Chapter Seven
Living close to an ice cream shop is a beautiful/terrible thing. The constant temptation to buy everything and fall into a food coma for a hundred years is very real. You can’t tell me Sleeping Beauty wouldn’t have chosen it over pricking her finger on some stupid spindle.
I don’t know when the small dog starts following me on the way back.
Though his scent soon makes him hard to ignore.
No idea what he’s rolled in, but whoa. When I think about it…
as stinky as he is, I would still take him over my other stalker.
Her absence is something to be relished and enjoyed.
The dog is small and fluffy. But it’s hard to tell his breed beneath all the brown muck.
“Go home.”
He sits his butt on the asphalt and cocks his head.
“You need to go home.”
His bright eyes shoot to the pint in my hands before returning to my face. And the inference is obvious.
“No. This is my ice cream. You can’t have any,” I say in a stern voice.
Then I resume walking. He waits a moment before following me again.
I can hear the tapping of his nails against the pavement.
This has to stop because a single house guest is more than enough.
“Dogs are allergic to chocolate. I can’t give you any. It would make you sick.”
The little dude does not seem convinced. As if I would lie about something so important.
“It’s not safe for you out here,” I tell him over my shoulder. “You could get hit by a car or something. Whoever’s supposed to be looking after you is doing a shitty job. I’d complain to management if I were you.”
He gives me a doggy smile and falls into step beside me.
“Bad dog.”
At this he stops and blinks. Like he actually seems taken aback by my words. Hurt even.
“Sorry,” I say. “That was mean and unnecessary. I am sure you’re a very good dog despite the smell. But you can’t keep following me.”
His big bright liquid eyes gaze up at me. If I ignore him, he might get bored and go home. We walk the rest of the way in silence. I have to admire his dedication to frozen desserts.
No idea how much dogs usually pant, but he seems to be doing a lot of it and the day is a warm one. He might need some water. In which case, hassling the nearest human makes sense. We reach the house, and I fish the front door key out of my pocket.
“You wait here, and I’ll get you something to drink, okay?”
But the moment the door opens wide enough he dashes inside.
He’s just a streak of matted muddy fur disappearing underneath the couch and dashing through the dining room before making a move for the kitchen.
My cousin’s high-pitched shriek is ear piercing.
Guess he startled her. I chase after the rampaging canine with ice cream in hand.
“Who the hell are you?” Noah’s standing at the back door, holding the dog up in front of his face. “No collar.”
I put the ice cream in the freezer and find a bowl to fill with water. “There isn’t?”
He shakes his head.
“Shit.”
“Not much meat on him either. Might have been living on the streets for a while.”
“That thing stinks.” Grace dramatically covers her nose with her hand. “Will you please get it out of here?”
“Guess I’ll take him to the vet to get his chip read,” I say, ignoring my dramatic dog-hating cousin.
Noah sets him down in front of the bowl of water and the dog starts lapping it up. “You can’t put him in your car smelling like this.”
“No,” I agree.
“I’m out of here,” says Grace, abandoning us and our new stinky friend to our fates.
Noah watches as the dog keeps drinking. “I’ve got to get to work. The fence is repaired for now. Enough to keep him in if you want to put him out back. I can help you wash him, but it wouldn’t be until tomorrow.”
“Thank you for the fence,” I say. “What can I do for you?”
“Huh?”
“You keep doing things for me. I’d like to reciprocate.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he says, dismissing the idea with a shake of his head. Like it’s silly or something.
A drop of sweat traces a line down the side of his thick neck.
It’s embarrassing how thoroughly such a small thing manages to derail my entire thought process.
My life and the eternal quest for meaning and or forgiveness.
None of it means anything compared to the fine line it leaves down his tattoo.
I can almost taste the salt on my tongue.
There I stand, staring at him with my mouth hanging open and… shit.
“Sid? Are you okay?”
“Um. Yeah. Yes.” I give him the most fake-ass smile in my arsenal. “Don’t worry about the dog. I’ve got this. No problem.”
“This is a problem,” I say with a sigh. “We have no idea who he belongs to?”
It took over an hour of me and the dog in the bathroom with both bottles of my expensive new salon-quality-sensitive organic shampoo and conditioner to get him clean.
He now smells low key, like sea salt and lemon.
A huge improvement. Though my hairbrush will never be the same.
And let’s not talk about the state of the bathroom.
Grace hid in the spare room with the door shut the entire time.
Coward. My cousin is apparently not a dog person.
Waiting until Noah could help me with him tomorrow might have been the smarter move.
But getting the dog checked out took precedence.
The local veterinarian, Doctor Jiya, gives me a smile. “No collar or chip makes it hard. We can do a search of local lost animal groups on social media and post about him on there, but…”
“He may have been dumped.”
“Yes,” she says. “You did a good job cleaning him up. But from the state of him, I’d say he’s been on the streets for a while.”
I nod.
“He’s a terrier mix. One of his parents was probably a Westie. No idea what the other might have been. He’s about three years old and has already been desexed, which is the good news. The bad news is he’s probably due for some shots and in need of a good home.”
The dog lies on the examination table on his back with his pink tongue hanging out as the good doctor gives him belly rubs.
Dignity does not concern him. This happy behavior is a dramatic change from his mournful howling during bathtime.
He keeps looking over at me to make sure I haven’t disappeared. It makes my heart hurt for him.
“I can pay for the shots,” I say.
“Great. There’ll be a discount given the situation. Now how do you feel about giving him a home?”
“I’ve never looked after a dog before.” I frown. “My grandmother was allergic. We had goldfish when I was growing up.”
“You’re doing well with him so far. It could be temporary. He might have escaped, and the owners could contact us wanting him back.”
“But in the meantime, he needs a home.”
“Yes,” she says hopefully. “The local no-kill shelter is full, unfortunately.”
Of course, he’s now gazing adoringly at me with his big bright eyes.
I highly doubt there’s a single coherent thought happening inside his little head.
Just vibes. And doubtless he looks this way at anyone with a proven history of bribing him with cheese.
But it still stirs my cold dead heart. Not to get all woe is me, but I know what it’s like to be abandoned.
“When else am I going to get the chance to be a single stay-at-home dog mom?”
“Who knew dogs needed so much stuff?”
Grace cocks her head later that afternoon. “I am not convinced they do.”
We’re sitting on the sofa watching the canine in question.
He’s blissfully asleep on his new navy tweed memory foam bed.
He’s wearing his matching navy leather and silver-studded collar.
The stuffed toy duck he’s curled up with doesn’t match anything but does look cute as fuck.
Which is why I’ve taken about a hundred photos of him.
In other news, my renewed interest in shopping and photography are going great.
Might be a good idea to start calming down on the spending, however.
“You can’t just expect him to lie on the floor like an animal,” I say. “And the dog boutique was having a sale.”
“They don’t call it a pet store?”
“Apparently not. There were sweaters and costumes for Halloween and everything.”
Grace is more amused than impressed. “You’re going to turn into one of those people who have a social media account for their pet, aren’t you?”
“He might not even be staying. This is all temporary. I’m not even sure I want a dog.”
“That why did you buy up half the store?”
“No comment.”
She snorts.
An array of old photo albums are on the coffee table.
It seemed like a good idea to divert her from further discussions about death and DNA and to help us reconnect.
Grandma often carried around a camera. She’d take shots of things she wanted to sketch or paint.
So there’s plenty of scenery from the local area.
But also, a lot of my cousin and me from our summers together.
Pictures of us swimming and bowling and hanging out at the mall.
Doing all of those normal everyday things.
Guess my interest in photography comes from Grandma.
“What are you going to name him?” asks Grace. “You have to call him something.”
“I don’t know.”
The dog opens an eyelid to check that I’m still sitting where he left me. He wags his tail exactly once, before going back to sleep.
“How about Fluffy?” asks Grace.
“No.”
“Smelly? Stinky?”
“That was an unfortunate situation that has since been remedied,” I say. “Which reminds me…I need to buy more shampoo.”
“I gave the bathroom a wipe-over while you were out.”
“You did?” I pause in surprise. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But you can deal with the wet towels.” Her smile is one-sided. “Saw the gym setup in the garage. The boxing bag and so on. Do you use it a lot?”
“Yeah.” I hold up my hand and show her my knuckles. “I have calluses and everything. It’s honestly been kind of therapeutic for me. A way to safely deal with any anger or general negative emotions.”