Dog Crazy (13 page)

“No teeth,” Lourdes says to Gabby. “Tell your sister you're sorry.”

“Sorry!” Gabby chirps. She throws her arms around her sister's neck.

“No teeth,” Portia sniffs. Despite their four-year age gap, Gabby wrestles Portia to the ground and sits on top of her. She bounces up and down on Portia's stomach until Portia shrieks with laughter. Giselle sprints over, barking. She rears up on her back legs and lands heavily on the pile of girls and they shriek louder.

“Monkeys,” Lourdes says. She shakes her head and smiles. Lourdes has an arsenal of nicknames for her daughters. She calls Portia, her firstborn, “Lab Rat” or “Boss”; Gabby is “Monster” or “Animal” or “WMD.” Collectively, they are monkeys, inmates, or nonsensical names like “shnoopidoops” and “boondaloos.”

When I hear these names, I'm reminded of the many names I'd bestowed on Toby over the years. I called him “Turkey Smuggler” because he was so barrel-stomached he looked like he'd swallowed a large bird whole, and “Luigi” because his wild black mustache made me think of an Italian guy throwing pizza dough in the air. I called him “Daisy Clipper” because he pranced in a way that could have clipped the blooms off flowers, “Jasper” because it sounded like a name from the sixties and his coat flared around his paws like bell-bottoms, and “Motorboat” because when I scratched his rear end he released a happy, revving growl that sounded like a boat hitting a wake.

“I've been thinking,” Lourdes says, studying me, “that maybe your whole descent into madness—”

“Thank you for that.”

“—isn't just about Toby's death. I know how much you loved him. Believe me, I know. But maybe the way you responded was really a long-overdue reaction to all sorts of things. I mean, your mom, obviously. But more than that, too. You made your life so small and controlled for so many years—the same apartment, the same job, the same doomed relationships . . . maybe you were bound to blow up. And you're always helping other people, shifting the focus off yourself.” She shakes her head. “You need to deal with your shit. You can only avoid your own issues for so long before they're forced to bite you in the ass for a little attention.”

She's right, of course. I'm devastated by Toby's death, but I also know that losing him has made a host of other anxieties that I've been downplaying for years suddenly swell large, like a long-dry sponge dropped into water.

“I always tell my patients that grief is cumulative,” I say to Lourdes. “But maybe what I should really say is ‘Deal with your shit or it's gonna bite you in the ass.' ”

Lourdes shrugs. “That's why I prefer to work with plants. They don't mind a few well-placed curse words.”

T
wo days later, after my last session of the day, I walk Giselle over to a three-story apartment building on the stretch of Carl Street that runs west out of Cole Valley. Once I realized that Seymour's foster family lived within walking distance, I'd told Anya that I would go with her to photograph him.

“I'm so glad to hear Rosie is doing okay,” I tell Anya when she meets us in front of the building. “She came home from the hospital this morning?”

Anya swallows, nodding. The strap of her bag presses a harsh line into the shoulder of her filthy, ill-fitting coat.

I look up at the overcast sky. “Not great photo-taking weather, is it?”

Anya shrugs. She still looks as though she hasn't showered in days, but she seems to be maintaining a fixed level of grease, so
I figure this means she must be bathing on occasion. “Fog isn't so bad,” she tells me. “It's actually better than bright sun.” She reaches down to pet Giselle. “Hello, Giselle. Didn't know if I'd see you today.”

“I thought she might help relieve some of Seymour's anxiety.”

“And because you're still training her,” Anya says, looking up at me. “To be a therapy dog, right?”

“Yes,” I say. “Right.”

When we're buzzed into the building, Giselle leads the way upstairs, lowering her head to inhale the scent of each step. I hear a few muffled barks coming from somewhere in the building, but by the time we reach the apartment, they've stopped. A tall man with a kind, but tired expression answers the door.

“Maggie?” he asks.

“Hi,” I say. “Grant, right? This is my friend, Anya. She's the photographer I was telling you about. And this is Giselle.”

“Ah,” Grant says, smiling down at Giselle, “glad to see you've brought in a professional dog model to teach Seymour some moves.” He steps back into his living room and gestures for us to follow. The room is a direct contrast to the cold, dull day outside—warm and bright and inviting, with lemon-yellow walls and soft-looking pillows in shades of orange lining a low white couch.

“Can I get you guys anything? Some coffee, maybe?” Grant asks.

Anya and I shake our heads. “We're fine, thanks,” I say. “Everyone at SuperMutt is so appreciative of how patient you and Chip have been about this whole Seymour situation. I understand he hasn't made it easy for you.”

Grant smiles sadly. “It just about kills us to have to send Seymour packing before he finds his forever home. I know he's bounced around between a lot of foster families, and we really thought we'd be the ones to keep him until he was adopted. This has never happened to us before.” He shakes his head. “We're both consultants, and when we're staffed we work pretty horrendous hours—we decided a few years ago that it wouldn't be fair to have a dog of our own at this point in our careers. That's why we work with SuperMutt to foster dogs in between cases.” He lowers his voice, presumably so that Seymour—
Where is Seymour anyway?
—doesn't hear him. “Seymour has been with us a lot longer than we anticipated—a lot longer than any other dog we've fostered. Chip and I are both staffed on cases again now, and we aren't around for him as much as we should be.”

“I understand completely—” I say, but Grant is looking more apologetic than ever.

“I hope it doesn't seem like I'm quitting on him,” he says. “I really believe Seymour would be better off with someone who can be home more and keep a closer eye on him. Maybe devote a little more time to his training, building his confidence. He's a sweet dog . . .” Grant finally trails off, giving a small, resigned shrug. “I'm just really sorry it's come to this.”

“There's absolutely no need to apologize.” Sybil has told me that Grant and his husband have fostered five dogs for SuperMutt so far, always paying for the dogs' veterinary appointments and various immunizations out of their own pockets instead of billing the rescue organization like most foster families. They're good, responsible people who have simply reached their wits' end. “Sybil and I are so grateful for everything you and Chip have
done. You're both practically saints in my book. It must be incredibly difficult fostering dog after dog, getting accustomed to each new personality. It's a ton of work. And sometimes it's just a bad match—or life gets in the way. Really, we understand. You guys have gone above and beyond for Seymour—for all the dogs you've helped.”

Grant looks relieved. “Yes, well. We're happy to do it. We love dogs. I said that already, didn't I?” He laughs nervously.

“This is for the best,” Anya says. “We're going to get Seymour out of here as soon as we can, and then you can move on to your next foster when you're ready.”

I'm surprised by Anya's words and shoot her a grateful smile. “Besides,” I add, “what are you going to do, sell your apartment and move because your foster dog doesn't like trains? It makes a lot more sense to move the dog than the people.” I look around the room. “Where is Seymour, anyway?”

Grant gestures toward the couch. “His hiding spot.”

And then I see his sweet, anxious face peering around a corner of the couch. I feel like I know him already—it's like seeing an old friend. A warm feeling blooms in my chest. I chalk this up to having stared so often at his photo on the website.

Giselle has caught sight of Seymour, too. She releases an excited whimper and tugs at the leash.

“Oh, hello, Seymour,” I say softly. I hand Giselle's leash to Anya and pull a couple of biscuits from my pocket. I give one to Giselle and then walk toward Seymour. When I'm still a few feet away from him, I kneel on the floor and hold out the biscuit. I find I'm holding my breath, unsure how he'll respond, and I'm relieved when he folds his huge, drooping ears back against his
head and pads over to me, tail wagging, head hanging low. He looks up at me from the tops of his big, brown, uncertain eyes. “Go ahead,” I tell him, moving the biscuit closer. “It's for you.”

Without breaking eye contact with me, Seymour takes the biscuit and holds it between his teeth on one side of his mouth so that half of the treat sticks out limply from between his lips. He looks like he belongs in that painting of dogs playing poker, a cigar hanging from his mouth.

“Aren't you going to eat it?” I ask, smiling.

But he just holds the biscuit there and wags his tail some more. He makes a sort of low sound, like a friendly growl. Really, more like a purr. Grant, Anya, and I all laugh.

“He does that,” Grant says. “Chip thinks he's part golden, part basset, and part cat.”

“Are you part cat?” I ask Seymour. His eyebrows rise and shift together, giving him a perturbed look. I stroke his head and then hold his huge ears back with both of my hands. Without his ears, his face looks just like a golden retriever's, all devotion and loyalty and trust. He practically oozes dignity.
How do dogs do that?
I look into his big brown eyes and feel that soft, melted-butter feeling spread through my chest again.

What happened to you to make you so scared?
Seymour is still holding the biscuit, but now he rests his velvety muzzle on my wrist. Had someone hurt him? Who could do that to a dog? The thought turns my stomach. Seymour's steady breath is warm on my forearm. It's as much of an answer as I'll ever get.

“Oh,” I say, “you are sweet, aren't you?” I turn back toward Anya and Grant, reluctantly taking my eyes off Seymour, and try to focus my thoughts. “We really just have to get people out here
to see him. How could you resist this face? That photo of him doesn't do him any justice at all.”

“Well, we're going to change that,” Anya says decisively.

Giselle is straining against her leash now, eager to get a closer inspection of Seymour under way. “Let's see how they do,” I say.

Anya walks Giselle over. Seymour tolerates her invasive sniffing with quiet poise, holding his head rigid, his tail wagging slowly, stiffly, and his big ears pressed back against his head in submission. He's half Giselle's height and she has to lie down on her elbows to sniff under him. When she stands, satisfied, she snorts into one of his ears.

“Don't make fun of him, Giselle,” I say, laughing. Seymour shakes out his fur and his ears flop loudly against his head. “Even if it's tough,” I add. I scratch under Seymour's chin and he gazes at me contentedly, the anxiety ebbing from his eyes.

I rock back on my heels and stand. As I do, a train rumbles by outside. Seymour immediately spins around and scrambles back behind the couch, his nails scratching against the dark wood floor.

“It's okay, Seymour,” Grant calls softly. “It's just a train.”

I don't say anything.

A moment later, once the train has passed, Seymour peeks out at us. He is trembling. He looks up at me as if he's waiting for an explanation for the monstrous noise that keeps torturing him.

“It's all right,” I say. “Come here. It's gone now.”

When Seymour takes a few cautious steps toward me I see he's left a little puddle on the floor behind him. Grant is already walking over with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of disinfectant spray. He clearly keeps both close-at-hand.

“Let me do that,” I offer.

He waves me away, crouching down to wipe up the puddle. “We tried to push the couch back so he didn't have a hiding place anymore, but then he started running into our bedroom and peeing on the carpet every time a train passed. This seemed the lesser of two evils. Besides, he's attached to this little hiding spot. It seemed cruel to take it away from him.”

“Where do you think he'll be more comfortable while we take the pictures?” I ask. “Here or outside?”

“Probably here. You could try outside, but I have to warn you he's pretty tough to walk. Skittish as a spooked horse.”

“I think we should try,” Anya says. “Natural light is always best for photos.”

My vote would have been to stay inside, but since the only reason we're here is to try to get a good photo of Seymour to use on the website, and since this whole situation seems to have brought out some glint of Anya's more personable, outgoing self, I nod my agreement.

While Grant digs a leash out of a drawer, Seymour sits close beside me, leaning against my leg. “Better watch out,” Anya says. “He looks smitten.”

You've got the wrong girl, buddy,
I think, and stand so that Seymour has to shift his weight away from me. I'm more determined than ever to get Seymour to bond with Anya. Giselle's leash is loose on the ground, so I pick it up and wrap it tightly around my hand. When Grant returns with Seymour's, he holds it out to me but I gesture for him to give it to Anya.

“Keep a close eye on him,” Grant says. “He's faster than he looks. We've tried all sorts of collars and harnesses on him, but because of his, er, unique shape and wiggliness, he's managed to
get out of all of them.” He reaches down to lift Seymour's chin so that they look right at each other. “Keep your chin up, little man.” I can see that Grant is attached to the dog and I have a brief flicker of hope that perhaps this will turn out to be Seymour's forever home after all. But then Grant straightens and I can hear the relief in his voice when he says, “Actually, I'm glad you're taking him out. Maybe a walk with an expert will do him good. The faster he gets over his leash issues, the faster he'll find a family willing to take him in, right?”

“Oh, I'm no expert,” I say quickly. Grant looks disappointed. “But don't worry, we're going to find Seymour the right fit soon.”

Sure enough, Seymour's whole body seems to wilt, becoming as droopy as his huge ears by the time we reach the bottom of the hall staircase. When I open the door at the bottom of the staircase, revealing cars whizzing by in the street, Seymour balks. He sits on his haunches, trembling. Anya tries to give him a tug, but he begins to swing his head from side to side, nearly pulling back out of his collar.

I swap leashes with Anya so that she's holding Giselle's and I'm holding Seymour's. Then I kneel down in front of him for a little pep talk. I smooth back his ears a few times. He looks deep into my eyes and then looks away. Into my eyes, then away. I put my hands on his shoulders.

“What are you going to do, stay inside for the rest of your life?” I ask him. It figures that I would somehow find the world's only agoraphobic dog. “Exposure therapy,” I advise him softly, stroking his ears. “That's the ticket.
Desensitization.
”

Seymour cocks his head and whimpers.

“What are you telling him?” Anya asks.

“Psych talk,” I say, straightening. “It's confidential.” I pull another biscuit from my pocket and step backward through the door so that I'm standing on the sidewalk. Seymour slinks toward me so reluctantly that I can practically hear him grumbling about his own damn canine impulses, his inability to reject food. He takes the biscuit from me. I pass his leash and a few biscuits to Anya and she hands me Giselle's leash.