Chapter 15
CHAPTER
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as I eat a bowl of oatmeal at my kitchen counter and go through the Python index on my laptop, a dog on the street barks.
I peer out the window. Below, an old man with a cane walks a black Scottish terrier dressed in a plaid jacket that matches the scarf draped around his owner’s neck.
The dog pauses when the man stops to rest, then resumes, matching his human’s slow steps.
The animal’s sweetness and loyalty fill me with longing.
“What’s stopping me?” I ask the silence.
I do a Google search for animal rescues, make a call, and take a few photographs of my apartment as requested by the shelter I chose. After sending the photos, I grab my jacket and head to the car, put in the address, and my navigation system maps the route for me. Thank you, Stan Honey.
As I drive by Crissy Field, there are people running and bikers sporting matching brightly colored kits spinning along a path that edges the Bay.
Groups cluster on the green grass, play frisbee, fly kites.
I join a steady stream crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, water sparkling below, cargo ships churning, sailboats cutting, and kitesurfers carving through waves.
My phone rings and Circe’s photo displays. “Hey, sweetie,” I say, trying not to sound too thrilled that for once she’s calling me. “What’s up?”
“Our cheer team made it to sectionals.”
“Wow! Congratulations. You’ve worked hard for it.” I don’t ask for an invite, though I’m dying to watch her compete.
“Hey, Char,” Circe calls out. “Gotta go.”
“Okay. Love you,” I say, but she’s already hung up.
I flick on my blinker and take the next exit.
Sugar Face is in Sausalito. It’s a shelter run by Viola Whitby—I texted her before leaving my place.
She greets me at the door of a shingled home, a bespectacled woman in her seventies, gray hair in a single braid, sporting baggy overalls over a black turtleneck and comfortable green plastic clogs.
“Thanks for letting me come by,” I say as she waves me inside.
“Anything for our seniors.”
Viola leads me toward a bright-orange door.
Beyond it is a room with rubber flooring filled with about fifteen dogs, most lounging on soft beds, a few trotting around with stuffed toys or balls.
All have white faces; some are missing a leg or have tattered ears, jagged scars.
On the far side of the room, sliding glass doors lead to a large, fenced-in grassy yard where more dogs romp.
“Feel free to wander around. They’re all friendly,” Viola says. “See which one calls to you.”
I’ve always wanted a dog. As a kid it was impossible—Mama J could barely take care of us.
Nor could I have a dog in college or graduate school.
My university didn’t even pay my room and board.
Then I married Bruce and had a baby to take care of, and he had allergies.
Or at least that’s what Bruce told me, though he never had issues with Hal and Heather’s Labradors or Kiki and Chris’s golden retriever.
Stop looking over your shoulder, Mama J reminds me.
I visit with the dogs curled on their beds, then toss a ball for a tripod mutt that has no problem trotting on three legs to retrieve it.
But when I wander into the yard, I’m drawn to a short-haired cherry-brown mutt with a white circle around her right eye.
She looks like a mix between a boxer and maybe a vizsla, her tail docked, muzzle speckled with white.
“Hey,” I say softly and walk over to where the dog sits by the back gate, staring at a path that leads to the front of the house. She doesn’t look at me, not even when I kneel in the grass beside her.
“That one doesn’t have a name yet,” Viola calls from the far corner of the yard where she weeds a raised garden bed. “The owner dropped her off last week, too embarrassed to give me any details other than she’d just turned ten—our oldest dog right now—and his kids wanted a puppy.”
I reach out, rub the dog’s chest, trace the small patch of white there. There’s no sign that she notices. She wants her old life back. “I know how she feels. My husband dumped me for a woman in her twenties and my daughter chose to live with them.”
“Life can be a kick in the teeth,” Viola agrees.
“My husband divorced me when I became an opioid addict after a botched knee surgery. We have three boys. I stole part of their childhood, along with the money in their savings accounts. The kids do come back, eventually, if you get your act together. But they never forget. My oldest won’t let me see the grandkids alone.
” She shrugs. “It’s a different kind of happily ever after. ”
Sadness is a sneaky assassin, and I pinch away tears. “I’d like to take her.”
Viola asks, “Got a name?”
Last night I woke before dawn, channel surfed, and watched the end of an old movie.
The actress in it, Sally Field, played a character who risked her life to help unionize a mill.
She was scared out of her mind but brave.
“I’m going to call her Sally Field, if that’s okay? ” The dog doesn’t even look at me.
Viola takes off her gardening gloves and grabs a leash from a hook by the sliders. “All our dogs eat Senior Pure-Good Kibble. Can you do that and guarantee Sally a soft bed, kindness, and walks whenever she needs them?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Consider this a trial. I’ll touch base in a few weeks, and we can evaluate.”
Sally allows me to clip the leash to her collar.
She walks beside me to the car. I help her load into the back seat, and can feel her ribs.
She probably hasn’t been eating much, either.
First stop, a pet shop on Chestnut Street in the Marina for food and water bowls, kibble, a big bag of treats, and a bed.
I talk to Sally the entire way, but she just looks out the window, maybe trying to see landmarks to determine if she’s on her way home.
“It’s not going to be the same,” I say. “But maybe it can still be okay.”
When we arrive at the store, I put the car on doggy mode even though it’s a cool day. A cartoon pooch bounces on the Tesla’s screen, promising anyone passing by that the pet inside is cool and comfortable.
Inside Sir Wags A Lot, I buy the essentials plus a large cozy cave—a fleece taco-shaped bed that promises warmth—and an orthopedic suede foam bed that looks like a couch, several orange balls, poop bags, a stuffed rabbit and racoon, and four boxes of various treats, from chicken sticks to fish skins (gross), as I don’t know what Sally likes.
“Penn?”
Arms full, I turn. Patricia Cavanaugh wears a white tennis skirt and striped sweater, her blond hair swept into a low ponytail.
We served on the PTA together. She’s Sara Curry’s good friend.
In this moment, I’d give anything to disappear.
I’ve done my best to avoid all the places where I might run into school moms, even started shopping at Fred Meyer instead of Whole Foods.
Though, truth is, I can no longer afford the latter.
“How are you?” Patricia asks, her tone dripping with sympathy.
“Good,” I say lightly, and move toward the register.
She follows me like a malevolent spirit, a smirk on her plumped-up lips. “We were so sorry to hear about you and Bruce. You two seemed like the perfect couple.”
I hand the salesgirl, a twenty-something smacking gum, my new credit card, and pray that what I’m buying doesn’t exceed the low limit.
More fodder for the rumor mill. I decline a receipt and hustle out of the store.
Bruce should be the one ashamed, not me.
But it’s hard to shake the feeling that I did something wrong.
Sally is in the exact spot by the window where I left her and doesn’t stir as I load supplies into the back of the car. “Let’s go home.” Sally remains stoic. The run-in with Patricia has left me feeling lower than low, and now this. Maybe adopting a dog was another mistake.