I’ve never been to Florida before, so I guess that’s something, but the drive is plain and ugly and depressing—miles and miles of strip malls; sick, half-dead palmetto trees; trailer parks; shapeless, colorless factory buildings; shapeless, colorless suburban tract homes. Jacksonville itself is gray and industrial and mostly empty.
As we get closer to the suburban community where the couple lives, Tallulah climbs up halfway into the front seat, balancing shakily on the center armrest. She leans her body over on mine, putting her front left paw up on my shoulder so I’m supporting a good bit of her weight. Her body trembles, and she makes these little whining, squeaking noises as she licks at my face kinda frantically. I’m driving and her breath is stank, but I don’t try ’n’ stop her, like I normally would.
All I do is to tell her, “I know, girl. It’s okay.”
I’m not sure if that’s the truth or not anymore. But Sue Ellen has tears in her eyes now, too.
Fuck.
When we pull up to the house, it takes us both a good five minutes before we open our doors—securing Tallulah’s leash and walking her up the redbrick front walkway.
Honestly, I think I was sort of hoping the place would be a shit-hole trailer or something, so I’d be let off the hook.
It’s not, though.
I mean, it looks super nice—one those sort of ’50s ranch-style single-story houses that stretch out real long on both sides—accented with fussy little flower beds and perfectly manicured grass. Palm trees line the driveway. Polished stones decorate the front entrance.
Sue Ellen’s small hand reaches out to press the electronic doorbell, and almost immediately a flesh-colored blob appears blurred behind the etched, fleur-de-lis-shaped glass set into the stained-wood paneling.
The door opens—followed by a high-pitched series of shrieks and oohs and aahs.
“Isn’t she precious,” the rotund woman coos like her tongue’s coming loose in her mouth. “Come here, baby, meet your new mama.”
Tallulah pulls at her leash in the opposite direction, getting herself tangled behind my legs, but, thank God, not snarling yet.
“Sorry,” I say weakly. “She has a hard time with strangers sometimes.”
The woman straightens herself up, adjusting the narrow-framed glasses on her childishly sculpted Play-Doh face.
“Of course, I understand. Poor wittle doggy wog.”
I bite the inside of my mouth. “Yeah, well, uh, anyway, sorry…. I’m Nic and this is, uh, Sue Ellen and you must be, uh…”
“Pam,” she says brightly. “I’m Pam. It’s so nice to meet you both.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Sue Ellen tells her.
We all shake hands, and then Pam invites us in.
“Jock’s finishing up on the grill out back, but I know he’s just dying to set his eyes on little Tallulah, so if you don’t mind, I’ll give y’all a tour of the house after lunch. Y’all do eat meat, don’t ya? I sure do hope so, though, I must say, I never know what crazy notions you kids’ll take into yer heads next.”
Sue Ellen fields that one. “No, don’t worry, we eat meat. Ha-ha. No crazy notions here.”
I put a hand on Sue Ellen’s waist just to reassure her.
The inside of the house, from what I can see so far, is all very, um, precious. There’re little glass trinkets and figurines all over the place, plus lots of superfluous, fragile decorations and pure-white carpets Tallulah would have no problem destroying in a matter of seconds. On the other hand, yeah, the backyard is giant. That’s definitely not something I could ever give her. And even though I take her on all kinds of hikes and things, that’s still not the same as having a big yard to run around in all day. Tallulah deserves a house like this. She deserves more than just a little studio apartment. She deserves someone who’ll always be able to pay for her medical bills and dog treats. Hell, as it is, that Pam woman’s already given Tallulah more treats in the last few minutes than I’d say I ever have in her whole goddamn life. Although, I think that might have to do with what a clever little manipulator Tallulah’s turned out to be. After each treat she’s received, Tallulah sits again, staring up at the woman with large, imploring, pitiful eyes.
“She won’t ever stop,” I say, laughing. “She’ll keep eating ’em till she explodes.”
The woman shakes her head. “No, no. The poor little thing’s just hungry.”
She gives up another treat.
I mean, what can I say? Tallulah’s pimping the shit out of her right now.
Anyway, when we get out into the yard, the woman tells me I can let Tallulah off leash—so I do. No surprise the gluttonous little hound runs straight for the barbecue and the smell of cooking meat. She’s actually just about to pounce on the plate of greasy, swollen hot dogs, when the seriously large man attending them, who somehow Tallulah didn’t seem to notice, suddenly turns and surprises the shit out of her. Tallulah’s tail tucks up tight between her legs, and she bolts off into the corner of the yard, cowering like she’s just been beaten or something.
“Sorry,” I say, rushing over. “She can be pretty wary of men. I mean, especially bigger men. She’ll be all right, though. Come on, Tallulah,” I call out.
Tallulah doesn’t listen.
Then the big man takes a step toward her, and she immediately starts growling like she really means business.
“Sorry,” I say again, this time directly to the man. “She’s a big ol’ scaredy-cat. Why don’t we let her calm down for a minute? Is that okay?”
He kinda guffaws and slaps me on the back. “Aw, no problem, buddy. We understand, don’t we, Pammy?”
Pammy says yes, and then the man sticks out his white, freckled hand to me, grinning and introducing himself as Jock.
I shake his hand and then
