A New Leash on Life

by Suzie Carr

  She blinked. “No.”

  My boyfriend’s daughter scooted closer. “Spill it. Who is he, and why has Ayla never met him?”

  My ice cream dribbled down my hands, my wrist and onto my bare legs. Ayla handed me a napkin. “We can talk about it later, Mom.”

  ~ ~

  Later on that evening, my boyfriend, Scott, handed me the Wall Street Journal and a glass of wine. “I’m thinking grilled salmon for dinner. How about you?”

  I had Olivia on my mind again thanks to his daughter’s prying. Who needed food? “Sure.”

  “I’ll fire up the grill in a few minutes.” He sat down across from me, sipped at his Merlot and opened up his version of the Wall Street Journal. A true sweetheart, Scott cornered the market on kind, intelligent, and overall guy-next-door appeal. He’d be perfect for one of those Old Navy commercials. “The stocks rallied high today. I’m going to pull out of some of my put trades.” He peeked over the corner of his paper at me. “What do you think?”

  I needed a sounding board. “I haven’t taken a look at the markets today.” My daughter wants her daddy, I wanted to scream.

  “Maybe I’ll go long on some SWFT stock right now. The candlestick pattern on it is confirming.”

  How did I land in this place sitting across from a man discussing candlestick patterns and bullish markets? “Fascinating,” I said, burying behind the newspaper. What does a mother do when the father of her child doesn’t want anything to do with being in her life? “You know, I’m not all that hungry.” I folded the paper and placed it down on the braided tablemat. “I’ll just grab a bowl of cereal later.”

  He peeked over the paper at me again. “That actually sounds good.” He returned to his paper.

  I wanted to say to him, I need to be alone. Could you go home, please? “I’m really tired. I might just go to bed.”

  He dropped the paper again. “It’s six o’clock.”

  I rounded the table and offered him a quick peck on the top of his thick dark waves. “It’s been a long one.”

  “I’ll leave.” He stood up, straightened his paper. “You get some rest.”

  He left without prying.

  A few minutes later, I sat Ayla down on her bed, grabbed onto both of her skinny shoulders, and squared into a big fat lie for the sake of her sanity and emotional well-being for the years and decades that would follow. “Sweetheart, do you really want to know who your father is?”

  She nodded, her face stoic and strong.

  “The truth is,” I tightened my grip, prepping for the launch, “You’re a test tube baby.”

  She stared off to the side, contemplating my words and probably assessing how this should weigh on her. She stretched her eyes back to me; squinted and said in pure Ayla fashion, “Don’t lie to me. I’m not fragile. I can handle the truth.”

  I had a choice. My girl’s brain operated at a higher level than most fifty-year-olds I knew. I could save her from a lifetime of pain and insecurity by standing firm to my lie. She’d never wrestle with the inadequacies of abandonment carved out of being unwanted by someone in this world. On the flip side, didn’t she deserve to know? Maybe one day, her father would come around and want to meet her. Then she’d know I lied to her, and she’d hate me. I couldn’t have her not trust me, too. I owed her at least a partial truth. “He’s a boy I used to hang out with in high school.” Oh yeah, and he saved my life so I repaid him by fucking him. So pretty much, you’re the result of a traumatic situation that we’d both rather forget ever happened. I love you so much, though, sweetheart. Me, the good mother, would spare my little girl the sad details of the moment I conceived her. “He’s a very nice guy who helped me through a rough time.” Some things were better left unstated. You are not the product of a debt collection.

  “We were both so young,” I continued. “He had plans to go away to college.” He chose a football, uniform and a fraternity over you. “He wanted to help. I told him to go study at college.” I wanted to spare her the unnecessary pain of being unwanted. I’d take this brunt for her sake.

  “Has he ever tried to contact you about me?”

  “We lost touch.” Another lie. I pouted along with her, two souls caught up in a riptide of uncontrollable mishaps.

  “Was he a nice person?”

  I smiled at my twelve-year-old daughter. “Very nice. And, smart. And handsome.”

  Chapter Four

  Olivia

  I loved working with dogs, especially Snowball. My heart always melted at that moment when her eyes locked on mine, reaching out to me, friend-to-friend. I opened her kennel and sat beside her on her bed. Her tail wagged and she bowed her head in reverence, and then climbed onto my lap. She curled into a ball, shutting the rest of the world out. Cocooned in my breathing pattern, she relaxed into a zone where all her pain and suffering melted away. I petted her soft fur and she snuggled up closer, this time burying her nose under her paw.

  I could sit for hours soothing her spirit, taking on her burden, and snuffing out its power. She snored like a baby. I liked to think that her big heart, weak from the strains of parvovirus, swelled with gratitude for this sliver of time where safety and comfort enveloped her and allowed her to drift off to sweet dreams.

  I fought back anguish, not wanting to concern her with my fears. The tears rolled down my cheeks anyway. I wanted to take Snowball on a walk and let her run freely in the park behind Wilbur Road where dandelions bloomed and butterflies flew. I wanted her to frolic amongst the long grass and roll around on her back, all fours up in the air, dancing with the sweet meadow breeze. Most of all, I wanted to see her play with other dogs, yipping and yapping, jumping and running.

  “All in good time. I promise, little girl.” I kissed her fluffy head and she looked up at me with eyes that told me she would not disappoint.

  When I opened the Clark Family Shelter three years ago, I funded it with my inheritance. I had just enough cash flow to sustain the shelter with its food, medical supplies, staff payroll, and basic operating expenses for roughly a year. I also received monthly donations that helped take the edge off when unexpected things crept up like repairs and special foods for special needs animals. The past two years, I spent raising funds from local businesses, events, and door-to-door campaigns. This consumed about thirty-percent of my time, time I wished I could’ve been working the shelter instead.

  Natalie earned the title of fundraising hero. She consistently converted naysayers into donors by pulling at their heartstrings. Sometimes I wondered if all that magic derived from pure passion for the animals or from survival. She loved working for the shelter and constantly echoed how she would just die if I ever came to her one day and told her I didn’t have the money to keep her employed. She could work at any vet office and earn more money than I could afford to pay her, yet she remained loyal to me. I assumed her loyalty stemmed entirely out of the purpose behind the work we did. Then, about a year ago, when I overheard her talking with Trevor in the back, I heard a different tale, one that caused me to blush and hide in the kennels for the rest of the day.

  Apparently, my prized employee had a crush on me, and sought counsel in Trevor one day when she heard me agree to a date with one of our food suppliers, Corrine. I had broken Natalie’s heart without even realizing it. She had misread my friendly winks and nudges as signs all along that I reciprocated the chemistry.

  So, I spent hours sitting on oversized pillows with affectionate dogs who took up refuge in my confused and numb state. Natalie, only three years out of high school, was my friend. How I handled the delicate situation would chart the course for smooth sailing or rough seas. I needed Natalie and her inflated joy. She tended to the shelter like a talented sailor tended to the open water. Without her, I’d list heavily in the wrong direction. Her efforts kept this place afloat, and provided safety, security, and love to hundreds of abandoned pets each year.

  So, that same night I overheard this conversation, I took action. I decided to invite her in to
one of the kennels and help me coax our newest shelter member to allow me to trim his nails. She sat next to me, wrapping her secret up in a smile. Her eyes sparkled and her lips quivered as she moved in closer to clutch the hound’s paw. “I wanted to ask you about something,” I said, ready to reveal what I overheard and how we needed to define the boundaries so things didn’t get weird.

  Her tanned skin deepened. “Oh?” Her eyes darted from me to the paw a few too many times. She struggled to inhale. I’d never seen her so shaken and at a loss for words. “Did I do something to upset you? I’m so sorry if I did.” She pulled in her lower lip, clenching it as if bracing for ridicule or reprimand.

  I couldn’t risk doing either to her. “No.” I blinked her comment away. “Of course not.” I laughed a little and she welcomed the relief with a sharp exhale and her signature goofy laugh.

  “I just wanted to ask you if you’ve heard back from Della Range on whether they have any foster homes available?”

  “Not a word, Olivia. Not a word.” She directed her full attention to the needy one in the kennel. Suddenly, teamed-up, she armed to assist me, waiting for the right moment to unleash the pressure for the pretty hound with claws too mighty for kennel life.

  I decided to just let things slide. I went on that date and raved about it, even though it sucked. I even lied about a second and third time, just to ensure we still stood tight together, animal protector to fellow animal protector. She never asked about the fourth date, and I didn’t throw her any additional lies. We just worked our butts off protecting the safe world for our beloved guests with event after event to raise funds. Everyone loved our cause. The donations funneled in from the poorest parts of town to the richest.

  Now with the storm, though, the donations dried up.

  I kissed Snowball’s warm nose before jumping to my feet and dealing with the mess at hand.

  A while later, as I stood staring out of the front window at the ravaged town, I wondered how the flooding would affect shelter life. Now that the town needed money to rebuild their houses, their cars, their businesses, where would the shelter get theirs?

  Melanie rounded the corner wearing an apron and wielding a wet mop. “You’re lucky. You only had a little water get in through the back wall and the side exam room. The kennels all look dry. Snowball is resting just fine on her new fluffy bed in isolation. The rest of the dogs, on the other hand, they look like they could use a break.”

  “I’m going to go see what we can do about at least getting them into the yard to play around a bit.” I pushed through the double doors and into the kennel area. The room smelled like gasoline from the generator. I rushed to the back door and pushed it open. Trevor stood on the patio smoking a cigarette and singing. His bleached hair poked out in all directions. The generator cranked a few daring feet from him.

  “I’m going to close this door tighter,” I yelled out to him. “All I smell is your cigarette. The dogs aren’t happy with you right now.”

  Trevor tossed his cigarette to the ground, crushed it out and scooped it back up in his hand without my having to ask. “Sorry about that, boss. I’ve been waiting hours. You’re at least a little proud of me, right?” He broadened his smile and opened his arms up wide.

  “I’m closing it.” I shut the door with an extra strong tug.

  He stepped back into the kennel room and shut the door behind him. “Thank God the smell is all we’ve got to worry about. The scene is unbelievable out there. I walked down to the edge of the grounds and looked down into the valley. Rooftops are floating.”

  Our view of the colorful town from atop the hill on Mulberry Street could usually put a Thomas Kincaid painting to shame. I couldn’t bring myself to look out into the valley just yet. Instead I walked back out to the waiting room where Melanie had just powered up the television, thanks to Trevor’s bravado with the generator.

  “The town is a mess. Main Street is underwater. The schools have all but drowned. There’s not a utility pole for miles that’s standing.” She pointed to the television screen. “Look, that’s St. Michael’s steeple.”

  We huddled around the twenty-inch flat screen. Our faces hung in horror at the scenes of what used to be the town center. Muddy water now covered what used to be a beautiful park touting the prettiest birch trees. A few stranded people stood on their rooftops waving at the news helicopter.

  Natalie bit her nails. “Oh my goodness, look at that lady.”

  A middle-aged lady wearing a drenched t-shirt cradled her cat under the crook of her arm and waved with her free arm to the helicopter.

  Thank goodness the cat could snuggle up to its owner, despite her being drenched and scared to the core. “I imagine there’s a whole town full of abandoned pets right now panicking on top of soaked couches and beds.” I walked away shaking my head unable to fathom the horror.

  ~ ~

  Right out of veterinary school, I worked at one of those national chain pet store hospitals where every second of the business day I cared for every imaginable breed of dog. Some would end up waiting for hours to be seen because we worked primarily on a walk-in basis. Only surgeries took precedence over the appointment book. Right out of school, and with a white lab coat starched and pristine, I had much to learn about handling pets, especially the ones that launched full force at me the moment I entered the examination room. Some days I’d leave the hospital in tears, embarrassed that I couldn’t deal with the stress, beating myself up for not deserving to wear a white lab coat with doctor inscribed in front of my name.

  Some of my former classmates called me crazy for working in such duress. I began to think so, too, until I met Melanie. Her aura soothed me. She walked in one day, long feathery peppered hair swinging around her, with the prettiest green Conure bird. She found Lucky while out on a walk with her dog that afternoon. Lucky evidently escaped from his home, got injured, and fell sick. No one wanted to deal with her bird. Lucky intrigued me. So, I offered. I learned about birds a little in school, but not nearly enough to diagnose the problem. Nonetheless, I offered to hydrate Lucky and clip her wings. Melanie thanked me a day later with a gift certificate to Outback Steakhouse and a sweet thank you card. I helped her pick out Lucky’s new bird cage, a wall-length, mammoth one complete with swings, toys, birdbaths, and all the seeds imaginable.

  A month later, she returned with Lucky to ask for my help with clipping her wings again. The hospital didn’t want to start treating Conures, and so the boss reprimanded me for surrendering to Melanie’s plea. So, I offered to come out to her house to clip her wings and nails the next time.

  On my first visit, she confessed that she had taken Lucky to three different hospitals that first afternoon and no one showed an ounce of compassion, except for me. This floored me, because I didn’t understand how a doctor who dedicated her life to caring for animals wouldn’t step back for a moment, see the big picture of a sick bird in dire need of water and care, and not step up to the plate and drive home the needed solution.

  By my fifth visit, she had counseled me on everything from breathing correctly to transferring the right energy to my pet patients. She was a reiki master, and this intrigued me almost as much as surgery did. I trusted her. She, as well as Lucky, changed the course of my life. Within a blink, I had secured the building and resources to reopen the old town shelter and outfitted it with a medical facility on site to care for all domesticated animals, regardless of if they grew feathers or fur.

  Twenty-five years my senior, Melanie became that person I relied on to check myself, to keep me focused, to stay centered. She also came in to my life at just the right time, when I needed someone to trust, three years after my parents both died in a car accident. Melanie swooped in and cradled my broken soul with her wide expanse of spirit and knack for healing. I learned to trust again. In return, I clipped Lucky’s wings, supplied her with every imaginable delicacy any fine Conure could ever want, and an endless supply of referrals for her reiki business, both in adopted pets and par
ents.

  We were two friends in perfect control over our lives, deterred by no one, especially romantic partners. Well, I was more in control in that department than Melanie. She dabbled in a date here and there with mysterious women and boring men, but always backed off just when things steamed up a bit too much for her.

  Many years before, she had married her mechanic, Henry, who drove her crazy with his rants about how unlucky they were to be stuck in the small town. They met when her sixty-nine Ford Mustang lost its muffler on the side of the interstate one rainy Saturday afternoon. He drove up in a tow truck and in less than one year, they married under the gazebo at Huntington State Park with two strangers they plucked up from the side of the fishing pond to serve as witnesses. They enjoyed about two years of honeymoon bliss before Henry started hiding out in his garage, eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner out there and replacing his joy for sexual romps in bed with his new wife with used car parts and a lady named Bethany who constantly needed her oil changed. Bethany had wrapped her pretty little arms around more than just Henry. Melanie confessed to me that she enjoyed Bethany even more than Henry did. The end came when Henry popped home for lunch only to find Melanie and Bethany hot and bothered on their bed getting off on each other under the covers. Later, Henry and Melanie both admitted their love had fizzled and probably had seen its finest days in the first sixty days of marriage back before Melanie realized how much she hated the smell of grease and hand cleaner and Henry hated the smell of sage. The two split, remained friendly, and still each enjoyed their fair share of sexual pleasure from Bethany before she ran off with a wealthy banker from Pennsylvania. Soon after that, Henry had failed to secure the lift before getting under it to fix his Buick, and the car fell on him, crushing him to death.

  Melanie told me time and again how much she preferred living alone. Being tied down to one person when you’re a bisexual is nearly impossible,” she said on more than one occasion. “It’s like being told you have to choose between shelter and food. How can I survive with only one of those?”