Winding through the endless aisles at Meijer with my cart, I wondered if this was how new mothers felt the first time they went shopping for their babies. Only, my list was a little different. A large dog collar, into the cart. A six-foot leash. A bag of chow—small for starters, in case Mo’s “real” owners turned up. I wondered if Mom felt this way about me, like, Holy shit, this is actually happening.
On my way to the clinic I stopped at an ATM and withdrew two hundred dollars from my bank account. It was money for Scarlett’s next insurance payment, but I’d just have to scrounge that up later. Back in the vet’s lemony waiting room, I stepped up to the counter and cleared my throat. “I’m here to pick up my dog.”
My dog. Each time I said the words, I believed them more. “His name’s Mo.”
The receptionist smiled. “Oh, yes, the miracle dog. I saw him tooling around out back. Why don’t you have a seat? The vet would like to talk with you before you take Mo home.”
I sat on a bench. A middle-aged woman sat at the other end, a cat carrier at her feet. Before long, a man carrying a ball of brown fuzz—either a bite-size dog or an obese guinea pig—emerged from the back with Dr. Voorhees.
“Colby, nice to see you again. Come with me,” she said.
I followed her down the hall and out the back door into a yard with a tall, wooden fence. The snowy ground was covered with paw prints. At the far end stood a low building that could have passed for an ordinary garage if it weren’t for all the dogs tumbling out through its swinging door, charging toward us. Six of them, all shapes and sizes—and then blunt-nosed, cow-spotted Mo, trotting along behind.
Well, maybe trotting wasn’t the right word. Mo hobbled like a person on crutches: step, hop, step-step, hop. His right hind leg had vanished, replaced by a wad of white gauze and tape. Around his neck he wore one of those lamp shade collar things.
When he saw me, his tail started wagging, weakly at first, then faster and faster. He made a wobbly beeline for me. I kneeled and opened my arms and was rewarded with muddy paws in my lap and a slobbery tongue in my face.
Dr. Voorhees laughed. “As you can see, he’s doing fine. He’s still a tad woozy from the anesthetic and had an upset stomach yesterday—the pain meds. But he managed to keep down some breakfast today. Cindy and I took care of his shots and heartworm test. Oh, and gave him a sponge bath. That was first on the agenda! He’s a healthy boy.”
Mo nudged me with his snout, his lamp shade bonking me. “What’s with the, uh—”
“It’s called an Elizabethan collar. It’ll keep Mo from nibbling at the wound—which, believe me, he’ll want to. It’s going to be pretty uncomfortable for him for the next few days.”
I reached for the wallet in my back pocket. “I brought money.”
She waved her hand. “Tina will take care of you before you leave. There’s some antibiotic and pain medication waiting for you at the desk, too. I hope you don’t mind, but we went ahead and microchipped Mo while he was under.”
“Does that mean you don’t think his old owners will show up?”
“I can’t say,” Dr. Voorhees admitted. “But between the chip and his new license, at least if Mo goes wandering again, he’ll have ID.”
I took the collar and leash from my coat pockets, tore off the price tags, and suited Mo up. Inside, Tina gave me a shiny metal tag to clip onto his collar. “You’re official now,” I told Mo. “A licensed, professional dog.”
Tina gave me Mo’s medications, and I counted out enough twenties to cover the bill. There wasn’t much to spare. Dr. Voorhees lingered in the hallway. “Why don’t you stop by a day or two after Christmas? I want to make sure Mo’s leg stays free of infection. It’ll be a couple of weeks before the stitches come out.”
“Sure thing,” I said, and turned to go, Mo trundling along beside me. I stopped with my hand on the door. “Thanks again, for everything. And, um, Merry Christmas.”
“You’re welcome,” said Dr. Voorhees. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”
Out in the lot, I looked down at Mo, and he looked up at me. “Well, Mo. This is it.”
Except it wasn’t. It had completely slipped my mind that I’d have to get Mo into Scarlett for the drive home. He might be hobbling around fine on three legs, but I didn’t think he was up for a flying leap just yet. I opened the passenger door and gnawed my lip. It would have made a great physics problem: how does a shrimpy girl lift a huge, crippled dog into the seat of a Ford pickup? Too bad Van wasn’t here to solve it.
Mo stuck his head inside and sniffed the floor enthusiastically. He took a lick at whatever mystery liquid had spilled there. “Mo, stop it! Gross!”
In the end, it took Mo straining with his front legs and scrabbling with his hind leg, and me lifting and pushing his rump, to get him up there. I’m sure anyone driving past had a good laugh at our expense.
At Trail’s End I walked Mo through the snow to our front door. This is my dog at the end of this leash. This is my dog, coming home for the first time. Before we went in I let Mo clumsily mark the withered juniper bush in front of our trailer.
Mo immediately gave himself the grand tour, hobbling first into my room, then Dad’s. He tried to stick his head into the kitchen garbage, but his lamp shade got in the way. Next was the bathroom, and I prayed I’d left the lid down. I also prayed he was housebroken. It dawned on me there was an awful lot I didn’t know about Mo.
I fed him and gave him his medicine disguised in a dollop of peanut butter, as Dr. Voorhees had suggested. He licked his bowl until it shone, then looked up at me. You could have played xylophone on his ribs, but I shook my head. “Vet says you might puke it all up.”
I sat on the couch with the vet’s list of instructions. Mo came over and stood next to me, resting his nose on my thigh. I reached inside the lamp shade to scratch behind his ears, which were crumpled into velvety black triangles. He whined and swished his tail.
“What is it? You just peed. You just ate. I’m petting you. What more could a dog want?”
Mo placed a tentative paw on the couch cushion beside me. It must be confusing for one of your legs to disappear while you’re asleep. He looked afraid he’d fall over any second.
“What is it, boy?”
Mo’s second paw joined the first, and he craned his great neck until his head was almost higher than mine. He wagged his tail eagerly—so eagerly he nearly knocked the Christmas tree off the coffee table. I slid it away from him.
And when I sat back, I found out exactly what Mo wanted, because suddenly he hopped onto my lap, licking my face.
I went “Oof.”
Mo went Slurp.
And that’s how we spent the rest of the day. It was hours before I realized Dr. Voorhees hadn’t returned my star-watching blanket. I guess it hadn’t been worth saving.
MO AND I were snuggled on the couch, watching cheesy Christmas specials on TV, when a key turned in the front door. Dad! I hadn’t realized until then how much I’d been counting on him making it home for Christmas.
Mo rocketed off the couch with a woof that would have scared any intruder. I ran across the room after him, grabbing for his collar and missing. “Shut up, Mo. It’s only Dad!”
Dad pushed through the door. Snow dusted his thinning blond hair. He looked tired, as usual. The creases in his forehead deepened as Mo sniffed him from boots to crotch and back down again. “Am I in the right place?”
“Mo, sit,” I said helplessly.
“What’s going on, Bee?” Dad shut the door but made no move to take off his coat and boots. His pale blue eyes searched mine.
“It’s, uh …” I dragged Mo away from Dad. His tail thwacked against my shins. “It might not be permanent.”
Dad slid off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door, then bent to unlace his boots. He stepped toward us in his socks and held out a hand for Mo to sniff. “When you say it’s not permanent—”
“Yes?”
“Do you mean the dog in our living room? Or the fact that he’s got only three legs?”
“Ha, ha,” I said. “I got him off the clearance rack.”
“Please tell me there’s a return policy,” Dad said with a wry smile.
He rummaged through the fridge for sandwich fixings while I began to tell him the story. Silently, he spread mayonnaise, then mustard, to the edge of the bread and layered on American cheese and salami. He’d eaten the entire thing by the time I finished. Mo sat before him, drooling, the whole time.
Dad dusted his hands over the sink before looking me in the eyes. “Jokes aside, Bee, we’ve talked about this before. Dogs are a big responsibility. A big expense. They’re not toys.”
“Dad, did you listen to a word I said? I think I understand Mo’s not a box of Tinker Toys left by the side of the road.”
“You should’ve called me before doing anything. We should’ve discussed it. This is something that affects both of us.”
Please, I thought. How does it affect you? You’re only here one day a week! But all I said was “I’m sorry. You’re right. But he’s here now, and he needs us.”
Dad sighed and swiped at his bald spot. “You’ll need to pay for—”
“I can handle it.”
“You’ll need to arrange—”
“I can handle it.”
“You’ll need to train—”
“I can handle it! Look, Dad, Mo’s not going anywhere. He’s mine now.”
“Unless someone—”
“Right.”
“I guess this will be a learning experience,” Dad said. “And I do like the idea of you having some protection when you’re home alone.”
“It’ll be fine, Dad. Trust me.”
Dad stepped past Mo and hugged me. His flannel shirt smelled of sweat and French fries and motor oil. “I’ll tell you what, Bee: I’m awfully glad to be home,” he said. “Dog or no dog.”
Mo, sitting beside us, let out a tremendous sigh. Dog, he seemed to say. Definitely dog.
Early Christmas morning I woke to the smoky, salty smell of frying bacon. Or I should say, the smell woke Mo, and he woke me by licking my face raw.
Thanks to leaky windows, my room never got truly warm in winter, so I usually slept curled up like a pill bug. Last night, though, I’d thrown off the covers. Mo was a giant, snoring toaster sprawled on the mattress beside me. That wouldn’t be a problem until summer, when my room went from icebox to sauna.
New snow had fallen during the night, giving everything soft curves in the glow of Trail’s End’s security lights. Dad’s white rig looked like an igloo at the end of the lot. Mo and I strolled outside, and he attempted to mark every fence post, mailbox, and flowerpot in the park. He had no problem when his target was on the right, since he had his left leg to steady him. But he was still puzzled each time he started to lift his left leg and lost his balance. I couldn’t help laughing. “Might as well face it, Mo. You’ll never be ambidextrous again.”
Dad made eggs, sunny-side up, to go with the bacon. When I was home alone, I skipped out with just a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, but Dad loved to cook breakfast. It was the only meal he liked to cook. He’d even get up extra-early to do it on school days, since his time off didn’t fall neatly on the weekends.
We exchanged gifts as we ate. I’d bought Dad a book of travel essays about the American West. Even though he traveled a lot, it wasn’t like he had time to hike Yellowstone for a week. I also gave him a good foam pillow for the road; he’d complained that his old one was full of lumps and made his head ache. I hoped he liked it, because I’d already written PROPERTY OF BOB BINGHAM and his phone number on the back with a Sharpie, just in case he left it somewhere by mistake. The pillow didn’t look like much, but it was pretty expensive.
Dad gave me a mall gift card, some fruity-smelling bath products, and a new soccer ball. “For my favorite jock,” he said. “Maybe this year you can get back on the team, huh?”
I leaned around the table to give him a sidearm hug. “Thanks, Dad.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had no plans to return to my soccer career.
“There’s a box of stuff for Scarlett outside,” Dad said. He turned to Mo. “Sorry, fella. If I’d known you’d be here, maybe I’d have brought you something, too.” He flipped Mo a strip of bacon. It bounced off his nose, then disappeared down his throat with a whole lot of lip smacking.
Grammy and Pop-Pop called from Florida, which was pleasantly pointless as always, and then Aunt Sue, who was visiting them, took her turn. It was funny watching Dad talk on the phone with her. His face looked as if he were being spooned cough medicine as he said things like “Didn’t I say I’d make it home in time?” and “Well, the Weather Channel was wrong. The roads were fine,” and “Sue, I’ve been driving professionally for twenty years! I know how to handle snow.”
It was funny until he shoved the phone into my hands.
“Hi, Aunt Sue,” I mumbled. “How’s Florida?”
“You have no idea how sunny and warm it is! Do you know what I’m wearing right now?”
“Um … what?”
“A sundress, sandals, and forty-five sunblock. Sheer heaven. It’s a wonder I’ve stayed in Michigan all these years. But then, you and your father would have nobody, wouldn’t you?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “We’ve got a dog now.”
“Oh. Is that so.” I wasn’t sure if Aunt Sue sounded pissed because she hadn’t been consulted or because I’d suggested a dog was an adequate replacement for her. “That’s an interesting development. What possessed your father? You realize I can’t have a dog in my house. It’s against condo regulations, not to mention it would damage my floors.”
As if I planned to stay at her place ever again. “I know,” I said. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to do a thing.”
“Well, I should hope not. But are you sure your father knows what he’s doing? He’s never owned a pet in his life. Did you know he never even changed a diaper until you came along? Put him on the line again.”
I started to give Dad the phone, but he dodged away, looking panicked. “He’s in the bathroom,” I lied. “Do you want me to have him call you back later?”
“If you would,” Aunt Sue said. “But tell him not to bother past noon. We’re having dinner with the neighbors. They have their own pool! I can’t wait to try out my new bathing suit. It’s one of those cute little—what’s the word?—tankinis.”
I hung up, trying very hard not to imagine pasty Aunt Sue in a swimsuit, much less a two-piece. I bet the tankini was much cuter without her inside of it.
“What else did she want to bust my chops about?” Dad asked.
“You and Aunt Sue have something in common,” I said. “You both think owning a dog is a bad idea. She wants to convince you that you’re either incompetent or insane.”
Dad flushed and pressed his lips together. “That’s it, Bee,” he said. “Mo’s staying.”
I turned away to hide my grin.
After an afternoon of football—first on TV, then out in the snow—Dad and I shoveled out Mom’s old Chevy, and he drove into town to pick up our Christmas dinner at Meijer.
The three of us feasted.
That night as Mo and I made our final rounds of Trail’s End, I stopped and looked up at the sky. The wind had shoved the clouds to the horizon. The stars were tiny silver boats floating on a sea of black. I thought of Rachel, the warmth of her shoulder against mine as we lay side by side in the back of my truck staring up at the stars—not kissing or talking, just absorbing it all.
Then Mo tugged on his leash, and I came back to reality. It was just me and my dog now.
THE THING ABOUT living in a trailer park is that you can’t bring home, say, a three-legged dog without attracting attention. It wasn’t just ancient, possibly senile Mr. Harmon on the one side of us or the Van Der Beeks on the other who ventured out to admire Mo and
give him a pat on the head (which he always responded to with a giant production of tail wagging and sloppy kisses). Neighbors who’d never squinted at me twice came out on their stoops when Mo and I paraded by, to ask questions and give commentary: how to walk him, what to feed him, blah, blah, blah.
Mo had no fans more devoted than the Van Der Beek kids. Morning, evening, it didn’t matter; we couldn’t step out the door without the four of them ambushing us. “It’s like they do nothing all day but wait to attack,” I told Van over the phone. “They yell ‘Geronimo’ when they see him. They think it’s the most hilarious thing ever.”
Van giggled. “Geroni-mo. That’s pretty good … if you ignore the fact that Geronimo was a Native American military leader, and Mo’s main talent is butt sniffing.”
When I took Mo back to the clinic, Dr. Voorhees checked his wound for infection, and Cindy changed his dressing. “Not a peep from Animal Control,” Dr. Voorhees said. “And I haven’t heard back on the ad yet, either. Did you see it? I posted it on Craigslist and in the Gazette.”
She retrieved a newspaper from the reception desk, flipped to the classified section, and pointed. I read: “FOUND DOG: Male b&w bulldog mix, 70 lb. Found on Harrington Rd, 12/22.” A dull ache began in my gut as I remembered how temporary this whole situation might be. Mo’s real owners could show up next week or tomorrow or five minutes from now, and he’d return to whatever lousy life he’d led before he hit the road and the road hit back.
Dr. Voorhees looked sympathetic. “Never mind that now. Mo’s safe and getting better, and that’s what’s most important.” She wrote instructions on her pad for reducing his pain meds, tore off the slip, and put it in my hand. “Call me if he has any problems.”
He didn’t. But as winter break rolled on, I wished I hadn’t put in for so many shifts. When I came home from work one afternoon, Mo rushed to the door as usual, his tail a blur. I guess he hoped I’d be so thrilled, too, that I wouldn’t notice the coffee grounds and gnawed burger wrappers and banana peels strewn across the floor.
“Damn dog!” I yelled as I grabbed the broom, but I stopped when Mo dodged away from me, cringing. Which was worse: a mess on the floor or a dog who was terrified I’d beat him with the broomstick? “Damn dog,” I repeated softly as I swept up the garbage.
Starting From Here Page 5
