Dog Crazy

by Meg Donohue

  Sybil watches me take in the room. “And the pièce de résistance . . .” she says, waving her hand with a graceful flourish. I turn and see that the wall behind us holds the seven three-by-five-foot black-and-white photographs of the dogs that we picked for the silent adoption auction. “Didn’t Anya do an amazing job? I don’t know where you found that girl, but I’m sure glad you did.”

  I’m overwhelmed by the power and beauty and wit of the photographs. Each one fairly hums with the spirit of the dog it portrays; joy, devotion, sweetness, mischief, trust, dignity, and humor radiate from the dogs’ eyes. Below each photograph, Sybil has printed and enlarged the descriptions that I wrote. The dog’s name and, in parentheses, the name of their famous doppelgänger, are boldfaced in capital letters at the top of each bio. I walk along the row of photographs, my smile growing with every step. There’s Vivien Leigh (the sassy little schipperke mix with the lustrous black fur), Charlie Chaplin (the black-and-white Boston terrier with the tragicomic expression), and Marcia Gay Harden (the golden retriever who . . . honestly, just looks a hell of a lot like Marcia Gay Harden).

  I slow in front of Seymour’s photograph. In it, Giselle is in blurry motion, a fuzzy shape at his side, bringing the crisp outline of Seymour to shine in the spotlight. His big ears flop forward adorably on either side of his head; the little sprockets of blond hair around his nose stick straight into the air as if daring you not to smile. He’ll be adopted tonight, I think, feeling a twinge in my chest. A long table beneath the photographs holds blank sheets of paper on which prospective dog adopters will place their bids.

  Sybil puts her arm around my shoulders, squeezing me. “Powerful, aren’t they?” She shakes her head, marveling at the wall of images.

  I nod. “It’s amazing to think that this time tomorrow each of these dogs will be settling into a new home, changing someone’s life for the better.”

  “Yes, a lot of dogs—and people—are going to see their luck turn around tonight. Even poor, troubled Owen Wilson,” Sybil says, nodding toward Seymour’s photograph. She gives my shoulder one more squeeze, then releases me and claps her hands. “Let’s get to work!”

  ANYA AND HUAN arrive with the first wave of guests. Anya is wearing what appears to be a boy’s silver tuxedo over a white T-shirt. The tuxedo pants are tucked into her ever-present lace-up combat boots, but at least the boots have been polished. And for the first time since I met her, her hair looks freshly washed. It’s pulled up in a high ponytail, a shiny auburn cascade of hair falling down her back. Somehow, the whole effect is remarkably fashionable. When she turns to inspect the installation of her photographs, I see what looks like a bundle of tiny white tea roses tied around the band of her ponytail. Anya catches me looking and lifts her hand, poking at the flowers self-consciously.

  “It’s a wrist corsage. I think Huan is pretending this is the prom,” she whispers. “I didn’t know what to do with them. I don’t wear bracelets.”

  “They look lovely in your hair.”

  Anya rolls her eyes. Her nose piercing, a simple silver ball tonight, gleams.

  “How’s Rosie doing?” I ask.

  “Better,” Anya says, unable to contain a relieved smile. “We had lunch together today, just the two of us, and she was . . . herself. Funny and sharp. She told me I smelled like pickled onions and that I ought to take a shower before someone drops me into a Gibson.” Anya laughs. “I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t jinx anything by saying this, but I think she’s going to be around a while longer.”

  I smile. “I don’t think hope can jinx anything.”

  The house is quickly filling with people. I pull at the neckline of my dress, trying to get some cooler air against my skin.

  “Are you okay?” Anya asks. “Do you want to find a less crowded spot?”

  Before I have a chance to fully probe my anxiety level and come up with an answer, Sybil appears at my side. She gives a little squeal when Anya introduces herself and then launches into a stream of effusive thanks for all of Anya’s hard work. I tune them out and take a few deep breaths, and am happy to find that I really am just overheated, nothing more.

  “Do you think one speaker is going to be enough for this big room?” Sybil asks me, peering worriedly into the growing crowd. “The sound technician guy has another speaker in his truck, but he’s adamant we don’t need it. I swear we had two last year. If no one can hear what we’re auctioning off, we won’t get any bids!”

  I’m fairly certain that Sybil could make her voice heard over a fire alarm, but I can see that she’s anxious about the situation, so I tell her I’ll find the sound technician and insist he bring in the other speaker. I spend the next twenty minutes helping him, and afterward there is a minor issue with the crudités that needs sorting out, and then a distinct smell drifts down the staircase that proves to be a digestive issue with one of the Jacobsens’ shepherds (luckily, the dogs’ nanny swiftly handles the cleanup). By the time I make it back into the living room, the party is in full swing. I wander through the crowd, searching for and not finding Henry, feeling warm but not uneasy.

  I look around the room, glancing into the faces of everyone I see. Some are smiling, some laughing, some regaling their tight little pack with a story, others listening. I see a woman frown into her drink, and a man staring toward the window in a daze. Music and snippets of conversation hang in the air. The whole room moves, arms gesturing and embracing, lips curling, eyes crinkling, throats swallowing, hands touching ties and tucking loose strands of hair back into place. I could be home in my apartment, cozy below a blanket of comfortable quiet, a book in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. Or I could be here, in the thick of life, living.

  It’s the beating hearts. That’s what Rosie told Anya. It’s the beating hearts that matter. There are a lot of beating hearts in this room.

  At one of the bars, I spot Anya chatting with Huan. They look like they’re having a good time, their cheeks pink, their heads bent toward each other. As I make my way to them, Huan leans forward and kisses Anya. I stop, surprised. I half expect her to pull back and slug him, but instead she places her hands on his shoulders and leans into the kiss. They both look giddy when they part. Anya glances around, blushing, and sees me. She covers her eyes with one of her hands and shakes her head, embarrassed but laughing, and waves toward me with her other hand.

  “Maggie!” she calls. “Get over here.”

  Huan snags an extra glass of champagne from the bar. He holds it out for me.

  “I’m interrupting,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “What do you mean, interrupting?” Anya says. “We’re here to protect each other from the awfulness of parties, remember? We’re in this together.”

  “Exactly!” Huan says cheerfully. “Parties are terrible!” I’m pretty sure that Huan is having the best night of his life. He might even be a little drunk. When he slips his arm around Anya’s waist, she doesn’t shrug him off. In fact, she seems to lean into him.

  I ask if she has booked any photography sessions yet.

  “No,” she says, “but I keep having to restock the business cards that Sybil told me to put out on all of the cocktail tables.”

  “That’s a good sign.”

  “A great sign,” Huan heartily agrees.

  Anya looks at the floor and kicks one of her boots around. I sip my champagne, listening to the music. It seems to me that Huan and Anya inch a hair closer together.

  I clear my throat. “Henry should be here any minute.” I only say it to reassure them that I don’t plan to be their third wheel for the rest of the night, but Anya’s face darkens.

  “Oh, Maggie.”

  “What?”

  “I thought you knew. He didn’t call you?”

  I feel my heart begin to rattle around in my chest. “I don’t know. I haven’t checked my phone all night. Why?”

  Anya and Huan exchange a glance. “Something happened with work,” Anya says. “The schedule got moved around and they ne
eded him in L.A. right away. I can’t believe he didn’t tell you.”

  My stomach twists. “He left already?”

  “I think so. He said he was on the last flight of the day.”

  “Oh,” I say. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “But he’ll be back, right? In a few days? Next week?” I can’t wrap my head around the idea that Henry would move without saying good-bye. He wouldn’t, would he?

  “I’m not sure, Maggie,” Anya says, looking doubtful. She shakes her head and her ponytail swishes back and forth behind her head. “I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter 19

  Thirty minutes later, when Sybil makes her way to the podium to open the bidding for the auction items, I’m still in a daze. I try not to think about the fact that Henry has left, but it’s hard to think of anything else. After Anya told me the news, I checked my phone, but there were no messages. I remind myself that I always knew our relationship wasn’t going anywhere. Still, I never expected him to leave without saying good-bye. I guess a part of me had thought we would work around the obstacles in our way, hightail it off the road before we ran into that dead end. I’d hoped we’d make our own map.

  At the podium, Sybil is thanking the Jacobsens for hosting the gala. “Thank you also to everyone in this room for your continued support of SuperMutt Rescue,” she continues. Her voice is every bit as clear and engaging as I’d known it would be, with or without the extra speaker. “Because of you, we have found forever homes for sixteen dogs already this year, and over three hundred dogs since I founded the organization seven years ago. Over three hundred dogs!” Even from where I stand toward the back of the crowd, I can see that Sybil’s eyes are shining. Her usually big laugh sounds shaky. “Looks like we’ve already reached the part of the evening’s program when I get emotional. Whew! How long did that take me? Twenty, thirty seconds? It’s a new record!”

  The room fills with the cozy sound of two hundred people who are united in a cause laughing together. “We love you, Sybil!” someone calls, prompting someone else to cry out, “Hear, hear!” A woman near the podium passes a tissue forward and Sybil accepts it with a self-deprecating shrug. She wipes away her tears and then pretends to wring out the tissue. The room fills with laughter again.

  “Anyway,” she says, “it’s easy to throw around numbers without much thought, but I just hope you all stop and consider this one from every angle. Three hundred dogs. Three hundred families, adults and children whose lives have expanded with love because they welcomed a rescue dog into their homes. All of it thanks to you.

  “The money that we raise here tonight and throughout the year goes toward the food that our foster families provide for the dogs in their temporary care, preventative care for all dogs including our critical spaying and neutering program, veterinarian bills for sick and senior dogs, and of course vaccinations for each and every adorable puppy I can get my hands on. Anyone who has ever witnessed a rescue dog meet his forever human for the first time—or who has looked into the eyes of a rescue dog and felt that click of love lock into place, that knowledge that you’re about to embark on a wonderful stretch of time with a new best friend—knows the truly profound meaning of this work.

  “Now, I’ll easily admit that these dogs aren’t perfect. Some have a taste for couch legs. Some spot the mail carrier coming two blocks away and don’t stop barking until the poor guy or gal is two blocks in the other direction. Some hog the bed and snore so loudly you wake up thinking there’s an earthquake.” Sybil pauses, cocks an eyebrow. “Okay, that last one might have been my ex-husband.”

  We’re all right there in the palm of her hand, laughing.

  “These dogs aren’t perfect, but here’s the kicker, folks.” Now she leans into the microphone and says, quietly, as though revealing a secret, “We aren’t perfect either. And these dogs love us anyway, flaws and all. They look at us like we’re the most amazing beings on earth, don’t they? So sure, we’re helping them, but anyone who has ever rescued a dog knows that what we do for these animals is a drop in the bucket compared to what they do for us.

  “That said, I am so grateful that you all open your hearts and your homes and—you knew this was coming, didn’t you?—your wallets to the deserving dogs of SuperMutt Rescue. Let’s see . . .” She pretends to study a piece of paper on the podium, checking things off a list. “I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve talked about dogs. Looks like it’s time for the auction!”

  She scans the room, holding her hand above her eyes. “Maggie Brennan! Maggie, where are you? Wave your hand!”

  I reluctantly raise my hand.

  “There she is! Okay, folks, this next portion of the evening is possible thanks to Maggie’s hard work. Maggie is a pet bereavement counselor—she runs her own practice, you can Google her—and yet she still has found the time over the past few months to wrangle all of the donations for this year’s auction. Without a doubt, this is the most impressive lineup of donations we have ever received. Thank you, dear Maggie!”

  There is polite applause, and a few smiling faces turn toward me. I give a little wave, feeling my face warm.

  Sybil’s auctioneer skills are remarkable to witness; she points and shouts and rattles off numbers at a speed that makes the crowd titter with amusement and excitement. A little glimmer seems to spark in her eye each time a bid is topped, though it might just be the light reflecting off her rhinestone-encrusted ensemble.

  “And now,” she says, “we have up for auction a wonderful photography session with the talented pet photographer Anya Ravenhurst. As some of you know, Anya was kind enough to donate her services more than once to benefit this event. Over the last couple of weeks, she has been traipsing all over our city to photograph the dogs that are up for auction. The result is this glorious series of photos that decorate our space tonight.” She gestures toward the wall across the room from where she stands, and it seems to me that every head in the room turns to admire the photographs, an appreciative murmur rising from the crowd. “Don’t worry, I’m going to open the silent bidding for those adorable pups just as soon as this portion of the auction is complete—but for now, don’t you think we should all put our hands together for Anya? What a great job she has done!”

  The room erupts into applause. Beside me, Anya crosses her arms and shuffles her boots against the floor, but I can see she is pleased.

  Sybil launches into the bidding for Anya’s photography session and the bids quickly rise from one hundred to five hundred dollars, to seven hundred, to nine hundred, landing at last on one thousand dollars. Sybil slams her (rhinestone-encrusted) gavel and Huan and I each give a little cheer. Anya still has her arms crossed in front of her chest, but she seems to hold herself a little taller as Sybil moves on to the next auction item. Huan gazes at her with admiration and then, suddenly, as though unable to contain himself any longer, he grabs her hand and kisses it. She smiles and shrugs, her cheeks reddening.

  Something hard tightens around my throat and I feel my heart begin to pound. I whip my head around, looking to see if the path to the door is clear should I need to run out of the room. But my breathing, I realize, is even. I don’t feel like I’m dying or going crazy or in danger of passing out. I just miss Henry. I wish he were here, too. I wish I could have seen his handsome, serious face break into a proud grin as he witnessed Anya’s accomplishment. I wish things didn’t have to end. That’s all. My heart is pounding because I miss Henry.

  “This next item,” Sybil is saying, “is a stunning diamond tennis bracelet—”

  Behind me, I think I hear a man’s voice call my name, but when I turn I see only the same people who have been standing behind me since the auction began. I face Sybil again.

  “—conflict-free diamonds in a platinum setting—”

  “Maggie.”

  I spin around and there is Henry. Before I even know what I’m doing, I throw my arms around him. “Anya said that you left!”

  He shakes his head. “Without saying good-bye to you? I
would never do that. There was a schedule change, and I thought I was going to leave today, but . . .” He trails off, holding my hands, his smile almost shy. “You look beautiful, Maggie.”

  Anya catches sight of her brother. “Henry! What are you doing here?”

  When Henry sees Anya, his expression changes into one I can’t read. “Anya, I need you to come outside with me. All of you, actually.” Without saying anything more, he turns and heads for the door. Anya, Huan, and I look at one another, confused, then follow him through the crowd.

  “What’s going on?” I ask in a low voice when I catch up with him.

  “This afternoon, when I was on my way to your apartment to let you know that I needed to leave for Los Angeles tonight, I decided to stop and talk with Clive and Terrence about Billy. I promised you that I would, and it didn’t feel right to leave without doing it.” As we step outside, Henry’s voice falls away.

  On the sidewalk in front of the house stand Clive and Terrence. Clive has a broad smile on his face. Terrence, on the other hand, looks as though he might pass out. His eyes are bloodshot and his skin has a yellow cast.

  At Terrence’s side, a white, scrappy-looking, fairly chunky dog strains at the end of a leash.

  “Billy!” Anya cries. The dog leaps forward. Terrence loses the end of the leash he’d been holding, but it doesn’t matter, Anya and Billy are sprinting toward each other, colliding into an embrace when Anya drops to her knees. Billy wriggles happily in her arms, licking her neck and face. The dog looks fat and happy, more like he has spent the last two months eating his way through Italy than wandering the streets of San Francisco. He springs onto his back legs and presses his front paws against Anya’s shoulders. She falls onto her back, laughing.