by Nick Pirog
“Not her directly. But I did get an email from her father saying I owed him two thousand dollars for the dress, plus another thousand for the two extra hours they had to rent the beach.” I pause, then add, “And he said if I didn’t pay him he was going to call animal control and have Cassie put down.”
Sequoia inhales sharply, as if the thought of this is so appalling she might die. I hate her a little less because of this.
“What did you say?” Teddy asks.
“I told him the engagement ring I gave to Avery cost seven thousand dollars and since she never returned it, by my calculations, they owed me four thousand dollars. And I said that if I even got a whiff of animal control, I would email the IRS about his off-shore accounts in Panama his daughter was always bragging about.”
“And?”
“And I got a check in the mail a week later for four thousand dollars.”
Teddy slams his hand down on the table and grins wildly. His teeth are stained pink from the wine.
Three servers appear and drop off our entrees. Teddy gives the go-ahead for the waiter to pour the wine and he fills our glasses. After everyone takes a few bites of their dishes, my father turns his attention to Megan. I’d only told my parents the bare bones about her: that she was born here, then went to culinary school in Sacramento, and that she was now the pastry chef at Jimmy’s Restaurant. But my father wants to hear it all from her lips. He prods her about her upbringing, her parents, her parents’ jobs, her schooling, her work history, the genealogy of her last name, stopping just short of asking what day her menstrual cycle normally begins.
“Didn’t know you were coming to a congressional oversight hearing, did you?” I mutter between questions.
My dad smirks, but this doesn’t slow him down. After several more questions, he asks, “So, how do you like working at Jimmy’s? Betsy and I love that place.”
“Who?” Megan asks.
“Betsy?” my dad says, nodding at my mother. “My wife.”
“Oh, right,” Megan says with a dramatic nod. “Your wife.”
I choke on a bite of pork, cough, then finally flush it down with a swig of water. The elephant is out. And I wasn’t even the one to pull the trigger.
I give Megan’s leg a light pinch under the table.
Thank you.
An awkward few seconds follows, but before the elephant can take a big fat dump on the table, Megan says, “I do love working at Jimmy’s. They give me total freedom to play with the dessert menu. I can rotate my favorites, run a special for a night, or run five specials for a night. Plus, we have a wedding party each weekend and I’ve been making a lot of the wedding cakes lately.”
“Is that what you want to do full-time? Make wedding cakes?”
“I do love making wedding cakes, but what I really want to do is open a dog bakery.”
“A dog bakery?” Teddy scoffs. “Is there any money in that?”
“You’d be surprised,” Megan says. “People spend astronomical amounts of money on their pets.” She smiles, then adds, “And why shouldn’t they? Our pets are the only thing that will ever love us more than we love ourselves. And we only get them for these brief periods. We should spoil them. They spoil us with their love every day.”
I’m not sure if it’s the wine or Megan’s milk chocolate eyes as she says these words, but my heart begins to tingle. I grab for Megan’s hand under the table.
After a few beats, my mother asks, “So, Megan, have you read any of Jerry’s books?”
If genealogy, college resume, job status, and life ambition are of consequence to my father, that my significant other has read my books is of great consequence to my mother.
(When my mother learned that after having dated Avery for over a year, she still hadn’t cracked open one of my books, my mother took me aside and said, “I don’t know about this girl, Jerry. I just don’t know.”)
I put my hand up and say, “Give her a break, Mom. We’ve only been dating for a month.”
Megan and I had discussed books on several of our dates, but I made a point never to mention my books. In a few more months, if I hadn’t scared her away, I would consider giving one of my books to her. Which is why I’m as surprised as anyone when Megan says, “I’ve read the first two and I’m halfway through the third.”
I turn toward her, all thirty-two of my teeth on display. “Really?”
“Of course. I downloaded the first book on my Kindle the day you messaged me on Facebook.”
“So what do you think?” my mom says, stealing my thought bubble.
“Well—” she grimaces.
My stomach churns.
“—I think they’re amazing.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, grinning wildly. “Amazing?”
“The first one, yeah, amazing. Probably one of my favorite sci-fi books ever. The second and third are still good, way better than the reviewers make out.” She turns to me and confesses, “I may have tracked down Robin_Readsalot77 on Instagram and told her to eat shit.”
Everyone at the table erupts in laughter, then my mom says, “She’s a keeper!”
~
In hindsight, I should have noticed when our waiter never dropped off dessert menus. Or at the very least, I should have known something was amiss when Megan disappeared to the bathroom for much longer than normal.
Ninety seconds after Megan returns, and fifteen seconds after Teddy bellows, “Who do you have to know to get some Tiramisu around here?” our waiter appears holding a flaming birthday cake.
“What did you do?” I ask Megan, who is fidgeting in her seat and trying extremely hard not to smile.
“Nothing,” she says innocently. Then adds, “Well, maybe I’m friends with one of the chefs here and maybe I made a birthday cake for you and maybe they’ve been keeping it in their walk-in.”
The waiter leans over the table and sets the cake in front of me. It’s rectangular with intricate blue frosting. On one side of the cake are flaming “3” and “6” candles and on the other side is simply a “3”. It looks as though I’m turning 336, but it makes sense once you read what’s written in blue icing: “Happy Birthday Jerry & Hugo.” Or once you see the face of a Bernese Mountain Dog skillfully drawn in black, brown, and white icing.
I’m subjected to an unnecessarily loud singing of “Happy Birthday,” and by the time it’s finished, I can’t fight back the tears.
“He must really hate birthdays,” I hear Teddy murmur as I pick my napkin from my lap and bury my face in it.
All I hear is muttering in the background, no doubt my mother explaining how I share my birthday with my dog, who tragically died at the end of February, and who would’ve been three years old today.
This is my third time crying in the last twelve hours and this bout has an edge to it. I’m sad, but I’m also angry.
How could Megan do this? Doesn’t she know Hugo will never celebrate another birthday? He can’t. He’s dead. Plus, she never even met him. What gives her the right?
Megan pulls the napkin away from my face. I don’t want to look at her. I want to teleport home and curl up with Cassie. But then she lifts my chin slightly and stares at me. She waits patiently until I lift my gaze to hers. Then she says calmly, “Just because he’s dead, doesn’t mean he doesn’t go on living.” Then she gives my heart a light pat.
All my anger falls away. Pushed out by this overpowering feeling of love. Love for Hugo. And love for this woman next to me who risked upsetting me at my birthday dinner—in front of my parents, who she is meeting for the first time—to help me celebrate my precious dog’s life.
This would be a turning point in my grief. A moment of clarity. Hugo might not be turning three on this earth, but he was turning three in my heart. And he would always be there.
“Come on, son,” my father beckons, “blow out those candles.”
So I blow out my candles and I blow out Hugo’s candle.
And I make a wish.
/>
~
The cake, chocolate mousse, is so delicious that after his first bite, my father says, “Holy shit!” Which is the first time I’ve heard him curse since he stubbed his toe ten years earlier.
Once we’ve each polished off a piece of cake—though not the section with Hugo’s face on it, I want to save that—Sequoia beckons to Megan and says, “Give me your hand.”
Megan cuts her eyes at me in what I can only describe as amused bewilderment, then offers her hand to the purple-shawled healer/accountant.
“Twenty-five years old, you said?” Sequoia mumbles as she takes Megan’s hand in hers and begins inspecting Megan’s palm.
I don’t remember Megan saying her age, but Megan nods and says, “Yes, I’m twenty-five.”
“You show a great deal of wisdom for such a young woman,” Sequoia says squinting, her face an inch from Megan’s open hand.
Megan shrugs.
“But not such a shock now that I see your lifelines.” Sequoia takes a long, measured breath, then her mouth softens into an almost-smile. “You have an old soul, my dear. An old soul.”
Cassie
The sound of keys rattling in the door startles me awake. Wally darts around the couch and to the front door and begins barking wildly.
I love Wally, but he sure is barky.
The door opens and Jerry and Megan step inside. Wally runs into the bedroom and comes out with my green alligator in his mouth and shows it to Megan.
Look at my new toy, he tells her.
I’m too excited to see Jerry to care (too much) and he leans down and lets me lick his face and neck. His face is salty and I know he’s been crying.
Why were you crying, Jerry?
But he doesn’t seem sad, so maybe they were happy tears. I know this happens to humans sometimes.
Megan leans down and lets me kiss her and Jerry gives Wally some good scratches, then he says, “Cassie let you play with her teddy? Wow, I’m impressed.” He turns to me and nods lightly.
I didn’t let him do anything, Jerry.
Jerry opens the freezer and puts the white bag he’s holding inside. Then he opens the fridge and pulls out the blueberries. He feeds Wally and me a bunch of blueberries—they are the most delicious blueberries I’ve ever tasted—then he puts them away.
This is when Megan attacks him and starts licking Jerry’s face.
And then Jerry and Megan go into the bedroom.
Wally follows them into the bedroom and barks. He wants to play. I walk up behind him and bite him gently on the tail, then I give him a light pull.
Let’s let them play together for a while.
It takes me a few tries, but I finally get Wally to snuggle up with me on the couch. We fall asleep to the sounds of Jerry and Megan playing.
Chapter 18
“THE MOUNTAINS”
Hugo
“Come on, slowpoke,” I say, turning and glancing at Charlotte twenty feet behind me.
We’re running through the fields between the spongy green rows of something called alfalfa. With four graceful strides, Charlotte catches up to me, then zooms ahead.
I race to keep up.
Over the past month, my ankle has completely healed. (Cats might not be indestructible, but they sure do have magical healing powers.) And I’ve grown a bit. I’m still a baby cat, just a bigger baby cat. And best of all, most of my little dagger teeth have fallen out and bigger teeth grew in. (They still aren’t great—nothing like my big dog teeth—but they are much better than before.)
I chase Charlotte through the fields. The dirt points at the Mountains, but I’m more concerned with catching the wily cat in front of me than the long-off peaks.
I speed up and leap onto Charlotte’s back. The two of us go rolling in the dirt, then end up tangled in a row of greens. We wrestle for a few minutes, then take off back toward the farm.
This has become a routine of ours: running free through the fields. Every once in a while, Leroy will come with us (I love watching his giant ears flap when he runs), but mostly it’s just me and Charlotte. Sometimes we’ll go to one of the neighboring farms and chase their chickens, or we’ll walk along the small fence that surrounds Winnie, or if it’s too hot out, we’ll climb up in the rafters of the barn and knock dirt onto Dale’s back. (He doesn’t like this very much.)
When we return to the farm, Charlotte heads toward the barn. I head toward the main house, push through the flap in the door and into the kitchen.
“Bootsie!” shouts Bess, reaching down and scooping me up. “My baby boy, Bootsie!” This is my name. Well, this is Hank and Bess’s name for me anyway.
(Better than Cheese, I guess.)
“You ready for some din-din?”
Yes, please.
Bess opens a can and dumps it into a small bowl. The smell hits my nostrils and I feel my tail begin to wag. This is my new favorite smell.
It’s called Tuna.
I devour the tuna, take a long drink, then I find Bess in a rocking chair in the living room. Socks is lying on the windowsill. He gives me a lazy glance, but nothing more. (Since I no longer use his litter box, Socks has pretty much left me alone.) Bess has two sticks and a bunch of rope in her lap and she’s making something. (I hope it isn’t another little hat for me!)
I jump on her lap and she sets the sticks down. Then she scratches my head and ears. She is an amazing scratcher.
Hank comes home a little later and he picks me out of Bess’s lap. He puts me on the table and he scratches my back while he reads the newspaper.
This is our thing.
When Hank goes to bed (Hank goes to bed really early, but he also gets up really early), I go back outside.
I make my way to Leroy’s doghouse and look inside. Some nights he sleeps in the barn with Charlotte. But not tonight. I snuggle up into his side.
He licks my head until I fall asleep.
Farm life is pretty good.
~
I’m chasing Charlotte again. In the dirt. But the dirt is lighter in color. It’s not dirt. It’s sand. I’m chasing Charlotte through the sand. I can see her up ahead. Or at least, her shadow. She’s so far away. I run toward her. There’s something blue to my right. Water. Not just water. The Lake. I must be at the beach.
Why am I chasing Charlotte through the sand on the beach?
I run, kicking up sand behind me. Charlotte’s shadow grows bigger and bigger.
And then.
It’s not Charlotte.
It’s Cassie.
Her tail is helicoptering back and forth.
She barks at me.
Bark, bark, bark.
Come home, Hugo.
Come home.
My eyes open.
“Are you okay?” Leroy asks.
It takes me a long moment to realize it was all a dream.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
But I’m not.
For the past month, I’ve tried not to think about Cassie or Jerry. I’ve tried to enjoy this new life. But as much as I love Leroy and Charlotte and Hank and Bess, I don’t belong here.
I wiggle my way out of the doghouse and I gaze at the Mountains under the full moon.
I’m coming home, Cassie.
Or I’m going to die trying.
~
“Good luck, Hugo,” Leroy says. His droopy eyes are even droopier than usual.
“You’re going to make it,” Charlotte says. “I just know it.”
“I don’t know,” Dale says. “It’s pretty far. Seems to me that you’re probably going to die.”
“Don’t listen to him, Hugo,” Charlotte says. “He’s just a dumb old horse.”
I give Leroy one last lick on his long ear and he lets out a loud whine. Then Charlotte and I exit the barn and go into the moonlight.
As we run into the fields toward the Mountains, Leroy’s rumbling cries echo behind us.
~
&nb
sp; “Okay, Hugo,” Charlotte says. “I’ve got to head back.”
Charlotte has run with me all night. Through many farms, through roads, around houses. For miles and miles. But now the sun is beginning to rise.
“Thank you for teaching me,” I say to Charlotte.
“Teaching you what?”
“That life as a cat isn’t so bad.”
She rubs against me and nestles her head into my neck. She whispers, “You are a cat. But you have the heart of a dog.” Then she races away.
~
For three nights, I run.
Slowly, the Mountains begin to grow.
On the fourth day, I reach the hills that lead to the Mountains. I know the Mountains are close and that the big pine trees will start popping up any second, but I may never see them.
I’m so weak.
My legs feel like they are stuck in mud. I found a small stream early yesterday, but I haven’t had anything to drink since. I ate a couple of peaches and some almonds at a farm, but that was on the second day.
After each step, I wonder if it will be my last.
~
“Another step,” Cassie barks. “Take another step.”
Okay, Cassie.
I will.
For you.
I force myself to keep going. I can barely keep my eyes open, stumbling ahead blindly. And then I trip.
I open my eyes and look at what I stumbled over.
A pinecone.
I glance up and see a giant pine tree.
I made it.
~
I pick my way through the tall evergreens, through the thick brush, up and over the fallen logs, through the bramble. The air is nice and cool. It takes me half the day, but I make it up and over an entire mountain.
And then I hear it.
At first it’s a low rumble. But as I get closer, it grows into a mighty roar.
A river.
I race to the edge of the river and watch as the water rushes over rocks in a wave of white. I scamper upstream to where the water is less excitable. There is no river bank, just rocks. I crawl to the edge of a rock and I dip my head toward the water. I reach out my tongue, but the water is out of reach. (My awesome dog tongue could have reached it, but my cat tongue isn’t very long.) I scamper farther upstream and find a tree that has fallen into the water. The log is wider than I am and I jump onto it, then lean down. I lap at the cold river water, quenching my thirst.
