Your friend Ama
My first impulse is to take the clipboard and fling it into the fireplace. My second impulse is to give it a try. It can’t get any worse than me feeling crazy most days. What have I got to lose? I pick up the clipboard and read the letter again.
So. So. It looks like I have a self-appointed friend called Ama. I swing my head around as if I can catch her standing behind me. There is nobody there, just me giving myself a crick in the neck. Sharing the body with me? In which universe isn’t that odd? When Charlotte talked about multiple personalities, it sounded outrageous and crazy. Ama’s letter appears pretty normal, not crazy at all. If it is possible that events can confuse one in a good way, I can confirm: I am confused. Confused and hopeful. Charlotte often said, “All will be well.” Perhaps she was right?
At least I didn’t hallucinate. There was someone here, and that someone did an excellent job cleaning the house. Using my body while cleaning the house? Is it even my body? I still don’t get how that works, but it explains my sore muscles. They are not only using my body, but they are also invading my thoughts. That’s the weirdest of all, that my thoughts are no longer private. Perhaps they never have been, and I just didn’t know it?
Stacks of peanut butter sandwiches in cling wrap beckon from the kitchen cupboard. Leftovers from the trip down from Waitakere Flats, I guess. However, I’m not hungry at all. I take a bottle of water, grab the money and the shopping bag, purposefully stride out of the house and hop into the van. I hope they don’t get into any mischief while I’m in town. Then I remember. They are where the body is. That means they are with me. Oh, this is so creepy.
On the way into town, I catch myself looking to my right and left expecting any moment to notice one of the Tribe, as Ama called it, popping out. That’s ridiculous, I know. It won’t happen. Even the voices in my head, that have driven me to distraction in the past, seem to have gone away. I feel an odd sense of loneliness.
My first stop is the SPCA. I’m excited to get a rescue dog. It’s not only good for protection; the animal will also give me company and someone to cuddle and take care of. I like that. I park the van and enter the building. As so often happens, the people in the office look at me sideways. I make a mental note to change my dress code from hippy bohemian to dungarees and checked bush shirt. Otherwise, people here won’t take me seriously. But then, I don’t want people to take me at all. Ideally, I want them to forget me the moment I close the door behind me.
“I’m looking to adopt a guard dog.”
A young man with the nametag Peter had hard-working farmer’s son written all over him. He sizes me up from head to toe as if he wants to determine whether I’m capable of dealing with any breed larger than a miniature schnauzer.
“We don’t have many big dogs. Come through, I’ll show you.”
The kennels are located at the back. With every step, my heart feels heavier and heavier. There are so many dogs looking at us through wire-netting fencing. I swear each one looks at me with a silent “Pick me” in their eyes. If I could, I would take them all, but that’s impossible. I don’t dare to ask how long they keep the animals before the center euthanizes them because the answer will give me sleepless nights filled with guilty feelings. My gaze falls on the dog in the kennel second to last at the end of the hallway. I stop and look up at Peter and dip my head toward the German Shepherd Rottweiler mix in front of me.
“What’s his story, Peter?”
“He’s pretty old. He’s a good boy and the staff love him. His owner died. He’s been here for four months now and he’s earmarked for being put down.”
“It’s hard to re-home old dogs, isn’t it? I used to work for a vet and we often had problems finding a place for older dogs. It’s a shame. How old is he?”
“He’s eight years old. No papers, though.”
“I don’t need papers.” I kneel in front of the dog’s kennel and admire his beautiful dark fur. It could be shinier, but that might change as soon as he lives outside of the kennel. He looks at me with attentive eyes, following each of my movements. The information on the outside of the kennel says his name is Prince. It’s a strong name. Just right for a strong dog.
“Can I take him out and walk him a bit?”
Peter reaches for his keys and opens the kennel door. “No problem. Looks like you know what you’re doing”
“After ten years of vet-nursing, I do hope so.”
I take Prince outside and walk with him in the backyard. His previous owner trained him well. He stops when I stop, walks at my heel, and doesn’t pull. I try a few common commands, like sit and stay. I let go of the leash and walk away. When I’m at the hedge, I turn around and call Prince. He comes immediately. I know enough. I found my dog. I buy a collar and leash for Prince and a month’s worth of dog food.
Without hesitation, Prince jumps into the passenger seat, looking at me with a sense of entitlement as if he’s claiming his rightful place.
“Is the front seat where you used to sit?” I stroke him and let him lick my hand. “Okay then, buddy, but no comments on my driving or you’re going in the
