So I tell the Humane Society people to fuck off, even though they are literally screaming at me as I carry my dog outta there, telling me that I’m doing the wrong thing, that I’m being completely irresponsible.
As for me, well, all I can really do is laugh at that.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I call back, putting the dog in the front seat with me this time.
We drive off.
I look over at her, and she stares back curiously.
She stares and stares. She won’t break eye contact.
I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that’s a really bad sign.
Fuck.
Ch.27
Well, the dog hasn’t turned on me or Sue Ellen yet, so I guess I’d say things are working out all right.
I managed to get her all washed down with this, like, heavy-duty flea-killer stuff, and she’s starting to get used to being in the house, even if she does try to dig holes in the floor sometimes. Sue Ellen’s family has taken an interest in the dog, so they help us get her an appointment with a new vet. She’s this very strong, tall woman who thought to actually put a muzzle on the dog, which is totally what they should have done at the Humane Society. It also turned out that the dog is definitely not pregnant, and she’s been given medicine to get rid of the hookworms and whatever that were making her stool all bloody and making her throw up all the time.
So the dog’s doing good. And I finally settled on a name. See, Guitar Wolf is cool and all, but as Sue Ellen pointed out, if we’re going to try to get her adopted, we need to come up with a more normal, nice-sounding name. Since I found her in Charleston, I figured she’d be well suited to a nice Southern name like Tallulah. So Tallulah she is. That is, Tallulah Guitar Wolf Jackson, because I couldn’t give up on Guitar Wolf completely and Jackson is just the best last name ever. I’d say at this point Tallulah definitely knows her name pretty well, and I’ve been teaching her “come” in the fenced-in dog park.
Every day we walk and walk for hours, exploring all the different neighborhoods and hiking trails out by the beach. Thanks to her, I’m actually getting kinda healthy again and, well, I guess she could say the same thing about me.
It’s interesting for me to watch her, ’cause in many ways I still see so much of myself in her—even if that’s weird to say. I mean, like, when we’re walking around the neighborhood, she is constantly scanning the ground for traces of food, often snatching up torn wrappers or chicken bones or whatever before I can stop her. When I was homeless, I used to walk around the city for hours, searching the streets and gutters for fallen money or food or drugs or cigarettes. And I would find shit—wallets, packs of cigarettes, leftovers. Hell, one time I found a barber’s kit with $144 in it. But even after I got off the street, man, it was like I couldn’t stop doing that shit. It had become so ingrained in me that every time I walked anywhere, I’d have my eyes fixed on the ground. Honestly, I still catch myself doing that shit sometimes.
And, yeah, with Tallulah it’s like part of her knows she’s safe now and she gets fed every day and whatever, but then there’s this other part of her that can’t let go of all the trauma she’s lived through. Even now she’s wary and aggressive toward most men she sees—especially big men. Christ, Russell can’t go anywhere near her without her freaking out like she’s about to be beaten.
But she’s not. I mean, she’s safe.
She’s safe like I’m safe.
And she’s actually building, like, a real life now—just like I am.
We keep each other safe.
Every night she comes and sleeps pressed up against me—snoring nonstop now—I guess ’cause she’s finally able to really sleep, you know, without having to be afraid.
Of course, I can’t keep her.
There’s just no way.
First of all, I heard back from my editor about the pages I sent, and she was totally supportive. So, other than some minor revisions, it’s finally all set. That is, it’s going to be published. I can’t fucking believe it.
And the other really awesome thing is that when I finally talked to my dad, it turns out he was able to finish his own book about his experience living with my addiction.
So the publishers want both of our books to come out around the same time, and they want us to go on this big-ass book tour thing. That’ll mean we’ll both have to be traveling for, like, a whole month. And since there’s no way Sue Ellen would be able to take care of Tallulah, I’m gonna have to find her a permanent home before then.
Honestly, I really don’t like to talk about it. I mean, it’s gonna be impossible. But, whatever, I don’t need to worry about that shit now. For now all I have to do is try ’n’ find this six-mile trail Russell told me I needed to check out with Tallulah. Apparently, it winds along one of the inlets cutting in through the marshes. Russell says for him, coming out here is his way of going to church. We saw him last night for dinner—that’s when he drew me this little map and wrote out directions. He also kicked me down about a gram of this really good weed that someone at work gave him. We smoked a good bit last night, but I’m saving it this morning till Tallulah and I get to the trail. Really, I love hiking when I’m stoned.
It’s cool, you know, smoking weed feels so much better to me than drinking. Smoking weed is, like, positive and motivating for me. Plus, it won’t make
