Dog Crazy

by Meg Donohue

  The problem is that he is always pulling out of his collar on walks and darting away into traffic. Not a smart move for a city dog. And now this train issue. As I study his photograph, I realize that it all shows in his expression. Seymour’s eyes, while soft brown and shaped like a golden retriever’s, hold neither a golden’s friendly confidence nor a basset’s droll charm. The look in his eyes, unfortunately, is straight-up neurotic. And whoever took that photo snapped it at a moment when Seymour’s eyes were so wide open that you could see crescents of white around his golden brown irises, lending him a particularly nutty look. Everyone can see his vibrating nerves right there in his expression before they even hear the stories from the various foster families between which he’s been shuttled.

  But he is lovably neurotic! Can’t they see this, too? Neurotic, but sweet. The sweetness in his eyes is obvious. An eagerness and an ache.

  Owen Wilson, I think.

  I’d take him myself if I could. Of course I would. I’m a dog person and I know that eventually I’ll get another one, but I don’t want to rush it. And even if I believed there was room in my heart for a new dog right now—which I don’t—I’d still know that I’m the wrong companion for a dog like Seymour. How could a person in my state teach him to let go of his anxiety? How could I assure him he was safe, his future secure? We’d probably end up hiding behind the couch together.

  I briefly consider asking Lourdes if she’d take him in. They have plenty of room for another dog, and Giselle, with her buoyant good cheer, would surely be a good influence on a timid dog like Seymour. But if I speak to Lourdes, I know she’ll just try to convince me to adopt him myself.

  I write back to Sybil, letting her know that I’ll update Seymour’s status to “urgent,” bump him to the top of the “adoptable” list, and add “no trains” to his description.

  As I’m clicking through the SuperMutt website, I remember an article I read recently about a rescue organization that increased interest in its animals by naming them after celebrities. Figuring it can’t hurt, I decide to go through all of the SuperMutt dogs’ pages and add celebrity doppelgängers to their descriptions.

  I study a photograph of a tawny pug-beagle mix with toothpick legs and a long pink tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth. Aka: Miley Cyrus, I write at the top of her description.

  A pale brown American pit-bull terrier–Labrador with hazel eyes, a strong jaw, and a chiseled physique: Channing Tatum.

  A glossy-coated shar-pei–shepherd leveling a flat, unamused gaze at something just beyond the camera: Silver Medal Gymnast McKayla Maroney.

  And sweet, fretful Seymour: Owen Wilson.

  What else can I do?

  SEVERAL NAPS LATER, Giselle snores so loudly that she wakes herself up. She stands and stretches her front legs in front of her, butt in the air, tail wagging. I’m sprawled on the couch, reading a book. She ambles over to me and unceremoniously shoves her long snout under my hand.

  “Time to go out?” I ask, dreading the thought. The sun is low now, the sky darkening. I consider just letting Giselle relieve herself in the yard, but at the sound of my voice, she starts hopping around as though the floor has turned into a pit of hot coals. When she does a full-body, loosey-goosey shimmy, I can’t help but smile. I clip on her leash, wrap it around my hand, and we head up the path. I count out long steady breaths, willing the pre-panic bird that flutters uncomfortably in my chest to stay small. The little bird I can handle—the beast, I’d rather not have to find out.

  This time, I make an effort to lift my eyes from Giselle’s back every few feet. Even though I feel more confident, I keep the leash short. My heartbeat is a loud, staccato thud in my ears, but it’s not racing. I feel clear-eyed, determined. Giselle doesn’t call too much attention to herself as she trots along at my side, barely glancing at the people we pass on the sidewalk as we near the shops on Cole Street. She has a self-contained, focused air that, happily, doesn’t invite the fawning intrusion of strangers.

  Toby would not have been so stately. He was more social butterfly than dog on our walks, always prancing up to people, grinning and mugging for a bit of attention. His eyes were joyful, sparkling below his sprocket of bangs, and his furry black bell-bottoms were, in all seriousness, hilarious. I’m not bragging when I say he really was a head turner. Even the most hardened, late-for-work Philadelphian seemed susceptible to Toby’s goofy charms, stopping to pet his silky coat, or tell him what a ray of sunshine he was in the neighborhood, or ask me what kind of dog he was. Even with all of the extracurricular activities my mother enrolled me in, I’d been a reserved kid, a reader and an observer, more inclined to sit on the side and watch than jump in. Toby changed that—he changed me. He taught me that I really could talk to anyone; in fact, it was with Toby by my side that I discovered how comfortable people felt opening up to me, telling me stories of their own dogs, and in so doing, their lives. With Toby by my side, I blossomed from a self-conscious teen to a more confident adult. Some of that was just growing up, but some of it, I really believe, was Toby.

  I’m not saying Toby was perfect. For reasons I can’t begin to understand, his usually melodious bark turned high-pitched and annoying when he was around water. He seemed physically incapable of pooping in an easy-to-pick-up pile; instead he walked in circles as he went, resulting in a chain of poops that looked not unlike a miniature Stonehenge. He was a clown who liked to be the center of attention, trotting around constantly when I had company over, to the point where even I sometimes wished he would just lie down. And when he sat beside me, he always liked to put his paw on top of my arm. I’d read somewhere that this was a sign of dominance and shouldn’t be allowed, but I didn’t mind. I let him think he was in charge, and I suspect he let me think the same.

  Giselle and I cross Cole Street and head down Stanyan Street toward Golden Gate Park. There are some scruffy-looking people with big backpacks milling around the entrance to the park at Stanyan and Haight streets. Some are sprawled out on a patchy stretch of grass. Quite a few of them have dogs—playful, bounding puppies and older, thicker mutts adorned with bandannas. I don’t begrudge those drifters the warm comfort and affection of a dog, but I can’t help worrying about the level of care their dogs receive. Sybil Gainsbury has told me that injured, sick, often simply flea-ridden dogs are sometimes abandoned in the area. Every couple of weeks, she walks through the park handing out travel containers of dog food, flea powder, and flyers for inexpensive vaccination clinics. She has invited me to join her on those walks, but I’ve always told her that I’m too busy with work.

  I’d like to continue to the park entrance now to check if the dogs look healthy, but something stops me. It’s the crowd, I realize. What if the panic hits me when I’m in the middle of it? Just the thought of falling to pieces in front of so many people makes my skin prick with dread. Better to stick to quieter areas where I have a chance of keeping my anxiety under wraps.

  Baby steps, I remind myself, and turn down a path that hugs the southern edge of the park. The path rises and falls, offering glimpses of the city on one side, the park on the other. There is beauty in every direction, and I try to look up every so often before dropping my eyes back to the path ahead.

  When I finally allow myself to turn toward home, I immediately search the sky for a glimpse of Sutro Tower, the huge red-and-white transmission tower that looms atop Mount Sutro. There it is, high above Cole Valley, looking like an upside-down claw from one of those arcade games, poised to snag the clouds. Lourdes once told me that San Francisco needs the three-pronged tower because the city’s many hills block reception, and I remember from my early weeks here that from just about anywhere in the city’s maze of streets you can still see that tower. It’s comforting to know that no matter how far I walk, I can look for it and it will show me the way home.

  BACK IN MY apartment, Giselle laps up the water and then, panting, wanders into my bedroom. I stand at the kitchen counter, chewing vitamin C and listening to the s
ounds of her poking around in the other room. When she doesn’t come back, I follow her.

  I find her standing in front of my bedside table, sniffing the box that holds Toby’s ashes.

  Yes, I keep Toby’s ashes next to my bed. Where else should I put them? In a drawer? On the mantel? There’s really no right place to put a dog’s ashes, is there? Anyway, I live alone; I’m the only person who has been in my bedroom since I moved here.

  During our third week in San Francisco, I borrowed Lourdes’s car and drove up the coast with Toby. Those first few weeks in San Francisco had been wonderful. There’s something to be said for starting over in a new city after a breakup. I was happy. The weeks had passed in a whir of activity—tackling the logistics of setting up a private practice, decorating the apartment, catching up with Lourdes and Leo, and finally getting to know their children better. I was looking forward to a spell of quiet that afternoon with Toby, just the two of us.

  A couple of hours north of the city, I pulled the car into the parking lot of a small beach. I pushed my vertigo aside as Toby and I made our way slowly along a narrow trail that zigzagged down a steep hill and deposited us on a crescent of sand tucked against the cliffs. The ocean roared with waves far bigger than the little East Coast swells we were used to, and the sky was bright turquoise. We were the only ones on the beach. Toby was usually wild in open spaces like beaches, racing around and doing his irritating barking-at-water thing, sending sand flying out from below his paws. But that day, when I sat in the sand and took off his leash, he just trotted a few feet ahead of me and lay down and gazed out at the waves. I was surprised, and amused, and I let him be. His body was still but his neck was long, his ears perked and alert as he looked out at the sea. It was as though he was mesmerized. We both sat like that for a stretch of time, separate but not alone, taking in the enormous beauty of this place we found ourselves in.

  I realize now that his regal calm that day might have been an indication of the illness rapidly spreading through him. But at the time it just seemed to me that he was awestruck, and grateful, and experiencing one of those fleeting moments of true peace that are available to each of us if we are wise enough to sense their presence, step into them, and breathe.

  I plan to bring Toby’s ashes to that beach. Someday. But at the moment, even with three trips beyond the gate under my belt, even if I were to bring Giselle with me, it seems an impossible feat.

  THAT NIGHT, SLEEPLESS as ever, I pull my laptop into bed and open a new e-mail. Giselle, who is curled up with her head on the pillow beside mine, opens her eyes and looks at me but doesn’t move. I might be a little nuts with all my hand washing and vitamins, but I have no problem with a dog sleeping on my bed. Mental illness. Go figure.

  I start typing, feeling Giselle’s gaze on me the whole time.

  Dear Anya,

  I hope that Billy has returned. If he hasn’t, I’d like to help you look for him.

  Maggie Brennan

  I insert the e-mail address from the flyer that Anya had left with me, take a breath, and press send.

  Moments later, Anya’s name appears in my in-box. Meet me tomorrow at nine a.m., she writes, followed by an address.

  Tomorrow is Sunday and I don’t have any patient sessions scheduled. I Google the address Anya sent and see that she lives within walking distance of Cole Valley in a neighborhood called Ashbury Heights.

  I look at Giselle, silently asking her if she’s up for it. She rolls onto her side, groans, and then the smell hits me. It seems that the poodle’s delicate system is no match for Toby’s old biscuits.

  “Giselle!” I moan. I yank the covers up over my head, sealing myself away. My computer glows in the darkness of the cave I’ve created.

  I’ll be there, I respond, and send the e-mail before I can change my mind.

  Chapter 6

  The winding streets of Ashbury Heights have an eccentric, storybook feel. Unlike Philadelphia, where the rows of homes have an elegant, colonial monotony, the houses in San Francisco are all different—a Victorian flanked by a Craftsman flanked by a midcentury modern. It’s architectural mayhem; trying to guess what one house will look like based on the neighboring house is like trying to forecast tomorrow’s weather based on today’s—in this city, you just never know. I’d forgotten this in my months in the apartment.

  I keep Giselle close and search for Sutro Tower after each turn, breathing through waves of dizziness and dread. Anya’s flyers—the ones with the photograph of Billy—are taped to every telephone pole and street sign I pass along the way. Those wildly leaping and grinning Billys keep me going. The woman who took that photo loves her dog and is lost without him, and maybe I can help her.

  When I reach the address Anya gave me, I double-check her e-mail. This can’t be right, I think, looking up at the house from across the street. But it is.

  The house is set on a double-wide lot and is twice the size of the neighboring houses, each of which make Lourdes’s perfectly lovely Victorian seem about the size of a Pomeranian’s doghouse. I stand rooted to the sidewalk for a moment, surprised not only by the sheer size of the house but also by the fact that it is, quite literally, falling apart. Every inch of the painted white trim appears to be peeling. Rotted shingles cling so tenuously to the roof they seem in imminent danger of dropping to the ground, like browned petals from a dying bloom. A driveway of crumbling concrete runs beside the house, barred at the sidewalk by a gate covered in shiny, poisonous-looking vines and cinched tight by a rusted padlock.

  I wonder which floor Anya’s apartment is on, and hope, for both of our sakes, that it isn’t the top story—two of the three windows up there, tucked into a row of eaves, are boarded over.

  Giselle, naturally, isn’t bothered. She looks up at me and slowly wags her tail. What’s the holdup? she seems to be asking. I take a deep breath and cross the street.

  A rustling sound stops me in my tracks. When a man emerges from the shadows in front of the house, I jump, gripping Giselle’s leash tight in my hand, and stumble backward, heart pounding.

  “Sorry! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” The man holds up his hands apologetically. “I’m Henry. Anya’s brother.”

  I stare at him. “Why are you hiding in the bushes?”

  “No, I’m not . . . I’m not hiding. I was waiting for you.” He glances curiously at Giselle and then up at me. He seems to be in his midthirties, and though his skin has more of an olive cast than Anya’s, his eyes are the same brownish-green color as hers. He has high cheekbones like his sister, too, though his don’t jut out in the same unnerving way.

  “You’re Maggie Brennan?” he asks. His brow creases as he studies me, color rising in his cheeks. He seems flustered, rattled, though I can’t imagine why—after all, he’s the one who just jumped out of the bushes.

  I nod. “Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand. Unlike Anya, Henry is pleasantly tidy; the cuffs of his button-down shirt are rolled into crisp folds on his forearms, his thick brown hair is neatly cut, and his jaw is clean-shaven. He looks like the kind of guy who washes his hands with some frequency, who makes a concerted effort not to contract or spread illness. In fact, he’s the one who pulls curtly away from our handshake, shifting his gaze toward the house and then back to me again.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks in a low voice.

  “I’m—well, I’m supposed to be meeting Anya.” I swallow, confused by his accusatory tone. “Is she here?”

  “Don’t you usually meet your patients in your office?”

  “Yes, but your sister—”

  Henry interrupts. “My sister is in need of professional help, not a walking buddy.”

  I take a deep breath. “Oh. I see. I understand your concern—”

  “I don’t think you do,” he says sharply, interrupting again. I can see he is attempting to contain his anger, struggling to keep his voice low. “I don’t think you understand just how detrimental your actions could be to my sister’s mental h
ealth. Why on earth would you promise to help look for her dog?”

  I gesture toward the front door and try to make my voice sound smooth and professional despite a growing uncertainty about my decision to come here. “The situation is complicated. Why don’t we go inside and include Anya in this conversation?”

  “No.” Henry’s expression is pained. “I . . . she doesn’t want me to be involved.”

  “Ah.” I lower my voice to match his. “And you’re trying to find a way to help without her knowing that’s what you’re doing?”

  He gives a small, tight nod.

  “Sounds like we’re in the same boat. Anya doesn’t want me to be her therapist. She made it very clear during our appointment, which she left early, that she would not be returning to my office. But I think you were right to reach out to me; she needs to talk to someone about losing Billy. If the only way for me to keep seeing her is to help look for him, then that’s what I’ll do. But I won’t be counseling her in the conventional sense.” I remember that the crumpled check Anya gave me was signed by her brother, so I add, “And I won’t send a bill.”

  I can tell that Henry is listening to me now, really listening, but he’s not quite ready to relent. “You know,” he says, “I called your boss, Dr. Elliott, at the grief clinic at Philadelphia Hospital. And I spoke with Cheryl somebody at the Philadelphia SPCA, too. I didn’t want to send my sister to some quack. They both assured me that you are one of the best grief counselors they’ve ever employed. They told me there wasn’t a doubt in their minds that you would be able to help Anya.”

  I feel my face flush. I’m pleased to hear the votes of confidence from Greg and Cheryl, but I’m embarrassed, too, as though just thinking of them might allow them to see how I’ve changed since I left Philadelphia. If they knew how I’d allowed panic and grief to rule my life for the last three months, I doubt they’d recommend my counseling services so readily. I straighten, pulling Giselle closer. All the more reason to prove that I can help Anya. I’ll get both of our lives back on track at the same time.