Chapter 3
Graham
It was one of those perfect Brooklyn mornings, the air hinting at the heat to come in the next days, the foliage overhead bright with life, and my trusted old gal loping slowly beside me, her gait not as spry as it had been even just a few weeks ago.
My gaze moved from my dog to the path in front of me, my mind re-focusing on the article I was working on this week.
So, when I saw the lanky brunette shouting in broad daylight about something – her hands on hips, sweatshirt impressively stained – I was momentarily bemused.
Until it registered that the person she was shouting at was me.
I glanced around at the audience of at least a half dozen people milling around us, who began looking from her to me, to my dog, then back to the her, as she continued to yell – all the while shuffling around trying to scrape her shoe on the pavement.
Minus the shouting, she was cute. Scratch that. She was stunning, with the backdrop of the park in bloom behind her, no hint of any makeup on her face, and her light olive skin glowing in the morning sunlight.
Though that was possibly from the screaming she was doing.
It was almost funny at first. Almost. And as soon as I realized what had happened – and saw the trail of shit Bronte had left the last twenty feet or so of our walk – I started to apologize.
But the woman cut me off with a string of insults that grew in rage and volume the more she furiously scraped her shoe, her headphones slipping down her forehead, her hands clenched into fists.
Thankfully her diatribe was only aimed at me, because had she gone for Bronte, there would have been trouble. So I simply smiled awkwardly, waiting for it to be over, and then watched as she turned on her heel and walk-scuffed away, leaving her own trail behind.
I pulled a bio-degradable bag from my back pocket as people made a wide berth around me and my dog, and began to pick up Bronte’s mess.
“Way to make me look like an asshole,” I said to my sweet old girl with a chuckle as I retraced her smelly trail, knotted the bag, and we headed for home.
Twenty minutes later, I opened the front door to our house and watched her lumber slowly inside.
With a long sigh I shut the door and leaned against it, peering through the bright white of the entryway at Bronte who had walked about ten paces and stopped.
She clearly couldn’t decide if she should keep going to the comfort of her bed in my office or lie down where she was.
“I know, girl,” I said, kneeling beside her and touching my nose to hers. “It’s a tough call when you’re tired. But, hey, you did good today! You even took on a bully.” I kissed her long snout and got to my feet. “Come on, B. You can do it.”
Stepping around her, I encouraged her to the kitchen to where her bowl of water and a plethora of snacks awaited. I would do anything to get her to eat these days - including buying the dog equivalent of human junk food. But she wasn’t even interested in that.
That’s how I’d known we were in trouble.
“She’s fifteen,” Dr. Shepherd, our longtime veterinarian had said when I’d brought her in three days ago after she’d refused food and hadn’t bounded up with me in the morning like she always did.
Not that I had been doing much bounding myself lately.
In fact, the past year had been pretty boundless.
But she’d always been keen to get going in the mornings, and seeing her falter this past week was worrying.
“She’s an old lady, Graham,” the vet continued.
“She’s done really well. Better than most I see in here. You’ve taken amazing care of her.”
As he said it, she looked to me and gave two solid thwacks of her tail. I smiled softly. She’d only ever done that for me. Everyone else got one thwack. But me, two. I always felt like it was her way of saying, “You and me, pal.”
Dr. Shepherd added quietly, “She’s winding down, my friend.”
I knew he was right, but I didn’t want to admit it. We’d been through a lot together. And thinking of being in this mausoleum of a house without her was unfathomable.
“Is there something I can do?” I asked. “Is there a timeline? Vitamins? Do you think she’s uncomfortable?”
He leaned down and put his forehead against hers, giving her ears a scratch right where she liked it best.
“Just love her. Let her lead the way. If she doesn’t want to go for a walk, don’t push her. If she’s not hungry, don’t force it. She’ll let you know when it’s time. I don’t think she’s uncomfortable. She doesn’t seem to be in any pain. She’s just worn out.”
“I know the feeling.”
He squeezed my arm. “I know you’ve had a rough few years. And this sure doesn’t help. I get it. But you have a new book coming out soon, right? And your column is better than ever. My wife and I cracked up over this past Sunday’s. That guy at the record store…”
Dr. Shepherd had then rambled on about the column before talking again about my books, the latest of which was nearly done. I didn’t tell him I’d been a little distracted lately and had gotten behind on word count.
According to the internet, lack of attention span was normal when your wife left you.
Even more so when she’d done it to hook up with one of her clients she’d been cheating on you with.
And yet even more normal when you got left behind to live in the house you’d bought years before the two of you’d met, and that she’d redecorated to fit her needs and likes.
Most of my things had been relegated to storage because they were too “shabby and old looking.” Granted, the house was beautiful, if you liked living in a showroom.
The bright and spare aesthetic didn’t quite go with my previous decorating style of “the more comfortable the better”.
And though Nadia, my ex, had picked out some beautiful pieces for my office, none of it felt like me.
And even less so now that she wasn’t around to convince me the odd-shaped, shimmering gray sofa in my office screamed successful author.
Regardless, after she’d left, I’d retrieved some of my old, beloved things.
Specifically the desk I’d inherited from my grandfather with the burgundy leather inlay – and his and my grandmother’s initials etched into the corner – that clashed in the room Nadia had painted Evergreen Fog.
Whatever the fuck color that was. Green?
Gray-green? Green-gray? The color of my soul as it left my body?
It was either leave things as they were, try to make it work for me the best I could, or move house.
That last one was getting more enticing by the day.
Watching Bronte in the kitchen, after I refilled her bowl with fresh water, I noticed her once spritely blonde body now sagging, her eyes cloudy.
“Hey you,” I said softly, sitting on the floor in front of her and bowing my head so it rested against hers. “Sorry about the crazy lady in the park. You can’t help it if you gotta go. We all have accidents sometimes. I’ll bet she’s pooped her pants before too.”
Bronte exhaled and leaned into me.
“How about I get your bed and we work in here today. You don’t move a muscle, okay?”
I kissed her head and then hurried to my office where I grabbed her bed, her beloved stuffed cat, my laptop, a notebook, and my favorite pen.
Five minutes later she was snoring and I was tapping my fingers on the table, the laptop open before me, while I stared instead out the window at the little garden Nadia had also stripped of anything soft and welcoming.
Instead, she’d favored black iron, chrome, and the stupidest clear plastic chairs I’d ever seen.
She hadn’t even let me keep a small patch of grass for Bronte, someplace nice she could lie on during sunny days.
“Grass is out. The upkeep is bad for the environment,” Nadia had told me. She’d apparently heard this from some woman called Maddy Marshall, one of her holy grails of advice givers on TikTok.
“There are grass alternatives that don’t need to be trimmed,” I’d said. “Plus, it would be nice to keep a place for her to use the bathroom that’s fenced in, so I don’t have to take her out myself in the mornings or late at night.”
“The gravel can be rinsed,” Nadia had countered. “And if you want a pet, you have to pick up after a pet. Right away. Otherwise the messes and smells will linger.” Her button nose had delicately wrinkled at the thought.
So Maddy Marshall won again. And while I found this particular piece of advice on the three-by-three square of grass I was trying to salvage for Bronte ridiculously stupid, in the end the argument just wasn’t worth it.
Nadia, a socialite turned influencer turned public relations darling, who had never once had to pick up after her pets a day in her life while growing up, just didn’t understand.
And wasn’t willing to try. Regardless, I’d loved her.
It wasn’t her fault the way she’d been raised.
When she wasn’t worried about how she was being portrayed by others, she was funny and could be very sweet.
And when she shined her light on you, you felt special and seen.
I figured any problems between us had to be because of my shortcomings, and I was determined to make it work.
I’d hated having divorced parents, no matter how well they’d gotten along and how easy they’d made the split for me.
So I’d tried. I really had. But in the end, it turned out I’d overlooked several red flags in the pursuit of what I’d thought was love.
I looked down at Bronte now, who was breathing loudly into the side of her bed.
“You’re the only girl for me, B,” I said. She didn’t open her eyes, but her tail thwacked the white tile floor twice.