggest that you’re getting worse, not better.”
“You call that subtle?”
She plowed ahead. “What about Comet? She’s intelligent, strong, and calm. And she absolutely fawns over you.” Comet stretched and stood up in apparent agreement.
“Let me try a housekeeper first, okay? Anyway, Comet is a rescued racer. She’s not designed to be some kind of helper animal.”
“Have you asked Comet? Wolf, I have to tell you something. It appears to me that Comet is already helping you in so many ways. You just refuse to notice. That dog is scary smart.”
7
OCTOBER 2000—ARIZONA
Ego is a seductive enemy that makes us lie, cheat, and write bad checks. If you were in a room with me that week, you could have almost heard the feathers plump as I stuck out my chest in defiance. Jenny could come clean my house, but I was not about to have my groceries delivered, hire a personal chef, or look for a service dog. The food poisoning had been a onetim
e setback. I would be just fine on my own. Bring it on!
Comet could certainly smell the manly hormones as she observed my strained efforts around the house. Her serene gaze followed me, or if her eyes were closed, her ears twitched in the direction of whatever clumsy racket I was making. A nervous determination fueled me, in sharp contrast to the greyhound’s amused and calm demeanor. As I huffed and puffed, I couldn’t escape the feeling that Comet had conducted her own assessment of our situation. She was just waiting for the right moment to give me a stern lecture about slowing down, accepting the moment, and making the most of it. Despite my hunch that Comet might be onto something, I couldn’t stop myself from blundering forward.
At 2:45 a.m. on the night after my food-poisoning fiasco, I got up to fetch some Gatorade from the fridge, tripped over the coffee table, and cracked my rib cage on the table’s corner. I crashed to the floor and stayed there, in too much pain to move. The morning came. It passed. By midafternoon it still hurt to breathe, and I remained prone in the same spot on the carpet where I had landed the night before. These freak accidents were getting to be a habit.
Comet had once again been locked inside the house all night and half a day. “Go ahead and pee on the carpet, Comet. It can always be cleaned,” I urged her. She slowly got to her feet, turned to the wall, and settled back down with her butt facing me. There had always been a keen independence to this greyhound, and it was never more obvious than when I said something that embarrassed her or was just plain wrong. Telling her to pee in the house fell into both categories. My anguish over her predicament made me curse myself out loud.
Nearly twelve hours after my fall, I heard a knock at the front door.
“Come in,” I called. No response. I could turn my face just enough to see a shadow framed by the door’s stained glass panel. After many long seconds the shadow started to retreat. I took a deep, agonizing breath and yelled, “Come in!”