Welcome to Dog Beach (3 page)

Maybe it's just that I'm still feeling off. Things are different. Without Danish, I can't seem to get into the summer groove. Add to that Bennett's weird comment, and Micayla being so focused on their game and Calvin's hair. Everything seems a little strange.

I decide to put it all out of my head and try to stop thinking for just a minute. Micayla and I run into the sea holding hands like we always do. We like to swim for a few minutes before we attempt to surf. It's kind of like how the Olympic divers go into that hot tub before they dive, or runners stretch before a race.

We need to warm up.

Maybe that's kind of how it is with summer too. You have to get back into the swing of things. I decide that this past week has been my warm-up week, my few minutes in the ocean before surfing.

Everyone needs time to adjust. Even on Seagate. Even me.

Danish was a miniature poodle. He had apricot fur
and weighed thirteen pounds, and he acted more like a human than a dog. He also had expensive taste. One time, for my cousin's bar mitzvah, we had to stay at a motel in Toronto. It was an okay place, but Danish hated it there. He barked the whole time. We had to take him to the bar mitzvah party because the other hotel guests were so sick of his barking! At the party, he sat at the table with us and even won the limbo competition.

Then, a few months later, we traveled to Washington, DC, for my mom's friend's wedding, and we stayed at a real hotel with a pool and a ballroom and everything. It was way fancier, and Danish loved it. They gave him special dog treats and had a dog sitter come and walk him while we were at the wedding. He didn't even care that we left and didn't bark
once. We were treated like celebrities there, and Danish knew it.

Danish liked going for walks, but he preferred to sit with us on the couch while we watched TV. He ate his meals when we ate our meals. His food bowl and water bowl sat on a mat beside our kitchen table. When he was done eating, he'd hop up onto his bench near the kitchen window and wait for us to finish.

After Grandma died, my mom bought that bench just for Danish. It's antique, with a gold velvet cushion and brass finishes, and it was the perfect width for Danish. Most people don't buy human furniture specifically for their dogs. But Danish had human tastes, and we did what made him happy.

Danish adjusted to life in Manhattan, but he was happiest on Seagate, just like all of us. He could roam free there, like I could, and he didn't really need a leash anyway—he always stayed right by my side.

This is going to sound crazy and it doesn't make any sense, but I always believed Danish would live forever. We read that book
Tuck Everlasting
last year in school, and so I'd tell myself that Danish drank the magic potion, just like Jesse. And that Danish and I would always be together.

I guess most of me knew that was totally made up and that no one lives forever—but a tiny part of me believed it anyway.

I wait a moment, wipe my tears, and take a deep breath before I go into Amber Seasons's house. It's my first day of
work, and I don't want to look like a complete basket case. Her son'll be napping, but I still need to seem professional. At least that's what my mom said.

I'll be okay eventually. I know that. I asked the vet, Dr. Laterno, how long people usually feel sad after their dog dies, and she said it depends. That everyone is different. I just wanted a set answer. Like, six weeks and you'll feel much better. Or even six months. Just so I knew what I'd be dealing with. But I guess it doesn't work that way.

“Remy, I can't thank you enough,” Amber says as she opens the door to let me in. “You're a lifesaver. Hudson is upstairs sleeping, and he'll probably nap the whole time I'm out. I was lucky to get a good sleeper.” She says the last part under her breath.

I nod. Don't people say that “they slept like a baby” when they've had a good night's sleep? I thought that meant that all babies slept well.

“My girl is the difficult one,” she continues.

“You have two kids?” I ask. “My mom only mentioned one.”

“Oh, no.” She laughs. “I have one kid and one dog. I refer to her as my girl.” Right then a little Yorkie comes running in. “This is my darling, Marilyn Monroe. But ever since Hudson was born, she's become ultra-feisty and jealous and, let's face it, pretty demanding.”

I nod, slowly, trying to see what she's talking about. But all I observe is an adorable little Yorkie with a hot pink bow on her head. She jumps up as high as my knee and wags her
tail, and when I pet her, I swear she smiles. A smiling dog! Danish was a smiler too, though I think I was the only one who could really see it.

“So Hudson will be asleep, but if you can give Mari a little attention, that would be amazing.” She smiles and gives me a hug. “You're the best, Remy.”

A few minutes later, Amber is out the door carrying an easel and a coffee can of paintbrushes. I quickly tiptoe upstairs and put my ear to the door of Hudson's room. Nothing. Good.

I tiptoe back downstairs and make myself comfortable on Amber's gray burlap couch. I take a copy of
Ocean Living
magazine off the coffee table, but before I even pull back the front cover, I hear the jingling of Marilyn Monroe's tags and she jumps up onto the couch and starts licking my face like I'm her new favorite person in the world.

“I'm happy to see you too, Marilyn Monroe.”

She licks me even more and then settles down, sitting so close to me that one of her paws rests on my leg.

I try to go back to reading, but it's difficult because Marilyn Monroe is just sitting there, staring at me, as if she's asking me, “What's next?” or “What are we going to do now?” So I put down the magazine and look back at her.

“I used to have a dog,” I start. And I tell her all about Danish. She barks at just the right spots, like she understands me and gets what I'm saying. And when I tell her that Danish died this past winter, she lets out a little whimper.

“You're sweet, Marilyn Monroe,” I say. “Thanks for listening.” She licks my hand, as if to say she's always here to listen. For some reason, she's the easiest person to talk to. Okay, I know she's not a person. Easiest creature to talk to?

I wonder why that is. I never had trouble talking to Micayla before, but I haven't told her all this stuff about Danish and how I'm feeling. Maybe it's gotten harder for some reason.

“If I had known you'd be here, I wouldn't have been so grumbly about taking this job.” She looks at me, head tilted. “Don't tell Amber I said that. Or Hudson.”

She lets out a little yelp, and I'm pretty sure my secret is safe with her.

I'm surprised when Amber shows up just a little bit later. It feels like she's only been gone ten minutes, but I look at the clock, and it's noon. Hudson's still asleep, and Marilyn Monroe is sipping some water out of her bowl, dainty and delicate, not getting any on the floor and very little on her face.

Amber thanks me again and again, and I tell her it was no trouble, but in my head, I'm wondering if I'm the one who should be thanking her.

Micayla has a theory that avoiding Dog Beach is
making me sadder about Danish.

“Let's just go there. It's your favorite place, and turning away every time we walk by isn't helping,” she says one morning.

Dog Beach is pretty crowded for only eleven in the morning. It's at the farthest end of Seagate, but since Seagate is a pretty small island, nothing is really that far from anything else. With unobstructed views of the ocean and the signature Seagate white fencing, Dog Beach is one of the prettiest places on the island. Even non-dog-owners think so.

I look around at all the dogs, and I'm not sure Micayla's theory is right. I'm sad all over again. Danish's friend Cookie the beagle is here, and Palm the Pomeranian. Palm's owners live on Seagate half the year, and West Palm Beach, Florida,
the other half, so that's why they named him Palm. Most of Danish's friends were little dogs, but his best friend was a Dalmatian named Hampton. They were an odd pair, one so big and one so little, but they'd play together and look out for each other. And now Hampton's here on his own, off to the side playing with a yellow Lab. Must be a newcomer. I get a scraped-knee stinging feeling that maybe Danish has been replaced.

In a way, Hampton and Danish kind of reminded me of Bennett and me. Hampton was outgoing and boisterous while Danish was quiet, taking everything in. But they got along so well.

The dogs on Seagate are like the people—you can tell which ones are here for a week for the first time and which ones will be here until August, like they are every summer.

“Aren't you glad to be here?” Micayla asks, tying her braids into a low ponytail. “Let's go sit on one of the benches and people- and dog-watch. I'm too hot to stand up.”

I nod. “Are you sure you're okay? You're not going to have some crazy allergic attack?”

Micayla is seriously allergic to dogs that shed, but she loves them anyway. She can't resist petting them, and then she gets all sneezy and her eyes turn red and watery and she complains a lot. But she still loves them.

“Of course, I'm fine.” She smiles.

Bennett goes to play with the dogs. He picks up one of the extra Frisbees and starts playing fetch with a golden
retriever. Bennett's a dog person even though his family has never had one.

The golden retriever's owner (who must be a newcomer, since I don't recognize her) comes over to play too. She looks like she's around forty, but I can see Bennett saying something that's making her laugh.

Bennett can talk to anyone. It doesn't matter how old they are, if they're a girl or a boy, even if they're human, really. I just saw him talking to that golden retriever. He called out, “Mickey, here boy!” just like he'd been friends with that dog for years.

While we're watching the dogs and Bennett play, I tell Micayla about Marilyn Monroe and how we had a pretty awesome time together.

“Is she here now?” Micayla asks.

“No, I don't see her.” I admit—I'm a little disappointed. I was sort of hoping she'd be here.

“Well, she can be, like, your almost-dog this summer,” Micayla says. “Do you think your parents will want to get another dog one day?”

“I doubt it. A dog isn't like a new pair of flip-flops that you can just replace,” I tell her. “It takes time.”

“I know,” she says. “I mean, I don't know, because I've never had a dog, but I know you can't just trade one for another.”

Micayla links arms with me even though we're still sitting on the bench. “Come on, let's walk and look at the dogs.”

We spend the next hour playing with a pair of Malteses named Snowball and Marshmallow. They're puppies, and the Howells just got them. The Howells are an older couple who live on the other side of the island. We always see them at the deli, Pastrami on Rye. My mom always jokes that they don't even need a kitchen since it seems that they eat every meal there.

“How are you, Remy?” Mrs. Howell asks.

“Good,” I reply. “Happy to be back on Seagate.” I usually answer this way. I wish I had more to say, but nothing seems to come to mind. I used to be so good at talking to adults, but now I get nervous. I'm not sure why.

“Us too,” Mrs. Howell says. “And these guys are so happy to be here. They were running in circles in our Brooklyn apartment. That hasn't been fun for any of us.”

Snowball keeps jumping up on my legs and licking my knees, and it makes me laugh.

“She likes you, Rem,” Micayla tells me.

The two white fluff balls keep jumping on us, and I love watching them. But they're not my dogs, and eventually we have to leave them behind. Micayla and I wave good-bye to Bennett, who says he'll catch up with us at my house, and we start walking home.

“It's settled,” Micayla says. “You're amazing with dogs, and you're going to be a vet when you grow up.”