Blueberry Hill

by Bette Lee Crosby

  I cut to the chase and ask, “Do you have any Bichon puppies?”

  “Yeah. Two.”

  “For sale right now?” My surprise is obvious.

  “Yeah. Two Bichons and a Maltese.”

  This place is in Paterson, which is a good hour from our house, but now I’m like a hound in the hunt so I ask, “How late are you open?”

  “Five-thirty.”

  I look at the clock: five-ten. As I fish under the desk for my shoes, I tell the guy Donna’s story and plead with him to wait for me.

  “I’m on my way right now,” I say.

  It’s obvious this guy doesn’t want to wait. “What’s the rush? The same dogs will be here tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got to have this dog tonight,” I exclaim. This makes no sense, even to me. Of course I could go tomorrow. Except by now I am convinced these are the only two Bichons in the state of New Jersey. What if somebody breaks in during the night and steals them? Too risky! I whine and beg.

  “Okay, okay.” Pete finally agrees to wait for me, but adds, “Be careful driving, I don’t want you killed on the way here.” He laughs and hangs up.

  As I grab my coat I hear the garage door rumble up and realize Dick is home from work. Chances are he’s thinking, “What’s for supper?” But I’m thinking, “He can drive.” That way I can hold the dog on the way home.

  With checkbook in hand, I’m down the stairs and sliding into the passenger seat before Dick has his key out of the ignition. “We’ve got to go to Paterson,” I say with a sense of urgency.

  “Why?”

  “Hurry,” I say, fastening my seat belt. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  Without much of an argument, he puts the car in reverse, backs out of the garage, and heads for Route 287. I give the address of the kennel and explain the situation.

  “I’m with Pete,” Dick says. “Why can’t you just get the dog tomorrow?”

  It a rational question that requires a fairly rational answer, but I wave it off and repeat, “These are the last two Bichons in New Jersey!”

  When we get to the kennel, everything is dark and the parking lot empty. I jump out of the car and run to the building. The door is locked. I panic and pound my fist against it shouting, “You said you’d wait!”

  The light goes on and Pete bellows, “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”

  A round little man with mustard on his mustache opens the door and smiles at me. “You gotta be the lady that called. I’m Pete.”

  “Hi,” I say sheepishly, now embarrassed by my behavior. “Thanks for waiting.” I introduce Dick and myself, then the three of us start toward the back room. As we pass the office I see a half-eaten sandwich on what appears to be Pete’s desk.

  “Did we interrupt your dinner?”

  “Nah. It’s bowling night, but the guys are going to the Fish House. I’m not big on fish, especially clams. Oysters neither.”

  Pete opens a second door, and when he snaps on the light any number of yapping dogs spring to life. The room is wall-to-wall wire cages.

  “Afraid I got some bad news,” he says. “I thought I had two Bichons, but I got two Maltese.”

  The disappointment washes over me like sludge from a sewer. The heartache I feel for my sister and the frustration of this search rises like a lump in my throat.

  “You don’t have any Bichons?” I ask.

  Apologetically he answers, “Just one. A male.”

  I let out a whoosh of disappointment. I have my heart set on a female Bichon. I came here hoping to find a dog exactly the same as the one I have. Brandi is a lap-sitting, kiss-giving, cuddle bug, and she brings me more joy than I ever thought possible. My goal is to find a dog that will bring the same joy to my speechless sister. Although I’ve been told there is just the one male, I say with a moan, “No females?”

  Pete shakes his head. “I’ve got a female terrier.”

  “The male Bichon,” I say, “is he old enough to sell right now?”

  Pete nods. “That’s him. Nine weeks today.” He points to a cage in the third tier. Inside is a white ball of fluff sleepily curled around a rag toy.

  This dog is not yapping like the others, so I think maybe a male dog will work after all.

  I poke my finger through the wire mesh and talk to him as I stroke his paw. A little black eye pops open, and he begins wagging his tail. “Awww,” I gush. It seems this one and only Bichon likes me, and if he likes me he’s going to love Donna.

  “Can we take him out of the cage?”

  Pete puts the dog on the floor, and I sit down beside him. He starts climbing on my lap and licking my face.

  “Adorable, isn’t he?” I turn to Dick, but he’s looking at a German shepherd puppy on the bottom row. I repeat, “This Bichon’s adorable, isn’t he?”

  Still with the shepherd, Dick says, “Look at the paws on this guy. He’s gonna be a big one.”

  Pete motions to the large black pup a few cages down. “That’s nothing. Check this one out. Newfoundland; he’ll be the size of a bear when he’s full grown.”

  I interrupt them and ask, “How much?”

  Pete eyes the ticket on the Newfoundland’s cage and says, “Six hundred.”

  “Not him. This Bichon. How much is this Bichon?”

  “Six fifty.”

  “Six hundred and fifty dollars?” Dick repeats. He hasn’t said “overpriced” but it’s there, hanging onto the tail of the question mark.

  When people have been married a long time they start to know each other’s thoughts, and I am pretty certain Dick is comparing the pound-for-pound cost of this dog and the Newfoundland.

  I know this dog is way out of my budget. I know I’m going to have to cut back on any number of things to make up for such an expenditure. But by now the image of this Bichon sitting alongside my silent sister has settled into my mind.

  “We’ll take him,” I say.

  Pete warns, “He’s not show quality.”

  This fact doesn’t faze me. I’m not looking for a show dog. All I want is a companion for my sister. I want a living, breathing, loving thing that will save her from being lonely. But my pound-for-pound husband asks, “Why is he not show quality?”

  Pete picks up the dog and turns its face to us. “Look at the eyes. Bichons are supposed to have a black rim around the eyes. This dog only has the black rim on one eye.”

  I look and, sure enough, the poor little thing has one perfect eye and one with an albino rim around it, giving him the appearance of pink eye. The dog wriggles loose from Pete and buries its head in my lap as if it’s embarrassed by this abnormality. Now, more than ever, I am convinced this is the right dog. He and Donna will be two slightly impaired beings helping each other.

  “We’ll take him,” I repeat.

  Twenty minutes later all three of us are in the car and on our way home, Dick, the dog, and me. Only now do I realize that in the frenzy of this day I have forgotten to defrost something for dinner. Uh oh.

  I suggest, “It’s late; maybe we should pick up a pizza for supper.”

  “You forget to defrost something again?”

  “Sort of.” I start to defend my mistake. “Even if I had defrosted something, by the time I cook it would be midnight. How about Chinese?”

  “Let’s just go out for dinner.”

  “We can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “The dog.” I hope this will be enough of an explanation, but it’s obvious Dick wants more. “He’s just a baby. We can’t dump him in the house and leave. He and Brandi may not get along.”

  “They’re the same kind of dog.”

  As I said, a wife usually knows her husband’s mind. Right now I can almost guarantee Dick is thinking, These are dogs we’re talking about. But without grumbling he agrees to Chinese, and I am relieved. When we arrive at Joy Chow he goes in for the food, and I stay in the car with the dog. Through the front window I can see Dick waiting patiently at the counter as the cook throws a handful of something in the
wok.

  I thank God for this man of infinite understanding. Sometimes in this life we get lucky. I did. Donna didn’t. Once again I start to grow angry at the monster she married.

  My thoughts fade when I see Dick returning to the car with two brown bags. I reach across and open the driver’s side door. The dog wakes up and starts licking my face again. Dick reaches across and hands me the bags, and I set them on the floor. Little Mister Pink-eye goes crazy, sniffing, wagging, sniffing, moaning. Finally he lets out a desperate woof.

  “He wants this food.” I laugh and think about Brandi who gets a piece of everything I eat.

  “Don’t give him any,” Dick warns. “He’s a puppy. He’ll get sick.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I reply.

  “Make sure. Otherwise he’ll throw up all over the house.”

  Dick knows me as well as I know him. He knows that given the chance, I will spoil this dog with hand-fed snacks just as I’ve spoiled Brandi.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, but even as the words come from my mouth, I am thinking I will dip my finger in the sauce and give him a taste. Brandi will get several chunks of General Tso’s chicken, but the pup will have only a tiny taste.

  After dinner and several finger licks of spare rib sauce, we settle in the family room. The puppy tries to climb into my lap, and Brandi swats him away. This is her territory, and she is not ready to give it up.

  “He’s just a baby,” I say and move Brandi aside to make room for the pup. Eventually they settle down, Brandi next to me, Pink-eye in my lap.

  When the basketball game ends, Dick clicks off the television and we start to bed.

  “What are you going to do with the dog?” he asks.

  “He can sleep in Brandi’s bed.” This seems like a good idea since Brandi doesn’t use the bed; she sleeps with us.

  Dick shakes his head. “Unh-unh. He’s not trained. I don’t want him running around the house.”

  Remembering the challenge of training Brandi, I don’t argue.

  Dick brings a laundry basket from the basement, and I line it with a thick terry towel. Then we head for the bedroom.

  I set the laundry basket close to my side of the bed and lower him into it. For a while he’s content, but the minute he sees Brandi jump on the bed he gets restless. He starts pawing the sides of the basket. He wants out. He wants me to pick him up again. He wants to be where Brandi is, and she wants nothing to do with him.

  I feel sorry for the dog; he is small and alone. Like my sister he is flawed and in need of company. I sit on the floor beside the basket and pet him until he finally falls asleep.

  At last I am in bed. I close my eyes, listen to the soft sound of puppy snores, and imagine Donna clapping her hands in a wordless call for Pink-eye to come. I can see him winking his albino eye as he leaps into her arms.

  The Gift

  Saturday morning I start to think about the ramifications of owning a dog. Feeding will be easy enough, but there’s also the training and walking. Neither of which Donna can handle.

  It took me almost a year to get Brandi completely housebroken. Now I’ve got only a few days to train this pup. I convince myself it can be done. I plan to take the dogs out together figuring once Pink-eye sees Brandi get a reward for piddling, he’ll catch on quickly. There’s just one problem: the pup wants to be with Brandi and Brandi keeps pushing her off. I take them out together anyway.

  Brandi circles the yard with Pink-eye right behind nosing her butt. Nothing happens. Neither dog does anything, so I bring them inside. I put the pup back in the laundry basket and take Brandi out alone. She immediately does what she came to do. I mark the spot, switch Brandi for the pup, and head back out. I sit Pink-eye on the marked spot, and he starts to sniff. When he decides to wander away, I herd him back to the spot and wait.

  Again today the sky is gray and the wind cold. “Hurry up,” I say, but the pup ignores me. Eventually it starts to drizzle, and when I am just about ready to give up on teaching this dog anything he squats and pees. I “good boy” him all over the place and give him two cookies.

  The next day I take the two dogs out together again. This time it’s a bit better. The pup follows Brandi’s lead, only he squats like she does instead of lifting his leg. Nothing’s perfect.

  By Saturday morning Pink-eye is partly trained. I’ve got a length of chain that clicks onto his collar and a stake Dick will pound into the ground. All Donna has to do is slide the patio door open and hook him up. Problem solved.

  As we roll down Route 95, I tell Dick, “Donna knows we’re coming.”

  “Good,” he answers.

  “But she doesn’t know about the dog.”

  He turns and looks at me. “You spent six hundred-and-fifty dollars, and you don’t even know if she wants a dog?”

  “Why would she not want it?”

  “It’s a lot of responsibility.”

  “It’s also a lot of company,” I rationalize. “She loves Brandi, so why would she not love this dog?”

  “Six hundred-and-fifty dollars,” Dick repeats and shakes his head.

  “That’s how much Bichons cost.”

  “If you’re not sure she wants a dog, you should’ve gotten a rescue.”

  He may have a point here, but I simply say, “What’s done is done.”

  Not ready to concede, Dick asks, “What if the cat comes back?”

  “He won’t. He’s been gone too long.” I don’t bother to say the missing Lucifer was what prompted me to buy the dog. And the chain.

  For the remainder of the trip it is mostly small talk. Dick listens to a basketball game on the radio until it turns to static and fades away. I wrestle with the dogs, trying to get Brandi and Pink-eye to settle down.

  When we pull into the parking space in front of her apartment, the living room blind is halfway up and I can see Donna sitting in the chair beside the window. She leans forward and rubs a patch of frost from the windowpane. I know she is watching for us, and as soon as I step to the entranceway the buzzer sounds. I open the door and the two dogs dash in. I have a leash for the pup but I don’t use it, because Brandi follows me and the pup follows Brandi.

  I see Donna standing in the open door as soon as we turn down her corridor. The dogs run ahead of us. Brandi knows where we are going because she’s been here countless times before; the pup just goes wherever Brandi goes.

  By the time we get to the door Donna is laughing at the dogs. In a sign language of our own making, she points to me then holds up two fingers and mouths the words, You have two dogs now?

  “Not me,” I say and shake my head.

  She points to the dogs, spreads her hands, and shrugs.

  I understand the question, and I’m trying to hold back a grin. “Brandi’s my dog. The other one is yours.”

  Donna’s eyes go wide. She points to her own chest and mouths a single word. Mine?

  I nod.

  In less than a heartbeat my sister, still hooked to her oxygen tank, is on the floor playing with the dog. He scrambles onto her lap and kisses her face. Donna laughs like I have not seen her laugh in many months. It’s not the kind of laugh you can hear. It’s a muted chuffing sound. But I see the motion of laughter in her bony shoulders. When she finally looks up and silently thanks me, there is a river of tears running down her face and I know it was the best six hundred-and-fifty dollars I will ever spend.

  Later that afternoon I call Mama and ask her to come over.

  “I’m doing the laundry,” she says. “Floyd’s out of underwear.”

  “So come when you finish. Donna’s got something to show you.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Come on, Mama, this is exciting.”

  She hesitates again.

  “Bring Floyd,” I say. “Dick can get take out from Nino’s, and we’ll have dinner together.”

  “Too much garlic in that stuff. It gives Floyd heartburn.”

  “Okay, we’ll get Chinese.”

  “I do
n’t think so,” Mama says. “Floyd doesn’t like being in a crowd. Everybody talking at one time throws his hearing aid off.”

  “There’s no crowd,” I say. “It’s just Dick and me.” Before she has time to come up with another excuse, I remember their weakness and suggest, “We could get black pepper crabs. How’s that?”

  She finally agrees but adds, “We can’t stay all evening. Floyd likes to be home in time to see Wheel of Fortune.”

  Two hours later the doorbell rings, and Mama is standing there alone. “Floyd decided not to come. He asked me to bring him back a couple of crabs. The noise of everybody talking—”

  “Bothers his hearing aid,” I say. I don’t argue because there is nothing to be gained by it. Floyd is older than Mama, and living with him has caused her to be older than her years.

  When Mama steps inside, Pink-eye comes running over and starts barking.

  He has not only settled in but now this is his house, his property to safeguard. He is no longer just a dog, he is the watchdog and this is a stranger.

  “What’s wrong with Brandi?” Mama asks as I push the five-pound terror from her pathway.

  “That’s not Brandi.” I smile. “It’s Donna’s new dog.”

  “Donna’s dog?” Mama looks at the dog and frowns. “Good Lord.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Your sister can barely take care of herself. How in the name of God is she supposed to walk a dog?”

  “She doesn’t have to.” I take Mama to the sliding glass door and show her the stake. “See? All Donna has to do is clip the chain to the dog’s harness. Then he can be outside as much as he wants. She won’t have to walk him or worry about him running away.”

  “We’ll see,” Mama replies skeptically and lowers herself onto the sofa. She looks at Donna sitting in the recliner, the dog curled in her lap. “Are you sure you want that? Taking care of a dog is a lot of work.”

  Donna furrows her eyebrows and nods an emphatic yes. She flutters her hand over her heart and motions to the dog, meaning she loves him.

  Mama heaves a sigh that would have you believe she’s got the weight of the world on her shoulders. “Well, I’m too old to walk it for you, so I hope you know what you’re doing.”