Another whistle, much like Lilly’s, makes me look over at the barn where Lloyd stands at the open doors, one arm raised high in greeting. I wave at him with a smile and watch as Pie and Gator hustle back inside.
“Lloyd is going to make sure everything is okay for those two for the rest of the day,” Lilly says. “His friend will be in town tomorrow afternoon, and he’ll come straight here. His name is Ezra Finn, and he has plenty of ranch experience. You’ll all be in good hands.”
I smile, but my gaze swings over to the old trailer just beyond the new paddock fencing. I don’t know why it’s still there, especially so close to the pristine new barn. It stands out like a sore thumb, stained and crumbling in the corners. The roof probably leaks terribly. The outside is in a terrible state, and Ican’t imagine what the inside looks like. It’s probably filled with fun stuff like bugs and other creepy-crawlies.
I’ll have to deal with that another time.
After thanking Lilly and saying our goodbyes, I head for the house. It’s a two-story high ranch, the wooden shingles blue, the trim white. Some of the wood is rotting and needs replacing, and I’ll have to have this roof checked for leaks, too, eventually.
As soon as the key slides into the lock, a chorus of barks begins behind the door. I take a deep breath, let it out slow and smile before swinging the door open and passing through, closing it behind me.
The barks are loud, but not aggressive as I slowly walk through the entryway, not looking at the fluffy creatures crowding around me, no matter how much I want to. I stay calm and positive all the way into the kitchen, where I place my keys on the tile countertop and slowly lower myself to sit on the tile floor. I’m immediately swarmed by waggly butts and sniffing noses, my smile growing wider with every jingle of dog tags around me.
A little Boston Terrier with a slightly offset black and white mask makes herself comfortable in my lap, and I peer at the collar around her neck: REMY.
“Hello, Remy,” I sing gently as I pet the top of her head.
A giant fluffy head rests on my shoulder from behind, sniffing my hair loudly against my ear, and I laugh. “Hey, bud.” I scratch one big, floppy ear, turning to see the cutest light chocolate eyes, surrounded by all-black fur, save a tiny bit of graying scruff on the chin. The dog tag says CROOZE.
There are three other dogs around us, one that looks like an all-black German Shepherd, only a bit smaller in stature, another that’s small with big, pointy ears, brown with a dark face, and another small terrier, all black with folded ears, that sits quietly away from us all, watching with intelligent brown eyes.
Eventually, I rise and go to the back of the kitchen where the food and water bowls are, noting as I refresh all their water that there are two more bowl sets than there are pups.
The wooden cabinets in the kitchen are dark wood, all the appliances are black, the counters and floor are tan tile. The whole house is dark, like old houses from the 70s and 80s usually are. I wouldn’t be surprised if the wood paneling on the walls in some of the rooms is still there today.
I walk through the house, checking on the state of the place, opening blinds, and making mental notes of all the things I’ll need to do, like dust and vacuum, replace the old beaten-up couch in the living room, along with some other items. I’ll need to make an official list and prioritize while figuring out my business plan.
This was all so sudden. And now that I’m here, now that it’s real…
My breathing stutters, and I plop on the edge of the creaky couch.
You can do this, Adley. You have to do this. Not just for Uncle Jim or for the animals, but for yourself. This is going to work out.
I press my lips together and steady my breathing when I notice the black terrier watching me from the doorway into the kitchen, her curious brown eyes assessing me. That’s when I hear the tiniest meow at my feet.
There, sitting only inches away, is a small gray and brown tabby cat with little white patches around its face and ears. At its feet is a fluffy blue ball with googly eyes. I slowly reach my hand out with a smile and gently rub my fingertips along the top of the cat’s head, realizing he hasn’t opened his eyes. The little tag on his collar reads ODIN.
That his eyes aren’t opening reminds me that, with fresh water taken care of, it would be best if I found Uncle Jim’s ledger toget a grasp on the histories of these little guys. So, I carefully make my way to Jim’s small office upstairs, finding it the cleanest room in the house so far. And what do you know? Wood paneling on the walls still.
My laugh is automatic as I approach the wooden desk against the far wall and rummage through papers until I find the brown leather-bound book with the built-in satin red ribbon acting as a place-marker. My fingers graze the cover’s texture before I gently sit in the desk chair and open the book.
My uncle’s delicate penmanship is all over the aged pages. At the front of the book, going back over thirty years, are lists of names, dates, backgrounds, likes, dislikes… About ten years in, he changes his method, dedicating one page, front and back, to each animal and including a Polaroid picture of each one, glued to the page, so many of them now faded with age, turning orange and washed out. When I come across a photo of a chocolate lab, a five-year-old me with my arms around her, grinning wide, my vision swims, my chest grows tight. I run my fingertips across her loving face as a hot tear trails down my cheek.
Springer.
She was my first dog bond and my first ever loss.
I’ve never stopped missing her. Which is why, when my uncle left me this place, I knew I needed to honor her in the best way I could.
Uncle Jim would approve, I know it.
A tap on my knee draws my attention there to where the black terrier with the folded ears has reared up, little paws on my knee, looking up at me with those beautiful chocolate eyes.
“Hi, baby.” My voice is soft, almost a whisper.
Her head tilts inquisitively as she gives a little hop. A request? A demand? My thought’s confirmed when I reach down and scoop her up into my arms and onto my lap, where she sits on her butt like a little person and leans back, exposing her belly,the dog tag on her collar glinting in the light with her name: NIKKI.
She snuggles into the crook of my elbow and peers up at me with those eyes, and a wave of calm washes over me. I give her ear a rub, then her little belly, and give her a light squeeze of a hug. “Thanks, girl.”
