It’s been a few hours since my last Sudafed so I head into the kitchen to get another one. My head feels groggy from all the medication I’m taking, but it beats the otherwise constant pressure behind my face. As I struggle to remove one of the capsules from its foil packaging, I relive my surreal encounter with Amir. I may be getting good at ignoring a lot of things right now, but I’m sure as hell not doing a very good job suppressing the flurry of feelings stirred up by his unexpected appearance.
He looks almost the same as I remember, except his hair is a bit longer, and there are hints of grey at the temples. His face still has that openness, those kind eyes that radiate warmth. Where has he been living? How long is he planning on staying? I should have asked more questions, but I was caught off-guard by the sight of him and the moment was so rushed. He was in such a hurry to get away from me, or was I the one in a hurry?
I look down at the track pants I’m wearing and wonder what kind of impression I made. Did he notice my bedraggled appearance? When I was with him, I made more of an effort. He always looked so put together, so effortlessly fashionable, that I started paying more attention to my wardrobe. He was good at picking out things that would look good on me, too. I remember asking his opinion about what kind of shoes to wear with what pants, what top to wear. Did I mention to him this morning that I was sick? I’d hate for him to think I’m always such a mess now. He probably figured it out, seeing as I was heading into the pharmacy. I bet his first thought was how terrible I looked. This bugs me more than it should.
I swallow the Sudafed and head back to my uncomfortable couch. It’s times like this that I miss having a dog. If Champ were still alive, he’d be keeping me company right now. He’d rest his head on my knee and let me know, with his big, trusting eyes, that he understood. He was the only one who ever completely did.
THE FIRST TIME CHAMP HAD a seizure, I was sitting on the back deck with him, drinking a cooler, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on my skin, when his legs jerked out from under him and he started convulsing. The seizure only lasted a few seconds, but it scared the crap out of me. After he’d stopped shaking, he just lay there on the deck, panting, staring up at me.
I scooped his large body into my arms and carried him through the gate to the front lawn. I set him down and ran back to the house for my keys, tripping over my own feet. It wasn’t far to the vet’s office, but every time I had to slow down to make a turn or stop at an intersection, it felt like a hand was closing around my throat.
I explained to Dr. Ruigrok what had happened.
“How old is he?”
“Ten.”
Dr. Ruigrok nodded and after a physical examination and six hundred dollars’ worth of tests she informed me that Champ was suffering from kidney failure.
“Without an MRI or CT, I can’t be certain that the kidney failure is what caused his seizure, but ultimately his prognosis is very poor. I can refer you to a specialist for further investigation or we can try outpatient care with specialized food and medication which may not help, but may buy him some time.” Dr. Ruigrok waited for a moment, then left me alone with Champ to consider what she’d just said.
I stood beside the metal examination table scratching Champ’s head, murmuring over and over to him what a good dog he was. Eventually, I lifted him down and set him gently on the ground. He wagged his tail and followed me to the reception desk where I told the woman sitting there that I wanted the special food and medication Dr. Ruigrok had recommended.
Dr. Ruigrok appeared behind her. “You understand that this is a palliative measure,” she said. “It won’t fix or reverse his condition.”
“I know,” I said. “I still want it.”
On the short ride home, Champ seemed unusually subdued, as if he understood everything Dr. Ruigrok had said about him and his chances. I called Mom to tell her what had happened, looking for some reassurance, or maybe some sympathy.
“You should put him down,” she said, and before she could say anything else, I hung up. She never really loved Champ. Like Jonathan, she was put off by the fact that he sometimes still peed inside the house and she thought he was clingy.
“He never leaves you alone!” she complained at Thanksgiving, when Champ was following me from the living room to the kitchen and back again. That particular Thanksgiving wasn’t a very happy one. Ricky and Erika were in the midst of divorcing and Mom couldn’t wrap her head around what had gone wrong this time. Leah was three at the time, and at least Mom’s concern for her granddaughter outranked her irritation with my dog.
“I just don’t understand!” she said for the hundredth time as we sat down to eat. I’d made us a turkey roll instead of an entire turkey and I’m sure that was a disappointment as well. “Why are they doing this?”
“Because Ricky was cheating on Erika,” I told her. “Just like he cheated on Lauren.”
Mom was silent, but only for a moment. “Why?” she said. “Why does he do that?”
I shrugged, feigning indifference. But my skin prickled
