And the Next Thing You Know . . .

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  “I didn’t know you were helping out today. Cool. First time here?”

  “Very first.”

  “You must be as crazy about dogs as the rest of us.”

  “Must be!”

  “C’mon, I’ll introduce you around.”

  Which, of course, I thought meant that I was going to go meet the staff. Instead he took me around from cage to cage and gave me the skinny on each of the inmates in an excited voice. He was really nuts about these dogs. Of course I missed most of his lectures, what with the never-ending barkfest, and trying to catch Swithin’s amazing face as it was occasionally revealed from behind the veil of bangs. It was like a blond burka that only intermittently allowed glimpses of the sparkle in those dazzling eyes, eyes that promised so much—

  “So Tommy.” What was he saying? I needed to pay attention. “Why don’t you start with taking dogs out to the exercise pens?” Swithin suggested. “Ideally everybody gets a quick pee-break before it gets too busy with visitors. If anybody’s interested in a dog, let them take the dog out into the yard. You don’t have to do anything. The dogs pretty much sell themselves.”

  “O-kay!” I said cheerfully. I was the cheerful volunteer, after all. Swith handed me a leash, smiling.

  “I’ll start on the next room.”

  Oh. And he went off into that next room. Not this room, the next room. Where there were yet more dogs, if you can believe it.

  I had kinda thought he’d be here with me, but no, first chance he got…

  I was cheerful no more.

  Sigh.

  But I was here, I had stuff to do. I turned bravely to my first client.

  It was a large cage with a large and mostly black dog, about whom Swithin had no doubt told me everything I needed to know—none of which I could remember. The card on the front said Charlie. Cute. Charlie looked at me, a bundle of tail-wagging oh-joy-oh-rapture. With very expressive brown eyebrows. This wouldn’t be so bad.

  I clipped the leash onto his collar and we headed out. There was a courtyard in back with a couple large-ish pens of chain link fence, each pen strewn with wood shavings. It was nice. The sun was shining and the seven thousand barking dogs were just a bit less immediate. It was so nice, I got a brilliant idea.

  I pulled out my phone and squatted down to Charlie. I figured I could brag on Facebook a little about my charitable endeavors. Show what a great and selfless human being I was. I held out the phone at arm’s length, and Charlie, instead of smiling for his close-up like a professional, decided that I needed to be licked.

  Cute, right? Except I was already squatting, and eighty-five pounds of black and brown mutt, not to mention dog breath, was more than enough to knock me off my equilibrium and onto my assets.

  I managed to get Charlie off me long enough to get up, I wiped the slime off my face, dusted off my brand-new jeans, and I managed to take a couple more pictures—this time with a strict no-tongues rule, thank you, Charlie—before I let the dog loose in the exercise pen to do whatever he came here to do. I carefully closed the gate (I am nothing, if not conscientious), while he sniffed, hither, thither and yon. I flipped through my phone to post the best selfie. Funny thing was, the one with Charlie licking me and me looking surprised and falling over was actually super-cute. Spontaneous and candid. Like me. That obviously was the one. I captioned it “Volunteering with my new friend Charlie,” and posted it. I smiled in happy anticipation, waiting for the likes to tsunami in.

  As I stared at the phone, hearing the satisfying sound of those happy little dings begin—I felt something warm on my leg. What the hells? I glanced down. Charlie, of course, was a boy-dog, and we all know boy-dogs kick up a hind leg to pee, and Charlie, it seems, had decided to kick his leg up on the post next to the gate of the pen. Unfortunately I was standing just on the other side of that post, and Charlie’s aim wasn’t all that great.

  The dog was having a wee on my calf. On my new super-tight jeans.

  I screamed (in a very masculine way, of course) and jumped back from the gate. Charlie was profoundly oblivious and went off sniffing around the pen, completely ignoring my displeasure and distress, to say nothing of disgust.

  Did I mention these jeans were brand new? Specifically bought to impress yon swain, Swithin? And my cute Italian sneakers, which had cost me like a week’s paycheck? Even my sock was wet! With pee!!!

  Swithin came around the corner.

  “Hey! You okay?”

  “Fabulous!” I said, startled. “Copacetic! No problemo! I’m just getting to know Charlie is all.” Charlie came over to the gate, wagging his tail to say hello to Swithin. “See how happy he is?”

  “Okay,” said Swith. “Let me know if you need any help.”

  “Will do.” You can help me kill this effing dog, for starters, I thought. “C’mon Charlie. It’s back to the slammer for you, big guy.” I put Charlie away, went back out into the courtyard, pulled off my shoe and sock (the wet ones), and did my best to rinse my pant leg under the hose before I delicately rinsed off my fancy-schmancy, slightly ruined gym shoe. I buried the sock deep in the trash where it wouldn’t be found. Too embarrassing.

  Back to work. With one sock.

  The Charlie Incident was a mistake you make only once. The rest of the trips to the exercise pens went without any big events. Aside from a few big events that required the pooper-scooper. I often walked Roger’s dog—but his cute little Scottish terrier couldn’t touch what some of these brutes could leave behind. No wonder nobody wanted to adopt them. I was appreciating Roger’s dog more by the minute.

  Among my large charges was a teeny little dog cage with the leetlest dog I’d ever seen. I’ve had bigger margaritas. The dog was also hideous.

  “Well c’mon, gorgeous,” I said, as I bent over and snapped this tiny string of a leash on this tiny ogre’s tiny collar.

  “My, aren’t you cute!” said someone behind me. I smiled. It didn’t sound like Swith, but a boy could hope. I straightened up and turned—it wasn’t Swithin admiring my hinterlands after all. It was a middle-aged woman, and she wasn’t even looking at me or my butt. She was beaming at the little repugnance at the end of the leash.

  Did I mention this dog-ette was ugly? It had teeth sticking out in all directions, and a tongue that seemed to hang permanently out the left side of its mouth. Bulgey eyes. It was practically, but not quite, bald. And if that wasn’t enough, the little mini-mutt shivered non-stop. If ever there was a dog that didn’t need to be rescued, this was it.

  “You’re looking to adopt a dog?” I asked. This was why I was in this dreadful place, supposedly—not just to pick up guys.

  “I don’t know,” she sighed wistfully. “Ever since my Dollsy died…” And she sighed again. “What kind of a dog is he?”

  “This one?” I said, looking down at the bug-eyed thing. I made a stab in the dark. “Part—Chihuahua?”

  “Cute! And what’s the other part, do you think?”

  I considered.

  “Chupacabra?”

  “What a beauty!”

  Eye of the beholder, clearly. I was starting to think I’d seen this dog somewhere before. Maybe on the side of Notre Dame, spewing rainwater.

  “I was just about to take it outside to the exercise pens. But if you’d like to do the honors? You could—you know—hang?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Whatever you want it to be,” I said, handing over the leash.

  And with that she waddled chirpily out into the courtyard.

  “Reinforcements,” said Swithin, and he came in with Theo.

  “I’m done with adoptions, if you guys want to take a break,” said Theo.

  “I just have the one dog left,“ I said, “and one’s out with somebody doing his you know.” I gestured to the tiny—empty—dog crate behind me.

  “Sidney?” said Swithin and
Theo ensemble.

  “Tommy,” I corrected.

  “Dude, the little Chihuahua-mix,” said Swithin. “His name’s Sidney.”

  “It has a name? Why???”

  “Sidney’s been here for years,” said Theo.

  “And somebody’s thinking about adopting him?”

  “I don’t know about that, but she at least seems pretty tickled, watching the little tyke tinkle.”

  We went to the door and looked out to watch the woman basking in the presence of the teeny-tiny dog, who, in that moment, was busy taking a teeny-tiny crap.

  “Well I’ll be,” said Theo. “Nobody has ever been interested in Sidney before.”

  “So other than Sidney, if that’s his real name, I just have—” I stopped. I couldn’t go on.

  “Oh God,” said Swithin.

  “That has to be Mona,” said Theo.

  They were talking about this incredibly rank sewer-smell that had just run over us like a train.

  We all three turned—and there was my last dog, a big, gray furry thing, turned around facing away from us—and shooting diarrhea a good couple feet out through the door of his cage Her cage. I had learned so much today. She missed me by mere inches.

  “I think your last dog started without you,” said Theo.

  “Oh my God that’s bad,” said Swithin, with the neck of his Ramones tee-shirt pulled up over his nose.

  It was really really incredibly bad. If a rotting corpse ate caca and puked in a cattle truck. I could not speak. It was that bad.

  “You want to take Mona out and give her a bath?” asked Swithin. “Or wash out the cage?”

  “Me? I’ll— I’ll—” I tried to answer. “I don’t think—”

  My situation was apparently obvious.

  “You need some air,” said Theo.

  “Let’s go let’s go, quick!” said Swithin, and he grabbed me by the arm and rushed me out into the courtyard. I leaned against the wall.

  “Breathe deep,” said Swithin, “nice fresh air, breathe nice and slow and deep.”

  This day was not really going at all how I’d hoped. I’d hardly spent any time with Swithin and now, when he was around, one deliciously sexy hand on my shoulder even—I was pale, sweating, panting, and threatening to barf. And I smelled like a diaper.

  Serious boner material, right? All I needed to do now was burst into tears—and I was about one unsteady step away from it—and I’d be irresistible.

  “Dollsy!” someone hooted.

  My first impulse was to flip the bird over my shoulder at who-the-eff-ever it was calling me names at this point in my life.

  But I forbore.

  I turned and looked up and saw the little fat woman, holding the quasi-Chihuahua/Quasi-modo thing in the air to admire it some more. “I’m going to call him Dollsy!” She was thoroughly pleased with herself—and her complete lack of imagination. For a flicker of a second, I wondered if this was Dollsy II or maybe merely the last in a long line of Dollsies who’d come before, part of a Dollsy dynasty, and I further wondered if all the previous Dollsies had been such perfect little googly-eyed gargoyles as this one was, but then—I was once again overwhelmed by my vast indifference.

  “That’s wonderful!” said Theo appearing in the door. He was holding a leash with the big gray furry dog, d/b/a Mona, still dripping from a hasty bath to her hindquarters. “If you want to go inside and visit Joanne at the adoption desk, she can walk you through the process.”

  “I’m so excited! He’s perfect!”

  “Isn’t he?” How Theo McPherson could look at himself in the mirror, knowing he was capable of uttering such a balls-out lie, I’ll never know.

  She tucked the little dog-ling under her arm like a clutch that panted, and she toddled off inside, looking like any minute she could break out in a rash.

  “Can you believe somebody is going to adopt Sidney?” said Swithin.

  “That dog’s been here longer than I have,” said Theo. “I might even miss him.”

  “Really?”

  “Okay, maybe not, too.”

  “Hey,” said Swith to me. “How we doin’?”

  “Better,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “I’m going to put poor Mona here in the ex-pen,” said Theo. “If you guys want to bolt, I got this.”

  “You’re sure? I mean—her cage…?” said Swithin.

  “I grew up on a farm. Nothing grosses me out. And I think Tommy’s done for the day, don’t you?”

  “I think you’re right. C’mon, Tommy. Let’s step across the street.”

  Swithin grabbed our jackets and shepherded me outside.

  The thing that struck me right away—like a rainbow or the face of Jesus in a cloud?—was the astonishing quiet, the stillness, the abrupt and beautiful absence of barking. Was this the miracle that was the world that, until now, I had never appreciated in all its wondrous, non-barking glory?

  And, as we jaywalked, an MTA bus came hurtling down at us, horn blaring.

  So much for the peaceful wonder that is the world. Welcome to Brooklyn.

  In desperation, we had to run for our lives. Okay, scamper. We scampered for our lives until we were safe on the sidewalk sanctuary behind a bulwark of parked cars.

  I had no idea where Swith was taking me until he guided me through a door from the sunny Brooklyn street into a dark—and distinctly beery—Brooklyn interior. Lots of wood.

  As my eyes adjusted, I could see it was one of those old, working-class taverns, where a couple of old, working-class guys sat on stools at the bar. Each had a glass of beer in front of him, either half-empty or half-full, depending. Probably one of each. They were watching a baseball game on TV—was it baseball season already?—and there were some old wooden booths along the wall, into one of which Swith plopped me.

  “What are you down for?”

  “Euthanasia?”

  “Coming right up.”

  He came back with the handles of two beer mugs in one hand, and two shot glasses carefully balanced in the palm of the other.

  “Help.”

  I reached up and took the shot glasses without spilling too much, and he set the beers down.

  “Don’t drink it if you don’t want it,” he said, nodding at the shot he pushed over in front of me.

  “Wow. A beer and a shot. How manly!”

  “That’s me,” he said smiling at me from beyond the veil, one blue eye twinkling.

  A shot and a beer is such a butch thing—and you may have noticed that I am not exactly—ahem—butch. But I figured, under the circs, it was probably just what I needed to straighten me out. So to speak.

  “To Betty White,” said Swithin raising his glass.

  “Long may she wave,” I agreed, and I tossed back the shot like the brave little boy that I was.

  Whoa.

  My eyes started to tear up. A shuddering spasm ran up through my entire body, ending with a violent shake of the head.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m—good,” I said, checking my status as I spoke. “Yeah, I’m actually better. Thanks.”

  “Good. I don’t think you had much fun today.”

  “It wasn’t quite what I—honestly, I don’t know what I expected, but it was not big ugly dogs shooting flaming diarrhea out their back ends at me.”

  “That was pretty special.”

  “I could have handled some moderate squirtage, but what Mona was doing, that was like six, seven feet! And obviously toxic.”

  “Look at this way, though. I think that woman is actually going to adopt little Sidney today. That’s huge.”

  “I think little Sidney is going to be stuck with ‘Dollsy’ for the rest of his lap-sitting life. Whether he likes it or not.”

  “Are you kidding? That dog is so lucky. He’s going to live out
his days in spoiled comfort and he’ll love that woman fiercely. And that’s fantastic. You should be so proud! You had an awesome first day!”

  “Who knew?”

  “It’s not your thing, is it.”

  “I guess not. I walk my friend Roger’s dog when they need it, and Haggis and I get along pretty well, but this…”

  “So, why did you volunteer?”

  “You don’t know.”

  “I have a guess.”

  “Hmmmm. Can I ask you something? Personal?”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “You—got a girlfriend?”

  “Nope.”

  “You—got a boyfriend?”

  “Nope.”

  I waited, thinking he might volunteer something here. He tilted his head to show his face and a little smile like the sphinx. But with a nose. And he tilted his head back again.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe a little.” Tilt. There were those smiling eyes again.

  “So if you had a boyfriend or a girlfriend, which flavor do you think it would be?”

  “You know, you’re blowing my whole mystery vibe here. For two years my songwriting workshop has been whispering.”

  “America needs to know.”

  “Okay. I’ve had girlfriends. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I have messed around with guys.”

  “And if you were looking for something now…?”

  “I haven’t been. Looking, I mean.”

  “But if you were…” I pressed. I’d watched Barbara Walters. I knew how this was done.

  “I suppose…I’d probably be looking for someone a little shorter than me, sandy brown hair, blue eyes, with a keen fashion style and a wicked sense of humor, who makes me smile absolutely every single time he opens his mouth.” He tilted his head, and he was grinning at me. And blushing.

  It may not have come up before, so I should mention that I have sandy brown hair and blue eyes. And, at least in that moment, a face the color of a stop sign—only I didn’t mean stop. And he didn’t.