Home. Pack. Adeline.
I turned and took a step, my shoe immediately sinking and sliding in something wet. I looked down, barely controlling my gag reflex as the smell of fresh excrement reached my nostrils.
I’d stepped in dog poo. What’s worse, the offending party – a ambling Golden Retriever – was still doing their business as they walked away, their owner not bothering to clean up after them.
“Hey!” I shouted, my emotions raw and too close to the surface.
And as the man turned toward me, I finally snapped. The wine spilled on my expensive dress last night. Oliver’s lies and smear campaign all over social media this morning. And now my best friend was lying in a hospital bed on the other side of the country?
I’d had enough. I opened my mouth and, just like the man’s dog, proceeded to lose my shit.
Chapter 3
Graham
It was one of those perfect Brooklyn mornings, the air hinting at the heat to come in the next days, the foliage overhead bright with life, and my trusted old gal loping slowly beside me, her gait not as spry as it had been even just a few weeks ago.
My gaze moved from my dog to the path in front of me, my mind re-focusing on the article I was working on this week. So, when I saw the lanky brunette shouting in broad daylight about something – her hands on hips, sweatshirt impressively stained – I was momentarily bemused. Until it registered that the person she was shouting at was me.
I glanced around at the audience of at least a half dozen people milling around us, who began looking from her to me, to my dog, then back to the her, as she continued to yell – all the while shuffling around trying to scrape her shoe on the pavement.
Minus the shouting, she was cute. Scratch that. She was stunning, with the backdrop of the park in bloom behind her, no hint of any makeup on her face, and her light olive skin glowing in the morning sunlight.
Though that was possibly from the screaming she was doing.
It was almost funny at first. Almost. And as soon as I realized what had happened – and saw the trail of shit Brontë had left the last twenty feet or so of our walk – I started to apologize. But the woman cut me off with a string of insults that grew in rage and volume the more she furiously scraped her shoe, her headphones slipping down her forehead, her hands clenched into fists.
Thankfully her diatribe was only aimed at me, because had she gone for Brontë, there would have been trouble. So I simply smiled awkwardly, waiting for it to be over, and then watched as she turned on her heel and walk-scuffed away, leaving her own trail behind.
I pulled a bio-degradable bag from my back pocket as people made a wide berth around me and my dog, and began to pick up Brontë’s mess.
“Way to make me look like an asshole,” I said to my sweet old girl with a chuckle as I retraced her smelly trail, knotted the bag, and we headed for home.
Twenty minutes later, I opened the front door to our house and watched her lumber slowly inside. With a long sigh I shut the door and leaned against it, peering through the bright white of the entryway at Brontë who had walked about ten paces and stopped. She clearly couldn’t decide if she should keep going to the comfort of her bed in my office or lie down where she was.
“I know, girl,” I said, kneeling beside her and touching my nose to hers. “It’s a tough call when you’re tired. But, hey, you did good today! You even took on a bully.” I kissed her long snout and got to my feet. “Come on, B. You can do it.”
Stepping around her, I encouraged her to the kitchen to where her bowl of water and a plethora of snacks awaited. I would do anything to get her to eat these days - including buying the dog equivalent of human junk food. But she wasn’t even interested in that.
That’s how I’d known we were in trouble.
“She’s fifteen,” Dr. Shepherd, our longtime veterinarian had said when I’d brought her in three days ago after she’d refused food and hadn’t bounded up with me in the morning like she always did. Not that I had been doing much bounding myself lately. In fact, the past year had been pretty boundless. But she’d always been keen to get going in the mornings, and seeing her falter this past week was worrying. “She’s an old lady, Graham,” the vet continued. “She’s done really well. Better than most I see in here. You’ve taken amazing care of her.”
As he said it, she looked to me and gave two solid thwacks of her tail. I smiled softly. She’d only ever done that for me. Everyone else got one thwack. But me, two. I always felt like it was her way of saying, “You and me, pal.”
Dr. Shepherd added quietly, “She’s winding down, my friend.”
I knew he was right, but I didn’t want to admit it. We’d been through a lot together. And thinking of being in this mausoleum of a house without her was unfathomable.
“Is there something I can do?” I asked. “Is there a timeline? Vitamins? Do you think she’s uncomfortable?”
He leaned down and put his forehead against hers, giving her ears a scratch right where she liked it best.
“Just love her. Let her lead the way. If she doesn’t want to go for a walk, don’t push her. If she’s not hungry, don’t force it. She’ll let you know when it’s time. I don’t think she’s uncomfortable. She doesn’t seem to be in any pain. She’s just worn out.”
“I know the feeling.”
He squeezed my arm. “I know you’ve had a rough few years. And this sure doesn’t help. I get it. But you have a new book coming out soon, right? And your column is better than ever. My wife and I cracked up over this past Sunday’s. That guy at the record store…”
