But, anyway, yeah, I follow Russell’s map to the trail entrance. There’s a sort of dense, low-lying fog covering the marsh so that the tops of the trees are obscured completely, and a silvery light reflects off the gray, still water. As soon as I turn off the car, Tallulah is immediately scratching at the door and sort of half whining, half barking in excitement. I tell her “shh” and rub her ear until she kinda bites at my hand, giving me a look like “Don’t you fucking touch me” and growling some to back it up. Fucking dog is a liability. But she definitely knows how to get what she wants—and I gotta respect her for that.
So I let her go on whining and scratching at the door while I take a couple of hits of the herb Russell gave me. Honestly, what they call good weed here doesn’t even come close to the pot you get in California. The worst shit there is better than the best shit here—no joke. But, I mean, whatever—it still gets me high. My brain kinda clouds over, and I feel this rush of energy and weightlessness surging through my body. A warm sort of joy floods my mind. Colors and sounds become mysterious and fascinating. The world is wide open, and I watch it all unfold with the eyes of a child—everything new, exciting, beautiful, in a way I could never be aware of if I was sober. Every branch and grain of sand and insect fit together perfectly in this harmonious landscape of shared energy and molecular connections. We are all one, and nothing is a mistake. My life, the fact that I’m here right now with Tallulah—it’s all exactly the way it’s supposed to be. My entire existence has culminated in this moment, and I wouldn’t change one thing. I’m just so grateful to be here now.
I open the car door.
Immediately Tallulah takes off down the trail, smelling frantically, chasing different scents out into the marsh, through the bramble, and then back onto the path. She barks and bays like a good hound dog should—yet she’s always aware of where I am, following along with me as I walk. Occasionally she’ll check in, and I’ll give her water from my pack and pet her. When she’s outside, she lets me pet her without being afraid at all—I guess maybe ’cause she knows she has an escape route. Anyway, I take what I can get, until she runs off again—the biggest, goofiest smile on her face you could possibly imagine.
It seems like she has a pretty good life now, and I’m so grateful to be able to give her that. Although she’s totally given me the same thing. Everything is falling into place. I mean, goddamn, I’m going to have a book published. And honestly, I really gambled everything on the hope that it would happen—that I would make it happen. Dropping out of college, living the way I’ve lived, the one thing I had to believe in was my dream of writing a book and getting it published. Well, it’s all happening now. It really feels like a miracle. And walking here, along the dusty dirt trail—tiny black crabs scattering with every step—the fog starting to break apart beneath the sun, revealing a massive metal cargo ship moving slowly up the waterway—Tallulah darting in every direction—I have to say, I feel content. My life is good. The world is good—beautiful, even. And for once I really don’t wish I were someone else. I’m actually kind of cool with being me. It feels totally bizarre—but, uh, good, just the same.
For an instant I close my eyes and inhale, long and deep.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
My eyes open.
And I scream it out.
“Thank you!”
Tallulah freezes in the distance and comes running back to me fast, like she thinks she’s in trouble.
I tell her not to worry, that I wasn’t talking to anyone.
Though I guess I could’ve been talking to a whole lot of people, huh?
There are tears now at the back of my eyes.
And I wonder why I’m such a pussy.
Ch.28
So, apparently there’s some couple a few hours south of here, in Jacksonville, who saw our posting of Tallulah on the Internet and have decided to adopt her. Actually, unless something goes wrong, we’re planning on leaving her there with them today after we drive down.
I mean, it’s not that I don’t want the damn dog, because I do—obviously. It feels good taking care of another living thing—focusing on its needs and desires more than my own—trying to give it a good life—you know, the good life it deserves.
Have I been able to give that to Tallulah?
Yeah, to tell you the truth, I think I have. I think I’ve done a pretty all right job—way better than I would’ve expected. She’s come a long way. And, well, I guess I have, too. I mean, she’s definitely helped me as much as I’ve helped her.
But now it’s time for her to find a permanent home—with a permanent family.
This really is for the best.
Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
On the drive
