Traveling Light

by Thalasinos, Andrea

  Paula listened to the barking ruckus behind the metal door that said: “Staff Only.” It had to be Fotis. Her stomach squeezed. What the hell was she doing? She kept telling herself, Celeste and Tony would take him. She’d text Guillermo, too.

  The door opened and out walked a large wild-eyed black and white dog. The officer spotted her. “Jailbreak,” she joked. “They all go nuts when someone gets out.”

  Paula must have looked bewildered.

  “You okay?” the woman asked.

  “Oh yeah.” Paula stood. There was no resemblance to the Fotis of her childhood, though she could feel Theo’s presence. Paula smiled to herself. The old man must have named every dog after fos, or light.

  “Hi, Fotis.” Paula crouched down beside him and held out both hands.

  The dog looked excited, as if he’d walked into his own surprise birthday party. His muzzle was white with black freckles, he had one blue eye and one brown and his ears stood akimbo. His fur was haphazardly spiky. He was funny and Paula realized she was smiling.

  The shelter worker handed her the rope leash. It felt oily and slippery from grime.

  “Sorry. He came in with it. You’ll probably want to stop and get a new collar and lead.”

  Paula nodded. She looked at the rope in her palm.

  “Transfer his rabies tag immediately when you get a new collar.” The officer waited for Paula to look up. “It just saved his life. And make sure you call the vet and get his information switched to you.”

  She blinked an acknowledgment; the excited dog jerked her off balance toward the shelter exit.

  The officer laughed in relief. “Funny how they all know the way out. Good luck to both of you.”

  The cab was idling across the street in the same spot. The driver spied her crossing with the dog.

  “Oh no, no, no.” The driver shook his head and held up both hands to block her out. “Oh my God,” he said in disgust. “I should have known.”

  Paula opened the back door of the cab. “Oh, stop with the melodrama,” she muttered.

  Fotis cowered on the curb as the door’s edge grazed him.

  “No animals—it’s my policy.”

  “Oh—like your smoking policy,” she said.

  She stared at him in the side-view mirror.

  “Come on, Fotis,” Paula said in a high voice, patting the backseat and ignoring the driver. “Up, come on.” She patted it again like she’d seen people doing in the Jones Beach parking lot only a few weeks ago. She then tried to push up the dog’s hind end, but he shied back more.

  “Shit,” she grunted, and stood, placing her hand on her hip. The cabbie watched in the rearview mirror and chuckled.

  “Why don’t you help?” she sniped.

  “Nah—,” he said in a reflective way. “It’s more fun to watch.” Then he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply as if to savor the moment, alternating between rear and side mirrors to best view the spectacle.

  “Come on, Fotis.”

  She threw her purse into the backseat and scrambled inside, kneeling on the seat, and turned to face the dog. Holding on to the rope, she tried to drag him in. “Fotis, come on,” she coaxed. Instead he reared back, his nails scratching on the cement. His rabies tag jingled as he tried to yank out of his collar.

  “That dog’s never been in a car,” the driver announced.

  “Brilliant,” she sniped. Beads of sweat formed around her hairline, tickling as they trickled down her neck into the collar of her blouse. Except for the animal control truck not more than three hours ago, the driver was probably right.

  She climbed out of the back and stood on the sidewalk next to the dog.

  “Pick him up; pick him up,” the driver’s voice rose.

  She looked at him.

  “Pick his ass up.” The cabbie gestured. “Put your arms around his belly,” he instructed, “and pick his ass up.”

  “He’s heavy.”

  Paula circled Fotis’ belly with her arms and lifted him, scooting him onto the backseat.

  “Christ, whew—finally,” the driver muttered. “After that I need a nap.”

  Fotis sat bent over, his head hanging almost down to his front paws, ears drooped off to the sides.

  “Roll down the back windows,” the cabbie instructed. “Give him some air.”

  Paula rolled down one back window, then the other as she reached across the drooping dog. Her blouse had become transparent with sweat, sticking to her back.

  “Thanks,” her voice softened.

  “No, thank you,” the driver said, wiping his eyes. “That’s the most fun I’ve had since my wife died.”

  Paula looked at him, not sure she’d heard right.

  “Washington Square,” she said. “Anywhere in the vicinity’ll do.”

  Fotis began drooling. The cab was queued bumper to bumper in a line of traffic along Queens Boulevard for the feed on to the Queensboro Bridge. Strings of clear fluid streamed from the dog, collecting in pools on Paula’s black skirt.

  “Jesus,” she mumbled, trying to redirect the dog’s mouth over the rubber mats on the back floor of the cab. The interior of a New York City cab was made to be hosed out.

  Then the dog’s body started rhythmically moving, his head jutting back and forth. A deep burping sound bellowed up from his throat.

  “My God,” her voice quivered. “He’s having a seizure.” She looked up at the rearview mirror for help.

  The cabbie tilted the mirror down to look. “Nah—,” he said reassuringly yet amused. “He’s puking on you, hon.”

  Her eyes met the cabbie’s and he laughed himself into a coughing fit.

  Paula looked down as the dog produced a pile of partially digested dog food in her lap.

  “Lady,” the cabbie said, shaking his head as he caught his breath. He opened the grate and tossed back a soft package of Kleenex.

  * * *

  With traffic, it took them until almost four thirty to get down to Washington Square. She’d called Celeste several times and left messages: “Got the dog, need to talk to you, call me.” “Call me, got the dog. Need to know what to do, if maybe you could watch him for me.”

  Paula scanned storefronts as she walked, looking at her phone to see if Heavenly had called. Maybe the place was on Fifth. Fotis walked snugly at her side; his flank had coated the side of her skirt with a swath of grime.

  “Goddamn it,” she said out loud, and stopped, looking for the pet store she was sure she passed every day.

  Fotis looked at her when she spoke, one ear standing up, the other half-drooped. Despite the vomit stain on the front of her skirt, now punctuated with white tufts of tissue fragments, the dog had made a full recovery.

  Paula stopped again. The person walking behind them almost crashed into her.

  “Oh, sorry.” She moved out of the way toward the curb. She could have sworn it was here by the Emilio’s Pizza joint.

  It had started to sprinkle. Swollen gray clouds looked about to surrender their contents. Motion from across the street caught her attention. Someone was scurrying about. Aha, she spotted empty white marble tables. “Pets du Jour,” that was it. A clerk was rolling a clothing rack full of tiny costume-like garments toward the door. Ball gowns and garments covered with sequins, organdy ruffles, accessorized with crowns and magic wands, meant for small dogs.

  Paula crossed the street and ducked in with Fotis.

  “Are you still open?”

  “Yup, we’re open till nine.”

  “Good. Okay if I come in with a dog?” She motioned to Fotis.

  “Sure. We don’t bite,” the woman said as she positioned the rack off to the side and turned to face Paula.

  Paula laughed and pointed at her. “Good one.”

  “Yeah, well—dog humor,” the woman said, and held up both hands. “Goes with the territory. Bring…”—she bent over to glace at Fotis’ crotch—“him, too,” the woman said in a singsong voice, designed for animals. It worked. Fotis’ tail began waggin
g.

  Paula felt a pang. He’d not wagged for her since the shelter.

  The shop door was propped open with a vintage concrete cat. Paula had expected to smell cedar and pine bedding like Pet World, the place she’d worked in Queens after high school. She looked around for birdcages, listened for the chirp of a parakeet, but saw nothing but walls of color-sorted collars and leashes. Inside, another clerk stood arranging the wall of colorful dog jackets and looked up.

  “Don’t you have any animals here?” Paula asked tentatively, marveling at the colorful merchandise. It looked like an upscale children’s boutique.

  “No, we only cater to dogs and cats.”

  Fotis seemed at ease.

  “Wow.” The salesclerk placed her hands on her hips. She looked the dog over. “You’re a big boy, aren’t you,” she said in a goofy doggie voice. “Looks like someone’s hurting for a bath.” The woman squatted down eye level and then reached both hands out for Fotis to sniff. “Would you like to have him groomed? I just had a cancellation.”

  Paula nodded. “Oh my God, yes. It’s a bath, isn’t it?” She figured it would be good to have him cleaned before dropping him off at Celeste’s.

  “Absolutely. It’ll take me thirty minutes, maybe a bit more.” She looked at Paula. “He’s pretty rough.”

  They both looked down at Fotis.

  “You in a rush?”

  Paula shrugged. “I guess not. A bath sounds perfect,” Paula agreed. “But I have to tell you that he bit an animal control officer.”

  “Which one?”

  Paula stared blankly at the groomer.

  The dog’s ears lay back; his tail began to wiggle as he watched the woman.

  “You’re kinda dirty,” the woman said in her baby voice. The other clerk stepped over and knelt down. “Let me see how it goes. If he gets agitated I can muzzle him. He’s got that ‘you-just-got-me-at-the-shelter’ look,’” the other clerk said, and knelt down, too.

  Paula nodded. She checked her phone for messages. Nothing. She began dialing Guillermo’s number but then stopped. She should wait until she heard from Heavenly first.

  “They usually bathe ’em and get ’em all cleaned up before adopting ’em out,” the woman said.

  Paula was too exhausted to go through the whole story and just shrugged in response.

  “You want a treat?” the woman asked Fotis.

  Her intonation made his ears perk up.

  The clerk grabbed a biscuit that looked like a miniature hamburger.

  “Can you sit?” She raised her hand.

  Fotis stared at the biscuit.

  “Guess you don’t know that one, do ya,” she conceded, and handed the biscuit over anyway.

  Fotis took the treat gently. It was gone in seconds; he looked at the woman for another.

  “He takes it nicely,” she remarked to Paula as she nodded. “With some of the guys you could lose a finger.”

  Paula checked the woman’s fingers.

  “More dog humor,” she said.

  Paula nodded. The clerks seemed genuinely caring.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Fotis.”

  “Cool. Never heard that one before.”

  “It’s Greek for ‘light.’” Paula nodded. “I like it,” she said, not wanting to explain that Tony or Celeste might change it. Guillermo would probably name him something Spanish. Tony had changed their dog’s name from Princeton to Humpty after they’d gotten him from the shelter. They called him the Hump.

  The clerk looked back at the dog.

  “Makes sense. Look at those bright, happy eyes.” She offered Fotis another treat. He took it again nicely, proving the first time wasn’t a fluke.

  “Fotis needs a collar, too,” the other clerk said as she sized up Fotis’ neck. “Let’s try twenty inches.” She began rustling through the racks of hanging collars, all sorted by color and pattern.

  “You want a buckle, snap, limited slip collar?” She handed Paula a red and white ruffled polka-dotted shopping basket.

  She hadn’t the faintest idea.

  “Buckles are better,” the woman answered her own question.

  “Then buckles it is,” Paula said.

  “Any particular color?”

  Paula shrugged. “I don’t know, blue for boy?” She had no clue.

  “I was thinking maybe red.” The woman put the collar on Fotis. It fit.

  “It sets off his coat nicely and his one blue eye. Cool. I like it,” the woman said. “What do you think?”

  Her thinking faculties had shut down. But Paula nodded nonetheless. Fotis looked at her.

  “You’re such a pretty boy,” the woman said. Fotis wagged and wiggled.

  There it was again. Apparently Paula didn’t speak “dog.”

  “Looks like a collie and some kind of big husky cross,” the woman observed. “Double coat, the shape of his head and set of his tail. He’s so dirty it’s hard to tell what color he is. What do you think?” She turned and looked at Paula.

  Paula thought nothing.

  “Here’s the matching lead.” The clerk tossed it into the shopping basket, too.

  The groomer reached to take the rope from Paula.

  “Okay, big guy, bath time.”

  Paula reluctantly handed it over

  “What’ll she do to him?” Paula asked, watching the dog being marched off to the grooming station in the back room.

  “Oh.” The clerk smiled. “It’s just a bath. A brushing. Not the firing squad—he already dodged that. Blow drying. She’ll trim his nails, brush out those matted areas.”

  “Can I go in there with him?” Paula asked.

  “It’s better if you don’t. They get agitated if they see their doggie mom.”

  Doggie mom.

  “Hey,” the woman distracted Paula. “Let’s pick out some essentials; is this your first dog?”

  Paula nodded.

  “Then how ’bout after we shop I make you a complimentary cappuccino or latte to celebrate while you wait?”

  “Deal.” Thank God, Paula thought. “Latte would be great.”

  “Uhhh—I’d say you need two good brushes.” The clerk grabbed one that looked like a garden rake and then a second that looked more like a metal comb. “He seems really good-natured. Be sure to use this one”—she held up the rake—“to get out matted fur.” She chucked both into the basket. “What’s he been eating?”

  Paula shrugged again, questioning her own judgment.

  “Here’s a small bag of food to try—easy on the stomach.” The clerk placed it in the shopping basket. “Pooper-scooper.” The woman threw a long plastic-looking spoon into the basket. “Dog bed.” The woman snapped her fingers. She lifted a fluffy rectangle from where they’d been stacked.

  “Now some toys—”

  Toys? Christ.

  “You’ll need a crate.”

  The woman directed Paula’s attention to wire boxes that looked like prison cells.

  “Mmm.” Paula shook her head. “Don’t think so.”

  “A lot of dogs like them,” the woman advised. “It simulates the den.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Makes them feel safe,” the woman offered.

  Paula shook her head no. The clerk was bordering on pushy.

  “It’ll help with house training while you’re gone,” the woman said in a last-bid effort to persuade.

  Paula gave her the Back off look.

  The clerk shrugged. “Okay.” Paula had been warned; the clerk was absolved of all responsibility for chewing and “soiling.”

  House training. Paula had not thought of that.

  “Some treats then, bowls for water, food.” The clerk snapped her fingers again, mentally checking off the list for start-up homes. She picked up two white ceramic bowls with cobalt calligraphy that said “nourriture pour Chien” and “Chien d’ eau.”

  “This’ll get you started.” She looked at Paula.

  The computer beeped as the merchand
ise was being tallied.

  “Got his shelter papers?”

  “What?” The question snapped Paula out of a stupor. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She began fishing through her purse.

  “Pet adoptions get fifteen percent off.” The clerk smiled. “Except for the ceramic bowls, of course. They’re French,” she said in a somber tone. “Latte’s on the house,” she said, tilting her head and lifting both hands.

  “Thanks.” Paula produced the donation receipt from Animal Control she’d stuffed into the front pocket of her purse.

  Bewilderment set in as Paula looked at the pile of dog paraphernalia. Still no word from Celeste. Paula watched as the woman carefully rolled each bowl in Bubble Wrap and taped it. The dog bed was rolled and tied with a rough-hewn twine. Probably organic.

  “Here you go,” the woman’s cheery voice followed with a smile. “This’ll get you started. Want it delivered to your home?”

  Home. Roger. She looked at the time.

  “No. That’s okay; I’ll take it.”

  Paula took a seat as her latte was being made. She covered her mouth and then rested her chin in her palm. She closed her eyes, needing a cigarette.

  Roger had allergies to both dogs and cats. He’d break out in seconds. She hadn’t considered that; in fact, she hadn’t considered him at all.

  Before she knew it the back door opened and Fotis emerged. Shiny, fluffy, his coat gleamed. He kept pausing to shake off before he reached her.

  “Oh my God.” Paula stood up at the transformation. Her purse fell off her lap onto the floor.

  “I can’t believe that’s the same dog.” The clerk paused to stare. “He’s got my vote for most improved.” She looked at her colleague, who nodded in agreement.

  “Boy, he cleaned up well,” the groomer said. “No fleas or dermatitis,”she explained. “I thought he was in worse shape, but,” she went on to say in a high-pitched baby voice directed to Fotis, “you were just dirty.” Fotis wagged.

  His coat was darker, almost a rich black, with dappled freckles across his muzzle and along the inside of his front legs from his armpits all the way down to his front paws.