Mom, I won’t bully the stray by threatening the animal shelter if he’s not on his best behavior. As someone who’s lived on the streets, I empathize with the mutt because I ran away after Cricket died and was homeless for two years. Life on the run was hard, but I preferred it over being at the mercy of the foster care system.
From one street kid to another, I know Dog would rather take his chances with the coyotes than face the confines of the shelter.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter to the matted pooch. I grab my cell phone from the counter. “I haven’t spoken to a single soul the entire time I’ve lived here. You overstay your welcome for one night, and now that lady won’t shut the hell up.”
With Dog Mom lurking around, nominating herself as the apartment complex’s animal control officer, I can’t kick him out again. He’ll end up right back here when she finds him, and she’ll trap me into another conversation.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Dog. This arrangement ends as soon as I get home.”
Which would have been the logical thing to do.
You’re lucky there’s room for two on this headboard, Jack.
Instead, after my appointment with the banker, I ask my driver to swing by the pet supply store to get a small bag of food. He takes this as an invitation to make conversation. My contribution to his rapid-fire questioning is to close the glass partition between the front and back seats. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure Inez knows never to send him to me again.
“How many drivers do you think this city has, Lydia?” she’ll say in an irritated tone like she does every time I request a new one.
My heels tap on the cheap tile floor as I push a blue shopping cart up and down each aisle. I toss a brush, dog wash, and treats into the basket before I make it to the dog food section. There’re so many options, I’m stuck reading ingredient labels and wondering if I were Dog, would I want chicken and potatoes for every meal of the day or steak and carrots?
Unable to decide, I purchase both flavors.
Not because he gets to stay. But if he’s going back on the streets to fend for himself, he should have a good dinner and hearty breakfast before he goes.
Dog is enthusiastic when I get home, leaping at my feet and yapping. We take a quick trip to the grassy area, where I let Dog run ahead so I can hide among some trees. The last thing I want is for another tenant like Dog Mom to take my presence as an invitation to socialize. I’m not here to bond with strangers over our pets.
I don’t have a pet.
Dog isn’t staying.
He sits well as I attempt to brush his fur after we’re back in the apartment. Some spots are so tangled and ratted, I take the kitchen scissors to them and consider it a win.
“The bald spots will grow back,” I mumble, lifting him into the kitchen sink for a bath.
The amount of dirt and grime that washes away as I scrub Dog’s fur softens my bitterness toward the little creature. Homelessness is filthy. Exposed to the elements, constantly on the move, and never sure if I’d have a bed to sleep in at night, cleanliness was sometimes washing myself in public restrooms or talking a trucker into letting me use his shower pass at truck stops. But who the hell is going to give a stray dog a bath?
I wash Dog twice for good measure and am surprised to discover that once he’s clean, his fur isn’t gray but white. He looks like some sort of terrier mix who can’t weigh more than ten pounds. The missing spots of fur don’t seem to bother him, and I think they add to his charm. There’s no way to know if he’s ever lived in a home before, but he’s well behaved and mostly listens. He had to have belonged to someone at one point.
As the day ends, Dog stays close to my side without being intrusive. He follows me from room to room, and then he sits beside the treadmill and watches me run. I serve him a bowl of each flavor of dog food so he can decide which one he likes more and he seems to prefer the chicken and potatoes.
“Is there someone out there who misses you?” Dog and I sit side by