Chapter 10 Wren Rescue a Dog from Certain Death
Wren: Rescue a Dog from Certain Death
Arthur had been fiddling with his laptop in the living room when Wren began to imagine their lives as they hurtled toward suburban monotony.
It might not be right now, it might not be anytime soon, but they would eventually end up there.
It was what humans did. Their migratory patterns were so predictable, like herds of wildebeests following green grass and fresh water.
So, too, did humans have babies and gravitate toward the parks and the Blue Ribbon Schools and the family-friendly breweries.
She really had to stop watching so many nature documentaries. A side effect of her recent unemployment.
But this was exactly why the bucket list was so important, so urgent. And, at least so far, it had not been overly satisfying.
Her jar was right there on the nightstand, practically glowing under the warmth of her reading lamp.
What could it hurt to pull something new out?
She and Arthur were supposed to do this together, but he was right, the things in this jar were her dreams. Not everything she did had to be tied to him, all the time.
She snatched it and stuck two fingers inside, like pincers, immediately grabbing hold of one of the smooth slips of paper. She hadn’t intended to actually pull it out, honest. It just happened.
And when it did, well, she figured she had to do it. Those were the rules.
“I really, really don’t see how I, quote, ‘made you do this,’ ” Arthur said, picking bits of wiry fur off his slacks.
In all her years knowing Arthur, Wren knew that he was not the type to explode outwardly in anger. No, he would just get quiet and set his jaw, then eventually get over it. He was annoyingly healthy that way.
So she didn’t see a huge problem with playfully antagonizing him.
“Well, you said I couldn’t do any death-defying adventure sports, so what did you expect?”
In truth, she just wanted to make him laugh, and maybe if she could get him laughing he would see how awesome having a new dog was going to be.
“Wren, having a dog is a huge, huge—”
“Yes, yes, a huge responsibility. You don’t think I know that? I’ve done all the research.”
“Have you?”
“I’ve done some research. And this is something I’ve wanted for a long time.”
She revealed the proof: her years-old handwriting on the slip that she’d pulled from the jar earlier.
When she had first read “Rescue a Dog from Certain Death,” it seemed impossible and wildly irresponsible.
But it turned out that all it took was about five minutes of screwing around on Facebook Marketplace.
Social media was, in many ways, a gigantic mistake by humanity.
But it could certainly come in handy when you wanted to make a rash and impulsive decision.
All sorts of magnitudes of mistakes were suddenly right at your fingertips.
She reached down and scooped him up, all eleven pounds of him: Ferdinand.
He was the ugliest dog listed online by a mile, with crooked eyes and a tongue that permanently lolled out the side of his mouth.
In her mind, the plan had been to adopt a puppy from an overcrowded mill, maybe spring the entire litter free and burn the place to the ground while she was at it.
The plan had not been to save a weathered old sack of farts like Ferdinand.
But the listing said that the foster parent had completely run out of options and was going to have to surrender him soon.
No one else was ever going to adopt this ugly motherfucker, so he was bound to end up dead.
The person was so desperate they were willing to come drop him off on short notice with almost no questions asked, which is why she’d sent Arthur on a wild-goose chase for food.
Although, now that said food was here, she was thoroughly enjoying it.
“A long time? I’ve never heard you mention wanting a dog, not once.”
“Well, it goes back farther than you. It was my dream as a kid, something I’ve always wanted to do. Wasn’t that the point of all this?”
Bam. She had stunned him. Arthur had no response.
It was true, though, all of it. Without her parents, Wren had bounced around with different family members for years.
She was lucky to have a network of aunts and uncles to take her and her brothers in, in various combinations at different times, but no one seemed to be up for the added burden of letting her adopt a dog, no matter how much she begged.
Apparently having your brother and sister-in-law die unexpectedly and then being asked to care for their children was stressful, or something.
She could already see Arthur warming, ever so slightly, to the idea.
Or maybe he was trying to fend off the beginnings of a sneeze.
She hadn’t bothered to ask, but she highly doubted the pup was hypoallergenic.
Arthur looked the two of them over as Wren scratched an itchy spot behind Ferdinand’s ears.
“He’s pretty ugly. Did you pay money for him?”
“Just a few bucks for door-to-door delivery.” The woman had been so relieved to be rid of him, of this burden, that she’d practically hurled Ferdinand out the window without stopping.
“I still think you got ripped off. They sold you a corpse.”
She wanted to be offended, but he wasn’t completely wrong.
Ferdinand was extremely old and, if the smell was any indication, a little sick.
If he were a human, his family would be telling him to get his affairs in order.
But that was perfect for Wren, really, when she thought about it.
Low commitment, temporary. She wouldn’t get too, too attached.
There wouldn’t be time for that by the look of him.
The crusty, weepy eyes. The foggy pupils.
All the signs were there that he was not long for this earth.
“There are a few things you should know about him,” she said. “One, he has arthritis. Two, he only eats raw foods—it keeps his skin from flaring up. And three”—here she lifted Ferdinand’s little paws up into a playful begging pose—“he loves you already and really wants to stay.”
Arthur and Ferdie—Wren had already decided on his official nickname—stared at each other.
After a moment, Arthur stood, as if to make a proclamation.
“Fine. But I’m not taking care of him, OK? If you want to do this, I support you, in the sense that I will be completely neutral and not involved at all. It’s on you to feed him and give him his pills.”
“Anal suppositories, actually.”
“Oh, for the love of…And you are going to take him on walks and all that. And I’m not gonna do the thing where I slowly fall in love with him and he ends up becoming my dog, OK? So don’t hold your breath. I’ve got enough to deal with being hopelessly unprepared for fatherhood.”
“Yes, sir,” Wren said, with a mock salute.
Arthur turned to head to the kitchen but caught himself. “Oh, and you’ll have to tell the leasing office so we don’t get evicted.”
“Don’t worry about him,” she whispered to Ferdie as Arthur rounded the corner out of sight. “Now, come on, let’s go get in bed.”
She was sure Arthur wouldn’t mind.
The next day, it was time again for another exam.
These goddamn exams had been multiplying like rabbits.
First it was once a month, and now every week.
But it was starting to feel like even more than that, as if Dr. Abadi were poking and prodding Wren every other day.
As such, Wren insisted that Arthur sit this one out.
It felt overly doting to have him always dropping everything to tag along. Admirable, but unnecessary.
Plus, leaving him at home was a good way to force him to bond with Ferdie. She imagined the two of them making awkward small talk over breakfast and eventually finding common ground in their shared love of bacon.
“So you’re back,” the doctor said flatly. “It’s nice to see you again.”
You would not have guessed it was nice by her facial expression and tone of voice. But she was always like that. Or maybe she was still pissed at Wren for suffering a totally avoidable fall at a sporting event she never should have attended.
“Guess I just missed you,” Wren teased, standing there awkwardly in her gown, the cold room giving her flesh goose bumps all over.
“Come on, sit, let’s have a look at you.”
“I thought because I was just here the other day that maybe we could rubber-stamp this one. Whadya say?”
Dr. Abadi’s face said no. Wren sighed and took her position on the exam table, and the doctor wheeled herself forward on her little stool and snapped on a rubber glove.
Wren really hated these visits. They were tedious and invasive, and it was torture to endure the same thing over and over and over.
“I took a look at your vitals,” she said as she applied water-soluble lubricant to her fingers. “Still not thrilled about your blood pressure. Have you been taking it easy? Staying at home?”
“Me?” Wren said, feigning shock. “I’m the ultimate homebody.”
Dr. Abadi paused. “It’s not a joke, Wren. You have to take care of the baby, and your own body, too. There could be serious consequences if you don’t.” She didn’t belabor the point, just resumed the exam, the discomfort of which seemed to act as something of a punishment on its own.
Wren stared at the ceiling and tried to disassociate from her lower half.
Feeling like this was all just a little bit unfair.
She was trying to take care of the baby; why couldn’t anyone understand that?
By trying to become the best version of herself, she would unlock her full potential as a mother.
How was she supposed to accomplish that by sitting at home?
Maybe her methods were, say, unusual. But it’s not like anyone had ever been there to show her how to do it by the book.
By all accounts, her mom was a screwup, too, just like her.
Could never seem to hold down a job, thought extra-sweet jarred applesauce counted as a vegetable.
So being irresponsible was embedded in Wren’s DNA somewhere.
And yeah, it was tragic and all, but sitting around crying about it wasn’t going to change anything. So she had to keep moving.
She would try to be a little more careful, that much she could do. But she wasn’t going to give up on the bucket list, no freaking way.