by Freya Barker
Still, Millie concerns me. From the corner of my eye, I look at her sitting cross-legged on the dock, next to my toolbox—with earbuds in—probably meant to ward off conversation. I barely recognize the angry, moody girl whose sweet smile used to light up when I walked into a room.
I don't hold any illusions that I have the right answers for her. Fuck, I don't even know what to do for her, but I do know if I'm not careful, she'll slip even further away.
I give the new bolt a final twist and hoist myself out of the water to sit on the dock beside her.
"I think we should go buy us some rods. I hear this lake is good for bass fishing. A few juicy ones would make for a good meal."
Millie snorts. "Fishing? You? I've never even seen you hold a rod. Do you even know how to clean fish?"
I turn my head to look at her, fake shock on my face.
"You forget I lived for thirty-five years before you even came along. I used to head up to Lake Nipissing with a bunch of guys every year to go fishing. We'd just bring a tent and a sleeping bag, and would spend a week fishing for walleye, bass, and even the occasional perch. We'd toss back what was too small and keep only those we would eat at night. Cooking fresh fish over wood fire, there's nothing like it."
"Didn't you have a camp stove?" she asks, and I give myself a little pat on the back for successfully drawing her out.
"Nah, we cooked everything over a wood fire. Wasn't so much fun in the mornings; it took forever to gather the wood, stoke the flames, and get water boiling for coffee, but we always had a great time around the fire. The whole process of catching, cleaning, and cooking would take up almost the whole day, but everything tasted so much better. Those were some of the best times."
When I look at her again, her face is softer, sweeter, more like my Millie. Her eyes are focused out on the lake and mine follow suit. We sit silently for a bit, listening to the sounds of nature.
"Would Canadian Tire have fishing rods?" she asks suddenly, her eyes still fixed on the water.
I let my smile come out. "Let's go find out."
I get up and hold out a hand, which she eventually takes. I pull her up to her feet, grab the toolbox, sling an arm around her neck, and we start walking toward the cottage.
Freddy
"Seventy-two thirty-five, please."
That adds up quickly. A new dog bed for Boulder—his old one has zero padding left—a couple of new bins for the feed, since the mice ate holes in the old ones during the last cold spell, and a few pairs of work gloves.
I use my debit card to pay, mentally crunching numbers. I have to make sure enough is in my account so the cheque for the vet, who is coming by this afternoon, won't bounce. I wouldn't mind having a few bucks left to last out the month either.
I love my animals, I do, but their bills add up, putting a hefty dent in an otherwise decent paycheque. Especially the months a vet's visit is scheduled. I discovered quickly, as my animal family grew, it was cheaper to have Hank come for a visit every three months and look at all my buddies, than it was to bring them one at a time to his clinic. He had to come out for Chester every now and then anyway. Unless there is something urgent, this routine has worked well over the past few years.
Today, Boulder is due for his shots, which he's not a fan of, and George has a bump on his back that looks to be tender. Probably just a cyst that needs draining. Nails and hooves need trimming, and I think one of the cats, Moe, might be pregnant. She went missing for a couple of days, and has since been spending most of her time inside the house with a suspiciously growing belly.
In a hurry to get back to the house in time, I quickly unload my purchases into the back of my car and rush the shopping cart back inside.
"Hey, watch where you're going."
"Oops, sorry," I apologize, lifting my eyes to see who I almost ran over.
My stomach drops when I recognize the same guy who poked his nose in my business earlier this week. Shit. The angry scowl is still the same, as are the blue eyes and the enticing scruff.
"Still rushing into trouble, I see?"
I squint my eyes, not quite trusting the hint of humour in his voice, but there it is, a little tug at the corner of his mouth as if he's holding back a grin. Hard to imagine a smile on that stern face, but even that small twitch is way more attractive than is healthy.
"Really sorry, I'm in a hurry," I mutter, as I quickly push the shopping cart to the side and bolt back outside. When I get to my car, I throw a surreptitious glance over my shoulder, to see him striding toward a dark-coloured SUV a few rows over.
Waiting beside it is the troubled girl I met on Tuesday: Millie.
-
"Come on, big boy," I coo at Boulder, who is whimpering when Hank pulls out a syringe. "It's just a little sting. It'll be over in a second and then you can go outside."
Hank's first stop had been Moe; rolled up in a ball on the couch and not impressed at all her sleep got interrupted. I had to hold her, while Hank palpated her abdomen, to keep her from putting claws or teeth into his hands. Moe is not the friendliest of cats on a good day, just barely tolerating my existence.
Based on the dates she went AWOL and Hank's examination, he figures she'll be giving birth in about three weeks, right around the start of July. We discuss plans to spay her as soon as the kittens stop nursing. He offers to abort the litter and spay her at the same time, but I can't bring myself to do that. It's my fault I didn't get her in sooner, before she got herself knocked up. Larry and Curly were done already, but somehow Moe got lost in the shuffle.
Hank gives the dog his shot, clips his nails, and in no time he's outside jumping and circling our legs as we make our way over to the barn. George's lump needs draining, as I suspected. While I distract her with food and chin scratches, Hank disinfects the area and lances the cyst. I look away, the sight and stench of the crud erupting from her skin a little too much, even for me.
Timber and Chester are pictures of health, thank goodness. It's taken Hank a little over an hour to do the rounds of my crew.
"Thanks so much," I say, handing him a cheque for his services. "And if you hear of anyone looking for a kitten, send them my way."
"Will do." He tucks away the cheque and tosses his bag in the back of his truck, before turning to me, his weathered face cracking with a smile. "Which reminds me, have you ever considered taking on another dog?"
"Not fair, Hank. Not fair. You know I'd take in every damn stray if I could." It's not the first time he's done this. How do you think I got Chester and George?
"But this one is different. Two weeks ago someone brought in a jute bag they found in the creek behind the seniors’ home. Inside were three pups, I'm guessing just shy of a month old. I couldn't revive one of them, but the other two are taking to the bottle and are doing fine."
"You're killing me, Hank. Two? You're telling me you can't find anyone willing to take on a couple of pups?"
The older man shrugs a bit sheepishly. "What can I say? Those little girls have had a rough start, I'd like to see them end up in a good home."
Two girls. Boulder would be thrilled.
"I'll ask around, okay?" I concede without committing to anything. "When do you figure they'll be ready?"
"You're the best," he says, clapping me on the shoulder, a wide grin on his face. "Probably first week of July. You won't regret it, they're beautiful pups. You should pop into the clinic and see."
"I haven't made any promises," I quickly remind him as he gets behind the wheel.
"I know," he says, closing his door firmly and throwing me a wink.
Bastard. He knows damn well I'll be knocking on his door before the week is out.
-
I manage to resist, but by Monday afternoon I'm already weakening.
After seeing my last patient off, I tell Jess goodnight, get in my car, and drive to the corner where I stop. Right will take me home, left to get to the vet. The lure of puppies is too much.
"Surprised you held out this long," Hank says,
chuckling, when I walk in.
"All your fault," I grumble, following him to the back, where two adorable black and tan puppies are curled together in a crate.
One is on its back, the plump little pink belly visible, and the second one lifts her head when I crouch down. She clambers over her sister, sticks her little black nose through the bars, and I gently stroke her. The little pleading whines she emits melt away whatever pitiful resistance I have.
"The girls named her Bijou," Hank says, reaching over my shoulder to open the gate. "Because of that diamond-shaped patch above her eyes. The sleeping girl was baptized Bella."
Bijou waddles out and I carefully lift her on my lap, where she wiggles around and nips playfully at my fingers.
"What are they?"
"I think they have some shepherd, maybe a little collie, but I'm pretty sure they're mostly mutt. These girls will be a decent size, full-grown, but I don't think they'll end up as big as Boulder."
"Gah," I groan when the other one wakes up, walks on unstable legs toward her sister, and nuzzles my hand looking for a little attention of her own. "I really hate you right now." Hank just laughs.
It doesn't take long for the pups to tire. I reluctantly put them back in their crate, toss one last glare in Hank's direction, and make for the door.
"So can I sign you up?" he calls after me.
"I'll have to get back to you on that," I return, hearing his bark of laughter as I get into my car.
Of course, I can't get them out of my mind the rest of the afternoon. By the time the animals are fed and bedded down for the night, I've already decided that unless I can find good homes for them, I'll take them myself.
It's not until Moe comes in through the cat door and hops on my lap, that I remember I'll have a litter of kittens pretty soon as well.
My house is going to turn into a daycare.
-
"A dog? Me? I can barely keep my plants alive."
I made a list last night, writing down everyone I thought might be interested in adopting a kitten or a dog. Most of them I called, and I've been able to score three potential kitten adopters, but the dogs have been difficult. Susan is also on my list, but clearly she doesn't see herself as a dog owner.
"Don't get me wrong," she adds, "I love Boulder, I love puppies, but I'm not home enough to have a dog. Aside from that, my tenant’s contract clearly states there are no pets allowed in my building."
I hadn't thought about that, Susan just moved into a new condo complex near the wharf. "Right. Well, if you know of anyone who could provide a good home and wants a pup, tell them to get in touch with me, or directly with the animal clinic."
"I'll give it some thought."
As I'm grabbing my bag to head out, I hear the familiar heavy thump of Boulder's tail on the floor and look over. Boulder's attention is focused behind me, and when I turn I see Millie standing in the door opening, a shy smile on her face.
"Hey, did you come to see me?" I ask, to which she lets out a small giggle.
"Well...uh..." she stammers, looking a lot uncomfortable.
"Let me guess, you're just here for my dog, right?" I tease her with a smile. "Why don't you take him into the meeting room next door, I'll check in on you shortly. Go with Millie, buddy." I give him a hand signal, and he gets to his feet and walks up to her. "Go on, he'll follow you." I watch as she turns and walks down the hall, my good boy right beside her.
I may have to talk to the poor girl's overbearing father; I'm thinking Millie could use a puppy. I turn to Susan with a grin on my face.
"Could you be more obvious?" she says, shaking her head. "I'd hate to be Millie's father right now, he won't know what hit him."
"Actually...he might," I confess, looking at my nails, remembering the encounter at Canadian Tire. "I may have bumped into him. Twice."
"Get out. How do you know it was him?"
I spend the next ten minutes outlining both of my not so pleasant encounters with the guy, to Susan's great hilarity.
"You told him to kiss your ass?"
"In my defense, he was barking at me like I was some nitwit, plus how was I to know he would turn out to be the father of one of our kids?"
"Oh, this is priceless," she snickers. "When you call him to see if he wants a dog for his kid, can you please do it here? And put it on speakerphone? I don't want to miss this."
Once again laughter follows me as I walk away. It's becoming annoying.
Millie is sitting on the floor again, her backpack on one side of her, and Boulder on the other, his head resting once again on her lap. He's not sleeping though, but is closely eyeing the sandwich Millie is munching on.
"I haven't given him anything," she says defensively, looking up.
"I know. He wouldn't have accepted anything," I inform her. She looks a little dubious, which makes me smile. "Go on, give it a shot. Try to feed him a piece."
She takes a minute, waiting for me to urge her on with a nod, before she breaks a corner off her sandwich and holds it in front of Boulder's face. As I knew he would, Boulder turns his head away, looking to me for a signal.
"He was trained to wait for approval before he eats. Watch." I lift my hand, palm out, indicating to Boulder he should wait, and then I drop my hand as I tell him clearly, "Okay."
Faster than I can blink my eyes, he snatches the treat from Millie's hand.
"Try again," I urge her.
Once again she tears off a piece of bread and holds it out for him to eat, but his eyes are not on the bread, they are on me. I give him the go ahead, and this time Millie smiles.
"That's awesome. How did you teach him that?"
"Lots of patience and consistent practice, every time he eats."
"But why?"
"He's a therapy dog, and he comes in contact with a lot of people. If he just accepted every treat that was offered, he'd be as wide as he is tall. Not healthy for a dog."
She falls silent and seems pensive as she absentmindedly strokes his fur.
"So how was your first week in school?"
"Not too bad," she mutters, shrugging her shoulders. "No different from my old school."
"Is that a good thing?"
Her response comes in the form of another shrug and then she adds, "It's familiar."
I'm not sure what to think of that rather detached answer, it seems a bit off, but something tells me not to push. Not yet.
"Do you have a dog? Or any other pet?"
She snorts. "I wish. My mom was allergic to animals, and Dad keeps saying only when I'm responsible enough to take care of one."
"Are you?" I jump right in, and she shows the first spark of fire in the quick look she throws me, before fixing her eyes on Boulder again. "Your dad does have a point, taking care of, and training a dog, is quite a bit of work. Especially in the beginning. You can't skip a day because you don't feel like walking him or getting up to feed him. You get a dog, and it's the same with a cat or any other kind of animal, it becomes dependent on you for everything. It's not a toy you can just play with when you feel like it."
"I know that," she snaps, suddenly pushing Boulder's head off her legs, grabbing her bag, and scrambling to her feet.
"Wait," I call out as she moves to the door. She stops, but keeps her back turned. I smile at the show of defiance. "Millie, I'm not suggesting you can't handle a pet—I'm asking you if you can."
Slowly she turns around and when she speaks, her voice is soft.
"I think so. I'd like to try. I'd love a friend like Boulder."
FOUR
Newt
For the past few weeks, it feels like I've done nothing but stumble from one repair job into the next.
First the dock, which turned out to be a little more involved than just changing a few bolts and a couple of boards. I ended up replacing almost the entire first section and figured while I was working on that, it might be a good time to expand with a nice deck along the shoreline. That took the best part of a week and a whole lot of elb
ow grease.
Then came a dripping tap in the master bath, which alerted me to a soft spot in wall by the waterlines, and that set off a bathroom renovation I had planned to tackle in the winter. The tub came out, the old walls came down, and a plumber had to be called in to fix the leaking pipes. I'm pretty handy, and whatever I don't know how to do, I can look up on YouTube. I draw the line at plumbing and electrical, though. Too much can go wrong, and the consequences are almost always dire.
I just finished laying the floor tiles in the new large shower stall I'm building in place of the tub. The wall tiles went up over the weekend, starting from the second row up to try and keep everything as level as possible. All that is left is the first row of wall tiles that I can easily trim to size for any fluctuations in the floor, but for that I have to let the floor cure for a day. Of course shower and faucet, as well as the glass pane that'll serve as a splash guard, will be installed last.
If I don't run into any problems, I'll be able to shower in my own bathroom tomorrow, but for now I have to use Millie's.
The guest bath is on the other side of the hall from the master suite, wedged between bedrooms two and three. Millie has the room farthest away from me—her choice—but it also has a walk-in to the bathroom. When I enter, I notice the connecting door to her bedroom open and glance inside.
Now I'm normally pretty respectful of her privacy, but the last months, it's been difficult not to dig through her stuff to find out what is going on in her head. Standing in the door opening, the respectful parent and the suspicious cop are at war, but when I spot a wad of bloody tissues on the floor by her bed, the cop wins. I step into her room, ignoring the pang of guilt.
It strikes me how drastically different her space is from our place in Kanata. Millie was always a bit of a girly girl. Liked pinks, purples, and pretty things. A bit frilly. Her room now is bland. She hasn't put anything on the walls, her clothes are haphazardly tossed around, and the boxes with her belongings from the old house are still stacked up in the corner. That's where my eyes focus, because on top of the stack of boxes I see something I was looking for the other day; my Stanley work knife. One of those retractable things with the snap-off blades.