Chapter 16 #2
Unlikely. I’ve got the majority of my appointments double-booked out for the next few months. I am so rusty with this kind of social etiquette that it takes me a minute to figure out how to say no without her thinking I’m blowing her off, though.
“I’m off most Sundays and Mondays, if that’s easier?” I offer.
“Perfect. So am I.”
We make concrete plans to get lunch again a couple of Mondays from now, and the sense of accomplishment this gives me is so outsized for what it is, but I haven’t made a truly new friend as an adult, ever.
It’s as if I’ve just ripped off a bandage too early and miraculously found healed skin—if a little pink and thin.
I say my farewells and head out of the bakery, a full tote over my shoulder and my freshly watered bouquet in hand, but just before I turn to head toward the staircase that leads back up to the trail, a banner stops me in my tracks.
PET ADOPTIONS
I don’t believe in signs. Mostly because of how badly I want to believe in them. Looking for signs from Merritt in the beginning put me in too dark a place. When I couldn’t find them, she felt that much more lost to me. When I did, I missed her that much more.
But this feels like something else, sign-adjacent. Maybe not even a nudge—more like an arms-open, casual sort of invite. Another “Walk with me?” moment, this time from the universe.
It’s probably too soon for me to actually adopt anything, anyway. I don’t even have a car with me to bring a dog home. But I don’t see the harm in looking.
I pick my way through the dispersing crowd, and the closer I get, the more part of me wants to turn back.
That tenuous, wispy sort of hope turns into an ache.
There are two big circular pens with fresh, floppy puppies piled up in them.
Most are dozing away, with a couple outliers fighting it off.
Both litters look like mixes of some kind.
I bite off the squeal that tries to spring out of my chest when I watch a black-and-white one sleepily chomp at a passing butterfly.
To the right, there are three larger crates; one empty, two with full-grown dogs in them.
Four more empty midsized crates stacked on top of one another in a square, then one on top with an orange cat inside, sleeping with its back turned.
A woman near my age with a platinum bob and the most enthusiastic, infectious smile I’ve ever seen comes over and introduces herself. “It’s been such a successful day,” Gina tells me before I can introduce myself back. “You thinking about finding a companion?”
The question knocks me off balance. “A what?”
“A companion,” she brightly explains. “I like to think of pets as companions and try to remind folks that that’s what they’ll be.
Sometimes people see puppies or kittens and they think, Wow, I want a puppy or a kitten, and then they get them home and that puppy or kitten phase is gone in a flash, and they realize they forgot that these animals spend more time being fully grown. ”
“Oh, I—”
“And listen, puppies and kittens need homes, too, don’t get me wrong.
Those four empty cages over there were filled with kittens earlier today, and I believe every single one of them went to a home that will love and cherish it.
But nothing, and I mean nothing, has taught me more about the enduring spirit of love than adopting and fostering adult animals. ”
I bumble around with what to say before I land on “I bet.” I’ve got every urge to hastily walk away from this earnest conversation. It’s too hot on that newly exposed skin.
But then I think, what’s the worst that could happen? I cry? I pull up some tears from this well of love I’ve got? So what. I keep my feet firmly planted.
“Some of them have been mistreated, abandoned, or downright abused,” Gina says. “Some have been fostered and returned multiple times. Some of them have lost their people, the only companions they ever knew. They’ve all seen some real shit in life, you know?”
I do. I do know.
“And their lifespans are so much shorter than ours. So they’ve known unfairness for the majority of them. They’ve got no reason to trust that things will be better. That people are good or even worth trusting. And yet, more often than not, they do. Time and time again.”
“Gina, do you make money at this?” I ask. “A commission or something? Someone should be paying you.” I’m hanging on to her every word.
A cackle blasts out of her. “Oh, no. I am appallingly broke. I’ve got six foster fails at home already. Four dogs, two cats. Three of them are on a cornucopia of meds, plus special diets. You should keep that in mind.”
The back of my neck prickles. I spin toward it and see the cat in the top crate again. Now she’s awake, staring at me through huge amber eyes.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Gina says when she sees where my attention has gone. “I would gently caution you if you’re considering her, though. She’s one of those more . . . reluctant cases. She had the same person her whole life and, sadly, they passed.”
I step closer to the cat’s cage. Her gaze holds steady onto mine, tail slowly flicking. “What’s her name?” I ask.
“She doesn’t have one, officially. Even if she did, we always encourage new people to give their companions fresh names.
You’re going to get to know them best. Whatever we call them is always temporary, anyway.
See how she’s got those darker red stripes in the orange?
They’re a pretty cool pattern, I think. Thicker than you normally see. ”
Something like recognition flares. “What have you been calling her, Gina?” I ask.
“Me? Well, her stripes remind me of a bumblebee, so I’ve been calling her Bee.”