Chapter Seventeen
T he first weekend in December, we set up a photoshoot at the studio that’s been the source of Everett’s secondhand plants.
I give him and Regina free rein, not because I can’t make a video that mentions the shirts and directs people toward her website, but because this is a world they know better—pitching, packaging, and selling—and they run with it like the pros they are.
The TikTok they create of Aggie and me in matching shirts—playing ball, hugging, happy, and showing off her progress walking a few yards on her own—is carefully edited and synced to music.
It tells a story about Aggie’s and my relationship.
It starts and ends with an animated pink and maroon Goode Girls graphic Everett designs, riffing off Regina’s tee.
Even the caption is snappier than what I post, tagged and keyworded to increase potential viewership.
It’s not what I imagined for the account, and I’d never admit this to “no offense” Brandon, but I can see the appeal of a little polish.
The video quickly garners hundreds of thousands of views and a load of shares and new followers, along with countless comments from people excited about the shirts, and about having a means of contributing to Aggie’s caretaking expenses.
At the end of the term, on a gray Thursday, I get called in by not one but two of my professors, who are concerned about my drop in performance.
I eked out a C on my immunology exam, and a C-minus on my pathology final, while still pulling off an A-minus in anatomy and physiology, so I won’t fail anything this term, but for a previously straight-A student, the dip is noticeable.
And the grades hurt. I hate not doing well in my classes.
It’s one of the only areas of my life in which I’ve never questioned my capabilities, and I’m mortified to have lost my professors’ esteem.
“It’s not just the exam,” Dr. Meacher, my immunology professor, says as I sit across from her in an office that smells like old leather and fresh lavender.
A gentle snowfall is drifting down outside the window behind her, and it reminds me I need to get Aggie some traction booties.
One more thing to add to the list. “You’ve been falling asleep in classes. Distracted. Disengaged.”
Dammit. I thought I’d hidden that better, strategically parked in the back rows.
“I’m working two jobs right now,” I tell her. “But hoping to cut back in January.”
She steeples her long, slender fingers and taps them against her lips. She’s my toughest teacher, very no-nonsense, and it’s not surprising that I’m falling short of her expectations.
I hate that I’m falling short of her expectations.
“You’re sure it’s just work?” she asks.
“Work, life, paying rent. My loans cover my tuition, but not my living expenses.”
She regards me with unblinking eyes that suggest a question without asking one. I don’t know what she wants me to say, other than something different from what I already told her.
Then she takes out her phone and opens TikTok.
“My teenage daughter showed me your account,” she says. “I respect the work you’re doing with the dog you adopted, but if you’re spending all your time on social media—”
“I’m not,” I interject, suddenly furious.
She has a right to call me in about my grades.
I appreciate that she cares enough about me to check in and not let me slide downhill any further, but seriously?
She thinks this is what’s exhausting me?
Making and posting a few short videos about my dog?
Not scrubbing congealed dispenser soap off restroom countertops late at night and convincing people with disposable incomes to buy grossly up-charged home furnishings all weekend so I can afford a shoebox apartment and a weekly allotment of generic cereal?
Was grad school that much cheaper when Dr. Meacher got her degree? Or rent? Or even cereal?
Although, admittedly, adopting Aggie has stretched me especially thin, making my dad’s most recent comment about making smart choices echo in my ears for the umpteenth time .
Yeah. Great. Noted. Though a choice doesn’t always have to feel smart to feel right .
“Cameron,” Dr. Meacher says, and to her credit, she doesn’t say it in a patronizing way.
“You’re such a smart girl. Hardworking. Good instincts.
But this field is competitive, and you’ll need to bring your grades up next term if you expect to earn an internship or residency, both of which I think would be good for you, so you get more practical experience. ”
“I know.” My lower lip starts to quiver but I bite it into submission as I repeat, “I know.”
She regards me again without speaking, maybe because she knows her next words might unleash tears, and she doesn’t strike me as someone who’d want to deal with that.
I’ve always respected her cool, exacting demeanor.
It’s given me hope about finding my own footing as a vet without being good with people.
But today? I can’t help but wish she was a little bit warmer.
“I trust that you do know,” she says. “Take some time over the holiday break to consider your priorities. Let’s see if we can get you back on track in the new year.”
I nod and thank her and head out with a sincere but lackluster happyy holidays , walking straight into meeting number two, in which Dr. Stean, my pathology professor, exhibits greater compassion for everything I’m juggling and offers to give me a retest in January if I think I can do better then.
I gratefully and eagerly accept the opportunity, even though it’ll mean studying my ass off over the holiday break, when I was hoping I’d have less to juggle, and not more.
The snow looked beautiful from inside a warm office, but it’s cold and wet to walk through, especially since I didn’t check the forecast before I left home this morning so I’m in leaky sneakers, I left my scarf behind, and I lost my only hat somewhere between classes last week.
Everything around me also feels sapped of color, as though the city’s conspiring to reflect my mood.
Or maybe my mood’s conspiring to reflect the city.
Either way, I barely notice the holiday decorations and people bustling about with poinsettias and glittering shopping bags.
I’m too busy wrestling with a profound sense of failure, and with an equally intense sense of frustration that once one part of my life comes together, another seems to fall apart.
I try to channel some of my mom’s unrelenting cheer but my dad’s shadow looms larger right now.
I’d never felt his disapproval more strongly than when I committed to coming here to pursue my veterinary degree, despite the cost, and despite Cornell’s reputation for intense rigor.
I assured my parents I could handle it. Now here I am, not handling it, just like my dad predicted, adding the sharp sting of wounded pride to an already overflowing well of feelings.
The feelings only multiply when I arrive home to discover that Aggie, with her continued gains in mobility, found a way to pull a bag of granola off the kitchen counter.
The bag is empty but the slimy, stinky, acid-yellow, granola-filled vomit all over the apartment points a clear finger at the cause.
Also, Aggie’s not on her bed, where I usually find her when I arrive.
She’s hiding behind the futon, looking like I’m about to accuse her of murder.
I curse internally, not at her but at the situation, and at myself, at how I’ve failed in two important areas of my life today: school and taking care of Aggie.
If I was home more. If I’d paid more attention to how she’s getting around.
If I was more careful about what I left on the counter.
If, if, if. I don’t want to deal with this right now, but I don’t have much choice, so I take a deep breath—as deep a breath as I can manage, given the noxious fumes I’m forced to inhale—and count out my exhale— one, two, three, four —as I remind myself that life with a dog comes with a few unforeseen digestive issues.
Heaven knows Marmie had her fair share. She was like a vacuum, picking up anything that intrigued her and often swallowing it before we could take it away.
This was bound to happen at some point, and at least I have hardwood floors.
I weave my way over and crouch before Aggie, stroking her ears as she avoids my eyes.
“You’re okay,” I tell her. “It’s all okay. It’s good you got most of it out, though you may have a bellyache for a while. And I guess cereal’s going in a cabinet from now on.”
Her belly gurgles. Poor girl. She’s been on such a strict diet. Her body must be in shock.
“Hey, good news,” I say, still trying to catch her eye. “This is a very doglike thing to do. So, you know, good job being a dog, doing dog things, even if they’re naughty-dog things.”
She lets a short, sharp breath out through her nose. I get the feeling she doesn’t believe me. Or maybe she’s trying to digest raisins for the first time in her life and she’s really confused.
Whatever the case, I get her outside for a short walk, which we can do without the wagon now, just in time to avoid dragging it through winter weather for every quick pee.
I wish I had more energy to enjoy her eager curiosity about the snow, the way she sniffs every footprint like it’s the key to a great mystery of the universe, but we’ll get more snow in days to come, and of the less slushy kind.
So I let her sniff for a while, and do her business.
Then we return home, where I dry her off and lay clean towels out on the futon before helping her up.
She can mostly do it on her own now, but I don’t like her to stress her already overtaxed hips and knees.