5. Ashton
ASHTON
I trudge up my apartment sidewalk toward my complex, carrying my mail from the central mailbox. I’d given five dogs baths today, and I smell like it.
“I can’t believe I met a famous celebrity looking like this,” I mumble to myself as I sort through bill after bill. Not that it matters. He’ll soon forget me once he returned the dog.
“Hi, sugar.”
I yelp at the sudden appearance of my elderly neighbor, Judith, as I round the corner to our opposing doors. She’s wearing her soft, pink robe and matching fuzzy slippers, her light gray hair already in rollers for bed.
I clutch the mail to my chest. “Goodness, I didn’t even hear your door open.”
“You know I like to keep my window cracked in the evenings. Saw your car pull up. Thought I’d come out and say hi. Didn’t mean to scare you, child.”
“It’s fine.” I smile. “I could use a little wake-up.”
She eyes me from my feet to my hair. “You do look a bit worse for wear. Tough day at work?”
“Something like that.”
She steps next to me, hooks her arm into mine, and we walk toward our doors. “Couldn’t have been too bad if you met some famous celebrity? A man, I presume?” She cocks her head toward me and arches an eyebrow, her wrinkles deepening with her smile.
“You heard that, did you?”
“I may be old, but my hearing still works pretty good.” She turns away and coughs.
Seems like she’s been coughing more and more lately. I should make her some throat-coating tea. “Yes, well, he may be some celebrity to the world, but he means nothing to me.”
And yet, why does my heart flutter? My limbs tingle at the very thought of seeing him tomorrow.
“Seems like you’re awfully twisted up over the impression you made on some man that doesn’t mean anything to you.” She stops us in front of her door and peers at my face, squinting. “You think he’s cute, don’t you? A woman can sense these things.”
A blush crawls over my skin, unbidden.
She pats my cheek. “You deserve a good man, sugar. Maybe he’ll be the one. You never know unless you try. Gotta be brave.”
We have a similar conversation almost every time we interact. If her son weren’t married, she’d probably try to get us together.
She leans in and sniffs. “Though, you might want to shower first before you see him again.”
I chuckle. “I’ll be sure and do that. Thanks for the tip.”
She sneezes and dabs her nose with an embroidered handkerchief. “Darn allergies.”
“Have you ever had allergy testing before?”
“Oh, pish posh. At my age? What does it matter?” She smiles, but it’s weak. “Don’t worry about me. I’m sure I’ll feel better soon.”
“If you decide to go to the doctor, I’d be happy to give you a ride.” She drives, but at eighty-two, her eyesight isn’t the greatest anymore.
She blows into a handkerchief. “You quit mama-ing me and take care of yourself.”
“How about I bring you some soup later? I’ve had a crockpot going while I was working today.”
“Don’t be silly, I ate ages ago. It’s nearly my bedtime. Night, sugar.” She gives me a backward wave while coughing before slipping into her apartment and closing the door.
I’ll have to text her son and make sure he knows about her ongoing illness. With my standard key jiggle-and-shove routine, I open my apartment door and brown paint flakes chip off the side. Inside, Teddy paws at his kennel in my living room, eager to greet me. “Hey, buddy, sorry I’m home late.”
His paws tap against the plastic pad as he rotates around. His fluffy tail thumps against the metal walls. I unclasp the kennel and he immediately leaps out, spinning in circles.
I laugh. “I know, I know. I’m happy to see you, too.” He sits, and I scratch behind his ears. “You hungry?”
Odd. I don’t smell the aroma of my beef soup. I put the keys on the counter and enter my minuscule galley kitchen. The switch on my crockpot is on, but there’s no condensation on the lid. I press my hand to it. Cold. I open the lid. The meat is still uncooked.
“What’s going on?”
Teddy sits next to my leg.
I shift the crockpot on the counter and peer behind it. The plug is disconnected.
Ashton, you dummy. How could you have forgotten such a simple step?
Thumping and scratching travels from the bathroom down the hall. Ah. That’s why. This morning, after I’d placed all the ingredients in the crockpot, the fosters distracted me with their squeaky toys, demanding I play with them.
Guess ramen for dinner it is. I leave my wasted, uncooked, nearly fifty-dollar soup that would have fed me for the week and walk down my short hallway to check on the pups. This morning, I made sure they had plenty of water, food, and puppy pads for bathroom usage.
I open the door to find total bliss.
Just kidding. The bathroom is a complete disaster.
The toilet paper is completely unrolled, strewn about the room like a tornado came through.
Chewed-up bits of toilet paper are all over the floor, with some soaking in their water bowl.
The food bowl is tipped upside down. Kibble is scattered all over the floor, and a slew of new scratches and chew marks mar the bottom of my bathroom door.
There goes my deposit.
I sink to the floor, my perpetrators pawing for attention. While they may be the naughtiest little miscreants, they’re also the cutest pair of black-and-white border collie siblings, Cocoa and Chip. I can never stay mad at them for long.
Their tongues loll out, panting happily as I pet them.
They invade my space until my back hits the wall.
Not one to miss out on the action, Teddy, my giant German Shepherd, not so gently nudges his way in the middle until I have three dogs in my lap.
Long tongues cover me in sloppy kisses. Within seconds, I’m in a fit of laughter.
I blame sheer exhaustion or delirium at this point.
No matter what chaos these furry friends throw at me, I couldn’t imagine my life without animals.
I don’t even like to think about how empty my life was before dogs, despite living with two other humans.
These three love me unconditionally and look forward to my homecoming every day.
I can do no wrong in their eyes, and there’s something so rewarding about that.
“Okay, okay, let’s get you three outside.”
At the word “ outside ,” they leap into action, racing for the door of my apartment.
I smile at their eagerness. Such simple pleasures in life, and yet, they’re endlessly happy.
I only wish I could provide them the freedom they all deserve—the space to run and play freely.
Someday, I’ll get the funding for my rescue and pick somewhere with open land outside this clustered city so I can experience their unbridled joy on a daily basis.
Once the dogs are fully exercised and fed, I settle onto my couch with my bowlful of ramen.
The pups surround me in curled heaps on the couch, with Teddy on the floor.
My feet are propped on the worn, wooden coffee table I snagged at a flea market years ago.
I shovel in the first bite of noodles when my phone chimes.
A new email notification flashes across the screen.
My spoon clatters into the bowl, and I rush to set it down.
My heart’s rhythm increases. This could be about the grant. My fingers shake as I swipe and click to open my inbox. I deflate upon reading the email title.
Desperate Panic-Ridden Novice Dog Parent
The email arrived via my contact box on my dog blog.
I started it years ago to help new pet owners in hopes such resources would help prevent so much animal turnover.
If people were more knowledgeable about what they were agreeing to and how to tackle the obstacles they’re confronted with, maybe we’d have fewer pets surrendered to the shelter.
Occasionally, readers reach out to me with specific questions.
Most often, they ask about issues I’ve mentioned in previous posts, and I usually refer them to those.
Over the years, The Furry Godmother blog has amassed quite an audience, which allows me to pull a regular supplemental income. Goodness knows I can use every penny I can get. Despite my disappointment at this not being a reply to my grant proposal, I smile at the creative title and open the email.
Dear Furry Godmother,
I recently fostered a dog from the shelter, and in a moment of panic of what-have-I-done, I came across your blog.
It appears you’re the perfect person to help.
I’m worried my new roommate might have a heart condition.
Would you know anything about that? Her condition was pretty rough when I first got her.
Any idea how I can determine the dog’s age?
Also, she seems to be rather timid. Anything I can do to help remedy that?
I’d appreciate any advice you can share with a clueless first-timer.
If you’re willing to take on this impossible mission, I’d be in your debt.
Sincerely,
For real, in desperation,
Griffin Ford
A bubble of giddy excitement bursts to the surface as I read his name. I rest my fingertips against my smiling lips, unsure which makes me smile more: the fact that Griffin Ford emailed me, or the fact that he’s invested in his ward and wants more information to care for her.
But then realization hits. He found my blog. Does he know it’s mine? Surely not. My name isn’t anywhere on the blog. I quickly reread his email, hunting for clues. It doesn’t appear he knows it’s mine. But is he really this open with his full name?
Regardless, I’m grateful he’s proactive since I couldn’t locate another foster home for her today. I’ll attempt to call a few more contacts in the morning, but prospects are abysmal. Since he didn’t ask about returning the dog in the email, I won’t mention it.
Hello Griffin,
I hear your concerns, and I’m glad your foster dog is in good hands.
A worried parent means you’re a good parent.
If you googled symptoms of a canine heart condition, I can see where you might have jumped to such conclusions.
However, you have to keep in mind the condition you found her in.
She’s most likely fatigued from stress and underweight due to neglect.
Once she’s put on a regular diet and learns to trust in your guardianship, she’ll return to much better health.
As far as age, a vet can estimate age based on tartar build-up. Nothing to worry about there either, as all dogs have it.
Her timid disposition is more likely a result of her previous owner’s treatment, nothing you’re the cause of. I’m going to include some links to articles with some tips to help her adjust. Your email said fostering, but given your investment, does this mean you’re considering adopting?
Sincerely,
Ashton
I hit send on the email and head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I drop my toothbrush in the sink. I signed my name.
After running the blog for almost four years, I’ve never once made that mistake.
I’ve always kept my anonymity, signing only The Furry Godmother .
I never wanted to risk someone connecting me to the Blakes.
Of course, they’d have to do some serious digging.
The only image I’ve shared of myself on the blog, my face is obscured by my hat and sunglasses, and a sun flare overexposed any other distinguishable features.
By signing my name, all my hard work staying anonymous the past five years and establishing a new path for myself could be ruined. The media could hunt me down at work. Find my home address. Tabloids are quick to connect all the dots. How could I have been so idiotic?
Is it because I want him to know who I am?
I let my giddiness over his email cloud my sane judgment.
I rush into the living room and snatch my phone. Another email awaits. At nearly one a.m. Could it be him?
With a deep inhale, I swipe my phone awake and open the email.
Dear Ashton,
I had my suspicions this blog was yours.
Thank you for confirming. ;) I knew you’d be the right person for the task I have in mind.
And thank you for putting my mind at ease about the dog.
I’ll sleep more peacefully tonight after talking to you.
I look forward to our meeting tomorrow as I have a proposition for you.
I’m anxious to discuss the details with you in person.
Until then,
Sweet dreams.
Griffin
I groan.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Hopefully, I can convince him to keep my anonymity tomorrow without him asking too many questions.
I stare at his email. His use of my name feels so personal. So intimate. I picture his eyes once again and the way they pierced into mine at the shelter as though he could see straight to my core. The thought leaves me thrumming with energy—good or bad, I can’t distinguish.
One thing is for sure: sleep peacefully, I will not.