The dog’s eyes go all black, bulging out of her head, absolutely terrified-looking. I stare down at her swollen pink belly and rub one of her hanging-down, greasy ears, saying, “Damn, girl, you sure are a mess.”
I take off my belt and loop it around the dog’s scrawny neck so the woman can finally let go.
“You should think about adopting her yourself,” she says, smiling—her mouth wide, exposing a mismatched jumble of crooked yellow teeth. “You two look good together.”
I’m not quite sure how she means that or whether I should be offended, but what I say is, “Nah, I can’t afford a dog. I’m barely getting by myself. Besides, I’m way too unstable.”
Her smile doesn’t wane or change or anything.
“I don’t know,” she sort of cackles. “I have a good feeling about you two. That’s all I’m gonna say. Here, why don’t you take my phone number so you can let me know what happens, okay?”
I agree, knowing full well I’m not ever going to call her.
I mean, I’m just no good on the phone. I practically have a goddamn phobia about it.
But, anyway, the woman pulls a scrap of paper out of her large, floral-patterned purse and writes her name and number down with a black permanent marker. Her name is Mary. I introduce myself and shake her plump little hand. “Good luck,” she tells me, patting me on the shoulder as I start tugging at the belt to try ’n’ get the dog moving. The dog doesn’t move. She looks up at me confused and weak and totally scared outta her mind.
“She probably doesn’t know how to walk on a leash,” says Mary. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s never even been inside before. I bet she was bred for hunting out in the country somewhere and, for whatever reason, they must’ve abandoned her. She easily could have been living as a stray for a year or more. So it’s going to take her some time to get used to, you know, normal dog things.”
“Right,” I tell her, bending down and lifting the poor, bony little dog in my arm—her eyes just about burstin’ out of her head, she’s so freaked out.
“Okay, well, thanks for your help,” I say—kinda stupidly, I guess, considering I’m the one who got stuck with the damn dog. I carry her across the street and manage to toss her into the backseat of the car before turning to wave good-bye to Mary one more time. Only thing is, she’s already gone—disappeared somewhere, even though that seems physically impossible.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter.
I get in the car and start driving to the Humane Society, doing my best to remember where the hell the place is. In the back, the dog doesn’t make a sound. Actually, she just cowers on the floor behind my seat, curled into a tight, tight little ball. My eyes catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal. The Humane Society will take her and get her adopted and that’ll be the end of it. I mean, obviously I can’t keep her myself. Not that I wouldn’t want to keep her. I had dogs all my life growing up. I love dogs. Hell, I hope someday I’ll be able to get one. But not now, man, there’s no way. I can’t be responsible for that shit. Christ, I can’t even take care of myself.
Every time I come to a red light, though, I can’t help but turn around and look at her. She’s in a bad way, man, that’s for sure. She’s starving, sick, homeless, afraid. She’s just like I used to be. I think back on how those friends of my family pulled me out of San Francisco when I was all strung out and homeless and stealing and turning tricks and sick and starving. They took me in off the streets like I was some damn dog—like this dog. And just like I was when they found me, she’s too scared and freaked out and damaged to recognize when someone’s trying to help her. But, anyway, like I said, the people at the Humane Society are gonna find her a good home, and that’s gonna be the end of it. There’s really no point in worrying. And there’s really no point in thinkin’ up names for her—even though I kind of am already. For example, Guitar Wolf would be kinda badass. But no, no. It’s best just to call her “dog” for now. “Dog” is best.
When I get to the Humane Society, I have a pretty hard time getting the dog out of the back. However much I sweet-talk her and try to coax her out, she refuses to move from her little contorted ball. I glance around the parking lot quickly, but there’s no one else outside.
After a couple more minutes of useless pleading with her, I finally decide just to try ’n’ carry her again. I reach down awkwardly and struggle to get her free from the tight little space she’s squeezed herself into. I hoist her up so she’s kinda pressed against my chest, and start walking inside. Above the main entrance is a large painted mural of different animals with a circle of silhouetted children dancing around them. The phrase Kids Love Animals is written across the top.
I use my body to push open the swinging glass doors. My tennis shoes squeak as I walk across the wet linoleum that smells strongly of disinfectant.
The obese woman with the butch haircut sitting behind the reception counter smiles sweetly at me as I walk over.
“Hi there,” she says, her accent real strong and twangy. “D’you find you that little doggy, did ya?”
“Yes, ma’m.”
The dog fidgets in my arms, so I readjust her before continuing. “Yeah, uh, we found her right off Victory. I’m not sure if she’s a stray or just got lost or what.”
“Hmm, yup, she looks like a stray,” the woman says. “I’d be real
