out as gently as possible. She still didn’t move, even when I picked her up, but I could feel her little heartbeat thumping reassuringly beneath her prominent ribcage. “Thank God,” I breathed.
She blinked, startled at the sound of my voice and probably surprised to find herself out from under the relative security of the park bench. She put up a token struggle that lasted less than ten seconds. She’d been roaming the streets too long and was out of fight. She went limp in my arms. It was like holding a teddy bear with sharp burrs in her fur. I stared at her, a little flummoxed as I wondered what the heck I should do next.
Water, I decided. It was a hot day out. I couldn’t go wrong with water. Only I didn’t have a bowl. Or water. I huffed. Two minutes in and I already sucked at this taking care of a dog thing.
I finally gave up on trying to figure out the best way and just did it the Journey way. I trotted across the street to the gas station and bought a water bottle and a pack of paper bowls. Then I went back over to the bench to show her my offering. She was still limp. I nudged the paper bowl closer, but she didn’t move.
I put my finger in the bowl and then wet her mouth with the drippings, and for the first time, she perked up. She shoved her face in the bowl and went all psycho on the water, enough that I had to fill the bowl twice. Then she sat back on her haunches and looked at me. Her big brown eyes seemed to be absorbing my every feature. It was like she was saying, “Thank you for seeing me.”
I scoffed at my fanciful thinking. “We need to find your owners. I guess I should put your cute little mug on a couple of fliers and post them around town.”
She pressed against my leg and one of the burrs in her fur snagged on my jeans. “I probably should have you groomed first. Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you like this.”
She yawned at my perfect plan. Well, then. “Pet Smart, first. You need a leash and collar,” I said crisply as I headed for the car. She followed me, albeit slowly, as if to show me those items were overkill. “I’m not naming you, either. For now, you’re Thing One.”
She didn’t look bothered in the least.
*
My Pet Smart visit didn’t go as I planned. A perky woman named Trish was thrilled at the thought of a stray finding a forever home. She assisted me with getting essential supplies, which in her world translated to everything but the kitchen sink. I kept reminding her that Thing One was not my dog, but that didn’t deter Trish. Her cheeks glowed with joy as she showed me a super-cute leash and halter that were unbelievably tiny.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be able to adjust this for her after her grooming,” she said, showing me how the buckle moved. “I have a feeling your dog is even smaller than she looks. You’ll see once all that matted fur is removed.”
“She’s not mine,” I reminded her for the fourth time.
“Of course,” Trish said brightly. “Should we look at bowls for your little girl, here?”
I grumbled but wound up with even more stuff in my cart. The bed and toys I could justify, but the jacket and pajama onesies were just embarrassing—for both of us. I topped off the cart with a couple of bags of tiny treats, and Tanya gave me a knowing look.
“She’s been through a lot,” I said defensively.
“Mm-hmm.”
My conversation with the groomer didn’t go much better. A cute guy named Cesar informed me that Thing One couldn’t get groomed until she had proper proof of her shots. I wanted to pull out my hair. I didn’t know what was living in her fur, but I did know I didn’t want it transferred to my carpet. And frankly, I thought Thing One would be a lot more comfortable in this heat without all the matted and muddied fur.
I checked my watch, realizing more time had passed than I’d thought. If I didn’t leave soon, I’d be late to pick up my father. I put Thing One’s new leash and halter on her, and then we left the grooming shop.
By the time I pulled up, my father was sitting in his wheelchair near the front entrance. I was