Sleeps with Dogs (26 page)

Wriggling out of my own sodden rain gear, I left my galoshes out on the front stoop. Because they were cracked along the sole from so much wear, my socks were soaked through from the walk. I'd brought an extra pair for just this reason, but, at this rate, I wished I'd brought a few more to carry me through the day.

In the kitchen, off came the plastic and then the sock on Foxy's paw. I would have done well to bag my own feet; her injured paw was completely dry thanks to the dressing. Her shirt came off last, and she shook herself vigorously, seeming to luxuriate in her nakedness. I gave her a good rubdown and kissed her velvety muzzle, irresistible in its proximity to my face. With fresh gauze around the injured paw and a clean sock in place, we were free to do her hair.

In the bathroom off the front office, which was painted lavender and as equally stacked with books as the living room, was a blow-dryer and dog brush. I wondered if this was Foxy's favorite part, feeling the heat of the dryer permeate the layers of her fur down to her skin. I sat on the toilet seat, brushing her out and shaking the dryer over Foxy's tufty butt fur, where the shirt had not protected her from the rain. Her eyes were closed, and she leaned into my knees.

Somehow I didn't mind brushing and drying Foxy post-walk the way I did Kimchee. I could actually imagine that Foxy enjoyed the process and felt good once she was clean, dry, and coiffed. In Kimchee's case, it seemed like he'd get greater pleasure out of tracking mud and grass and all manner of other dirty nature all over his owner's creamy pristine décor. I admit, I would have loved to watch him do it, too.

I recalled the feeling of my sister playing with my hair when we were young—a favorite diversion for her, and something I usually tolerated rather than enjoyed. But there was a distinct pleasure in feeling the air from our ancient pink Conair flowing over my shoulders. I had always had little patience for being fussed over, to my sister's constant dismay. She loved to dress me up in her clothes and curl my hair into ringlets. It was only for the heat from the blow-dryer that I stayed put on the toilet seat, towel serving as a cape, when she begged to play hairdresser.

She still lived in Atlanta; the townhouse she and her husband bought was a mere mile from the house where she and I grew up. Our parents still lived there in Atlanta as well, though so many years later, the house little resembled the humble red brick ranch we'd moved into when I was three and she was seven. The pink-tiled bathroom where she decorated me like a paper doll was now remodeled with a sophisticated pedestal sink and olive green walls. We had played bath class in the old tub every Wednesday and Sunday night until she hit puberty. She was the teacher, instructing me on how to properly wash my hair or wind the wooden tugboat so it would reach the opposite end of the tub. Class was canceled only once in all those years, when I got upset with her for getting soap in my eyes and maliciously pooped in the tub.

When I turned off the dryer and unplugged it, Foxy opened her eyes and smiled up at me, baring her snaggletooth. I pulled a
dry shirt over her head, manipulating her legs through the powder blue sleeves one at a time. The front of the shirt fit across Foxy's back, boasting
Foxy Lady!
in glittery gray and blue curlicues. At the kitchen door, I pressed my face against her dear head once more and pulled on my heavy jacket.

“See you tomorrow, little girl,” I called as I locked the door and stepped back into my tattered boots.

In an effort to patch up the hole in income left by Baxter's passing, I'd taken over a twice-a-week walk for a colleague whose schedule, unlike mine, was full to overflowing. The dog was Princeton, a horrifically bourgeoisie name, but then it would be fair to say that he was born with a silver bone in his mouth. His owners lived in a veritable villa tucked deep in the Berkeley hills, and I was but one service provider on that estate crowded with contractors of all kinds. We were like so many worker bees maintaining a hive.

When I arrived at the parking pad outside the main gate, I could see the gardener's truck was also there, a telltale hose snaking down the curved staircase to the wide front lawn. I could only assume they were in the interior courtyard, as all the rain was more than sufficient to water the outdoor plants.

Upon entering the foyer, I could see that the cleaning ladies were there as well, the rug rolled to the side and a mop bucket in the corner. I skirted the edge of the room to avoid messing up the freshly mopped floor and listened for the click of Princeton's nails on the terra-cotta tiles.

I gave a tentative whistle and a clap, hoping he wasn't shut up in a room with the husband. Extremely young to be semiretired, he conducted what remaining financial business he dabbled in from home. The house was so vast that I rarely saw him and could easily
lose the dog as well if he was cloistered behind any one of the massive wooden doors that lined each level.

Princeton descended from the curved staircase before me, his silky shining fur flowing majestically. He was easily the most handsome golden retriever—or dog of any kind—I'd ever had the privilege of tending to. And he was a sweetheart to boot, the perfect pet specimen in every regard. At the base of the stairs, he greeted me with an enthusiastic lick to my hand and a full-body wag.

“It's raining again, buddy. I'm sorry.” To the owners' credit, they neither required nor even requested that Princeton wear any kind of rain gear—no waterproof booties, fleecy harness, or puppy poncho—for our wetter walks. He was free to walk in the rain and get just as wet as Mother Nature intended.

Our twice-weekly walk was comprised of a few laps around a big man-made lake at the nearby park. Much of the path was paved, but it could get quite hilly and treacherous in the heavily wooded portions, the soft paths churned to mud and ever-widening puddles. Depending on the intensity of the weather that day, we'd brave it, or else do extra runs of the cleaner concrete sections.

Either way, Princeton was easy. He never resisted, always listened, and seemed utterly content whether he was dry and sun-warmed or soaked to the skin. He was such a classic golden: affable, loveable, and easygoing. It made me feel bad that, of late, I'd been the exact opposite, and a poor match for his happy disposition. Sometimes I just got so dispirited by the relentless rain and the same circular route that I'd just sit down on a bench, Princeton settling by my side without objection, letting me pet him and talk to him about how sick to death I was of being wet. For him, being inside at his owner's feet all day, he was probably happy for the fresh air, whereas I'd have given a lot to spend an hour or so of my workday out of the elements in a warm, carpeted room.

I'd tried so many times in so many different ways to reengage with my daily routines. To celebrate that I got to spend my days with dogs and cats and was not tasked with solving unsolvable problems. That I was my own boss, for all intents and purposes. That I got to move around all day long, getting plenty of exercise outside instead of sitting at a desk. If I couldn't take my days moment-to-moment, embracing the process and the perks of my job, then better to disconnect from it altogether, zoning out until I was finished performing the many repetitive and endlessly wet tasks. Anything seemed better than feeling so dulled by the monotony and isolation of my hours. I chalked up the intensity of my apathy to all the rain—everyone in the area was talking about seasonal affective disorder—but it certainly didn't help that I still wasn't back on my antidepressant. Every month I tried to come up with the extra cash, and every month I fell short of the prescription cost.

It never failed that, upon my return to the palace with Princeton, the cleaning ladies had moved from the foyer to the kitchen, where all of Princeton's brushes and treats were stored. I tried to be unobtrusive as I ducked into the far cupboard for the supplies, taking them into a beautifully furnished den, where Princeton sprawled out on the floor for his grooming. I cleaned his paws, today resorting sheepishly to the use of hot soapy paper towels since my own unwashed towels would probably make him dirtier than he already was. Then I combed out the tangles in his fetlocks and gave the rest of his fur a good brushing.

Before I left, I was careful to leave a note indicating that I'd come. This was a recent request from the owner, as they claimed they never knew when I'd come or whether I'd been there at all. I took slight offense to this, taking the request as a suggestion that I took advantage of their massive house and the many workers
crawling the property to skip out on Princeton's constitutionals.
Good walk today, if a little wet!
I wrote. I didn't feel particularly inclined to embellish further; our walks were always exactly the same, and I was without the inspiration to dress it up. They had a perfect dog, and I was burned out. I wondered how a note to that effect would go over.

My next appointment couldn't have been more different from Princeton's pristine and stately environs. If his home was heaven, these dogs were surely living in some version of hell.

One of the dogs was an extremely aged Samoyed with such advanced arthritis and probably hip dysplasia that she literally got stuck where she was and couldn't get up. She had flashes of mobility, but, when she locked up, she couldn't help herself out of it. When I entered the backyard by way of a locked side gate, I found her more often than not lying in a mess of her own waste. I had to hose her undersides down before physically lifting her and moving her to a cleaner, dryer location. This was complicated by the other dog, a three-legged pit mix who was fiercely protective of his companion. He barked viciously at me, bounding around lopsidedly, until I'd cleaned her, moved her, and stepped well away.

Every time I visited these dogs and negotiated their untenable living situation, I felt like we three were acting out a scene from a David Lynch script.

If I didn't have the prospect of seeing Patrick motivating me, pulling me through the hours and appointments, I am not sure how I'd have gotten through those wretched days of torrential rain and self-doubt. He in no way considered my job depressing but instead was fascinated that I got so wet in a day that my hands were pruney, laughing sincerely at stories about inconvenient poop and enraged three-legged dogs. He had grown up with
pets of his own but had never before considered the depth of detail and devotion that went into caring for other people's. He listened with rapt attention when I related the events of my day, and, like my sister, made it possible for me to laugh at those things I might otherwise be inclined to cry over.

His days were so different from mine, moving as he did between brightly lit and playfully decorated offices and conference rooms, climate-controlled buildings, and cafés and micro-kitchens overflowing with unlimited free food and drinks. He had that desk job in front of a computer that I had so dreaded when I started down the professional pet-care path. Now that didn't sound half bad to me.

As genuine as his interest in my work was, he didn't view it as a means of defining me. He thought grad school was a super option and championed that pursuit as well. His positivity and belief that I could do whatever I wanted, be it bartending at a bowling alley or writing a book, was a salve for my dispirited soul, and my gratitude that I'd met him when I did knew no bounds.

He seemed to represent everything I'd been missing—things I needed and hadn't even realized. That weekend, he was taking me out to dinner in San Francisco, and not just for a burger or tacos. We were going to a rather fancy-looking pan-Asian restaurant that was a favorite of his. This was something he loved to do and that I'd rarely indulged in until then—sampling the finer food the city offered in abundance. These extravagances were delightfully tempered by our tradition of watching lowbrow TV on the couch at his apartment. We hadn't missed an episode of
The OC
since we'd met. Though he was bilingual and incredibly well-traveled and well-read, I was gratified that he'd been just as happy to see
Curious George
in the theaters with me over the limited-run foreign film that was showing nearby.

As I catalogued his seemingly endless interesting qualities and surprising attributes, I never took for granted that he also wasn't possessed of four paws, fur, and an inability to communicate beyond barks, wags, and licks. In him I saw a glimmer of hope—a long-absent ray of sunshine and much-needed human companionship—beyond those dismal, underemployed days of rain and uncertainty.

 

To: “Membership LISTSERV”

Subject: Missing Dog—UPDATE

Dear Colleagues,

Update: Missing dog FOUND! Needs immediate re-homing or foster care. Tickles, a cat- and kid-friendly Tibetan terrier, needs a forever home ASAP. Long story. Please contact me if you or someone you know can take her.

Many thanks,

Lindsey Grant, Secretary

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lost and Found