Dog Lived (and So Will I) (2 page)

“Clever. So no one ever asked about a husband? You never had to explain your lack of kids?”

“Well, cousin Seamus circled around it at the end. On our last morning there we were in Claire’s kitchen saying good-bye to everyone. Seamus hugged me good-bye and whispered, ‘I still don’t understand why some fella hasn’t thrown ’is leg around ya and claimed ya as ’is own.’”

“Cousin Seamus strikes again! He is hilarious.”

“He did make me laugh a lot.”

“So did you explain that several men had tried the leg-throwing bit and it hadn’t really worked out?”

And how would I explain that? I’d only recently been able to sort through it myself. With lots and lots of therapy. I chose my first husband without any knowledge of what a healthy relationship might look like. I only understood that traditional marriage (mom home, dad working several jobs, kids running amok) had not worked for anyone I knew and looked completely unenjoyable. It was not for me. So I chose someone exotic (Croatian-born; spoke three languages), intelligent (we met in law school), handsome (Willem Dafoe on steroids…and wait, we’ll get to that), and infinitely charming. I still managed to be surprised that he was also a narcissistic, substance-abusing, spendthrift womanizer who thought I’d stay home and have his blond-haired, blue-eyed babies while he…well, see above.

It then made perfect sense that the next spouse I chose was an ultra-conservative, Midwestern momma’s boy who was as safe as…well, as safe as the confines of his undiagnosed (and untreated) obsessive compulsive disorder required him to be. So yes, I understood I’d done my own version of Goldilocks (“this one’s too hot, this one’s too cold, this one’s too hard, this one’s too soft…”). But that didn’t mean I expected most folks to understand.

Chris knew my Goldilocks story. I shared it with him before we were even dating. Back before we’d crossed the line from friends in a writers’ group together to friends in a bathtub together. Back when I thought he was merely humoring a middle-aged woman through her divorce over cocktails while waiting for our writers’ group meetings to start. Back before I realized we were meeting for hours before our writers’ group meeting started.

“No,” I said. “I’m not sure my Goldilocks story can translate to Irish Catholic. I just let it go. I’d like to leave them thinking well of me.”

“I’m sure they did. And knowing you made mistakes and you own up to the mistakes would not have changed that.”

He really was a nice guy. “You think?”

“Well, if it did, they’re fookin’ bastards.”

And funny. Man, he’s funny.

• • •

Monday came and I had to get out of bed for something other than food and bathroom breaks. I had to get to work. Chris left at six in the morning for the hour drive back to his reality. He’d agreed to my “only every other weekend” rule (this makes it a nonrelationship, you understand) so we wouldn’t be seeing each other for another two weeks. Time to return to lawyer mode.

“I put your mail in three piles—client stuff, urgent stuff, and boring stuff,” my assistant, Michelle, said. She followed me into my office.

“Can I get my coffee first? And then I think I’ll just start with the boring stuff.”

She lowered her voice. “They had a partnership meeting while you were gone. I don’t think it went well. Nobody seems to be talking to Gerald. Or he’s not talking to them. I can never tell. And the other three are in and out of each other’s offices with the doors closed, a lot.”

Good-bye, vacation. Good-bye, leisurely, sexy weekend. Hello, office politics and client needs. “Thanks. I can’t really deal with that yet.” I set down my purse, flipped on my computer, and headed for coffee.

I was able to have a semi-rational discussion with two of my law partners as to what had, once again, set off Gerald, a despicably miserable man hell-bent on being as difficult as possible over as many petty details as he could dream up to soothe his pathetic ego. This time it was over the lack of clarity in the ice cubes produced by our break room refrigerator icemaker. He wanted a newer model refrigerator and he wanted it now. My more sane partners had declined to spend three thousand dollars for pretty ice cubes.

By Thursday, I was fully absorbed into my work, Ireland having faded to a blissful memory. I practiced estate planning, which means I deal with death and taxes (and thus frequently joked that I’d always have a job). I had a client recently diagnosed with bone cancer who needed his trust updated and quick. I would be meeting with him either at the hospital next week or in my office over the weekend. There was a lot to do.

“Do you want to talk to Destiny at the pet adoption center?” my secretary announced over the speakerphone.

“How can I not answer when Destiny calls?” Oh, if only I’d known this joke would be on me.

I’d been on the board of directors for the Mary S. Roberts Pet Adoption Center off and on for more than fifteen years, and they were aware of my recent dog losses. I had adopted Roxy from there when she was eight years old and newly diagnosed with a heart murmur. The staff sent me a sympathy card when she passed away.

“Well, I know you are back from vacation, and we waited a few days, but I wanted to let you know…we have a beagle in. I took him from the Moreno Valley shelter just before he was scheduled to be euthanized. Are you ready for another dog?”

My irrational love of beagles was well known, as Roxy had been the fourth beagle I’d adopted and I’d found homes for many others by baying their praises as the perfect dog for anyone—small and cute enough for women; short-haired, compact, and sporty enough for men; high-energy and of a tolerant, playful temperament for children. I loved beagles, and like any woman in love, I overlooked a lot of the less-than-charming characteristics of the breed.

But was I ready for another dog?

No. I wasn’t. Ireland had been a welcome respite from my heartache, but I wasn’t yet healed. I’d begun to think maybe I’d shrink my alphabet life even further to just A, B, and C. And wait…maybe a beagle isn’t a perfect dog for everyone. Maybe I had found the limit. A young beagle is not a town house dog. A beagle is not a dog for a single woman working long hours. A beagle is not an only dog. A beagle is a pack dog. A beagle is a dog for my old life, not this new life I was vaguely forming. A beagle would not be a good idea.

But oh, how I adore beagles.

My love of beagles dates back to the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college. I had wanted to be away in a Semester-at-Sea program, but my father wanted me at a family reunion. Since Dad was paying the bills, both for my tuition and any traveling I did, I found myself in rural Georgia for summer vacation. Initially, I was sullen and sulking over the injustice as only a teenager can. But one of my uncles raised beagles for hunting, and I quickly found myself spending most of my days playing with litters of beagle puppies. Soon enough I was visiting and playing with my cousins as well. There is nothing cuter than a beagle puppy, and I quickly forgot Istanbul, Athens, and Barcelona in favor of tri-colored, round-bellied, baying balls of fur in Gray, Georgia. My uncle was willing to send a puppy home with me, but I had college to finish. And then law school. I got my first beagle puppy two weeks after finishing law school, and my beagle love affair was launched.

My heart may have hardened in many places, but the spot for dogs remained soft. And they’d rescued this beagle with me in mind. I should stop by out of courtesy. For good measure, I also assured myself that this particular dog wasn’t ready for adoption yet, so it was safe to just look.

Caution, meet wind.

Destiny walked me to the kennel where the beagle was held, still in isolation for the last of the required three days. I heard the beagle howl long before I was in front of his kennel. Beagle howls are distinctive in a bloodcurdling sort of way. There is a reason the French call them
be’ gueules
(“gaping mouths”), but to me it’s a call to home. This particular howl, though, this was no ordinary beagle baying.

The dog greeted me with frantic, insistent, raspy howls. When Destiny opened the kennel door and leashed the dog, he ran to me, jumped up on my legs, stretched his muzzle up toward me, and “Aaaaaarrrooooooooo’d” away into my face. I laughed and bent down to pet him, reminded again how happy and adorable beagles are. He curled himself into me, turning so I could scratch his back. Now that he had received human contact, he quieted, if only for a moment. I stroked his soft, rounded head and noticed a few unusual things about him. First, there was his coloring—he had the usual black saddle markings of the breed, but where most beagles would be brown or beige, this dog was red. And where you’d expect to find a patch of solid white, this one was dappled white, appearing gray and mottled. His nails were black and looked to be painted that way by some goth teenager. His eyes appeared to have black guy-liner any emo-rock band member would envy. And again there was the howling. He sounded as though he’d suckled whiskey from his mother’s teats and had been chain-smoking since birth.

He quivered under my hand as I petted him. He stayed close by me, pushing up against my leg, my hand, any part of me he could reach. Mostly he was pushing into my heart. I noticed another unique characteristic. His left ear flopped backward, turning inside out and staying that way. I’d flip it back down, making him a proper droopy-eared beagle, but eventually the ear would flop right back over again. He looked up at me, one long, floppy ear forward and one backward, big kohl-lined brown eyes pleading.

He was cute. He liked me. And in that moment, we both knew he was coming home with me. I just had to trust that “he’s cute and he’s coming home with me” worked out better with dogs than it had with men.

The dog had to wait out the mandatory three-day holding period and I had to go back to work, which should have given me enough time to consider whether this dog was a good idea for me. It should have.

“I can pick him up on Saturday, right?” I said to Destiny.

“Saturday morning.”

“That will give me time to get some food and a crate for him.” I petted the dog’s domed head. “I’ll be back, buddy. I’ll come get you tomorrow.”

“I knew he’d be perfect for you.” Destiny leashed him and led him back into the kennel.

The baying started instantly:
Aaaaaarrrooooooooo!! Aaaaaa-rrrooooooooo!!! Aaaaaarrrooooooooo!!! This is not happening! Take me with you now! Now, I say! Noooooooow!!!

I could still hear the howling as I drove away, already missing him and feeling guilty for leaving him. I didn’t stop for even a moment to consider that howl coming from my townhome. Women in love can overlook many bad traits.

Each of the beagles I’d shared my life with in the past had their own color schemes. The beagle I’d adopted after law school was Raz (short for Razumov, thank you, Joseph Conrad), and she had yellow collars and leashes her whole life. Blue for Rabu (short for Rabushov—an unintentional transmutation of the otherwise literary name Rubashov, with apologies to Arthur Koestler, but really, what kind of a nickname would “Rub” have been?); red, naturally, for Richelieu (as in Cardinal) and pink for my Roxy-girl (right, I didn’t name her; I adopted her when she was already eight years old). On Saturday morning, I bought the new beagle a dark green leash and collar, along with a crate and its comfy cushion with soft cotton on one side and dark-green water-slick covering on the other.

On the way to the pet adoption center, I thought about a name for this new beagle. I was thinking I’d move away from the “R” names. I’d picked the green color because this beagle was so red and I was just back from Ireland so naturally I associated red hair with “Irish.” Maybe I’d give him an Irish name to go with his green theme. An Irish name might fit. I thought of the cousin who’d made me laugh so much on my trip. Seamus might be a good name for the dog. Maybe it would even bring us some Irish luck. But a name has to fit a dog. We’ll see, I thought, as I parked in front of the adoption center. We’ll see.

Destiny brought the noisy, jumping, ecstatically happy beagle to the “greeting room” so I could get to know him. That didn’t take long. He stopped howling as soon as I petted him and turned his attention to sniffing out my purse and me, in that order. He must have found something he liked, because he jumped up next to me on the bench and planted himself against me, leaning in and looking up at me. He was mine and I was his. The decision wasn’t even mine.

I put the new green collar on him, and he howled and jumped and cracked me up about a hundred different ways on our drive home, including barking every time the car came to a stop—
Don’t forget me! I’m back here! Right here! Don’t leave me back here! I’m here!!!
Right then, I knew. My red, whiskey-howling, funny little beagle was so obviously a Seamus. (When a dog wants to fookin’ find a woman, he’ll fookin’ find ’er.)

When we arrived home, beagle Seamus followed me into the house and raced around, checking out every inch of the townhome and lingering anywhere there was a faded scent of Richelieu and Roxy. He wore himself out sniffing, howling, and jumping on and off my lap. Finally, he joined me on the couch, snuggling up against me as I petted his head and rubbed his belly. He relaxed. I began to notice how soft his coat was. And especially his long ears. That’s when I noticed the inside of his right ear had a two-inch surgically straight scar running down its length. I ran my finger along the scar. Wherever he started out in life, they had cared enough to microchip him, neuter him, and stitch up whatever had happened to his ear.

Destiny had told me he’d been found by Animal Control roaming the streets of a nearby town, and no one had come to claim him at the pound. No one answered the phone when they tried the number listed in the microchip information either. When his time was up at the pound, she saw him and selected him for a second chance, bringing him and three other dogs back to the center where they would stay until homes were found for them. That was two days before she’d called me to give him that second chance.

Sitting together on my couch, I petted and scratched the dog and found several favorite spots he wanted rubbed—his belly, behind his ears, the top of his round head. He was sweet, soft. And those kohl-lined eyes of melted chocolate melted my heart. He was young—only one or two years old. I’d have plenty of time with him, I assured myself. No more pain. No more heartbreak. Not for a long, long while.