“Oh!” Nate calls out with a laugh. “Someone had too much sticky toffee pudding!”
“He didn’t have any of that, did he?” I ask.
Nate comes around the back of the vehicle. “I saw Uncle George offering it to him under the table. Scooter didn’t say no.”
I click my tongue as I reach into the front seat for the bag of leftovers. “Scooter, you know better than that. Uncle George can’t be trusted.” I hand the bag to Nate. “Last year he gave him a bowl of whipped cream drizzled in Grand Marnier.”
“He didn’t,” Nate replies. “How’d you like that, Scooter?”
Scooter doesn’t respond.
“He loved it,” I say, “but he had the runs for two days.”
“Not surprised.” Nate moves closer. “Let’s go. Dolly’s waiting at the elevator.”
Scooter still doesn’t move, and suddenly, the sticky-toffee-pudding story doesn’t seem so funny anymore.
“Are you okay, buddy?” I ask, leaning in to rub his back. “Are you sick?”
He still doesn’t respond, and I feel a tight squeeze in my chest that escalates to panic. Suddenly, I’m thrust back to the hospital where I’ve just learned that Jacob is dead. The sun is shooting toward the earth like a fiery cannonball. We’re all done for. It’s a familiar sensation that has required years of therapy to overcome.
But thank goodness, Scooter lifts his head. He rises on all fours, stretches, and lumbers toward me.
“You’re okay,” I say with relief, backing up to give him some room to jump out of the car. He walks nonchalantly toward the elevator, and I turn to Nate. “That scared me.”
“Me too, a little,” he replies. “But he’s fine.”
Nate and I gather everything we can and lock the vehicle. As we walk with our arms full of boxes and bags, I watch Scooter lie down in front of the elevator doors, and I’m not entirely confident that he’s fine.
Sometimes I worry that I’m always going to feel like I’m standing on the edge of a high precipice, looking down with terror, forever teetering. Expecting to lose everyone I love.
I’ve often believed that the only other living being on this planet who truly understands my PTSD is Scooter.
Of course, my therapist and parents “understand” it. They offer intelligent advice, sympathy, and concern when warranted. But it’sdifferent with Scooter because he and I share it. Whenever I feel the oncoming trauma of a memory—as if I’m experiencing the fall from Cape Split all over again, in real time—I’ve been told that I appear to go into a trance.
Scooter does too. He stares at me intensely. But within seconds, his tail starts to wag. Then he whimpers anxiously and nuzzles the inside of my wrist with his nose until I, too, am released from the memory.
He’s never been trained to be a service dog, but that’s what he is to me. A quick snuggle with him, or the gentle lick of his tongue on my cheek, always calms me. He’s the guardian of my soul, the protector of my heart and my physical body, and I don’t know what I’d do without him.
“He just passed gas again,” Nate tells me as I emerge from the bathroom, still brushing my teeth.
Scooter is stretched out on his side, dead center on our king-size bed. Nate draws the sheet up over his nose to mask the smell while he gives Scooter a gentle kick from under the covers. “Dude. What did you eat? A dead racoon?”
Scooter lifts his head with indifference, then flakes out again.
“He can’t help it,” I mutter through a frothy mouthful of toothpaste before I turn around and spit into the sink.
A moment later, I shut off the bathroom light, kick off my slippers, and climb into bed. I sit forward and rub Scooter’s chest. “You’ll feel better in the morning. And for the record, I feel bloated too. It’s a good thing Christmas dinner comes only once a year.”
When I look at Nate, he’s still hiding his nose and mouth behind the sheet, and Dolly has hopped off the bed to sleep in the closet.
I can’t help but laugh. “Come on, you guys. It’s notthatbad.”
“We’ll agree to disagree.”
I switch off the light, lie down, roll to my side, and face Nate, with Scooter occupying the space between us.
Then I realize that Nate and Dolly were right. The stench truly is that bad, so I tug the duvet up over my head. “I think this is stretching the outer limits of unconditional love.”
