Dog Crazy (24 page)

I look up at him, my eyes stinging. “But you're leaving.”

“Yes and no. That's what I wanted to tell you. When I got the call about the schedule change, I realized that when push comes to shove, I just can't do it—I can't move to L.A. At least not full-time. I'm going to be there Monday through Friday, overseeing the trial, but I'll keep my apartment here and come up every weekend. It will be a lot of travel, but I'm determined to make it work. It's only temporary, anyway. The trial won't last more than a year.”

He lifts his hand to my cheek. “I just found you, Maggie. The whole ‘aloha' thing—I can't seem to do it. I can't say hello, good-bye, and I love you all at the same time. Hello and I love you—those I can handle. Good-bye . . . why would I want to say that?”

He kisses me, and then I kiss him, and then we kiss some more, with no end in sight.

T
HAT NIGHT, FOR
the first time since he died, I dream of Toby. He is a flash of soft fur beneath my hands, beside me for just a moment, and then, too quickly, he races away, springing forward in a black flash. It's the run he had for so many good years, free of pain, a buoyant gallop full of joy and wonder and beauty.

“Hello!” I call after him in my dream.

The word is still on my lips when I wake up, lift my head from
Henry's warm chest, and see Seymour sleeping soundly at the foot of the bed. We'd picked him up right after the gala, knowing Grant and Chip wouldn't mind. He's breathing deeply now, his fat paws twitching against the blanket, so I lay my head back down and count his slow, contented breaths, matching mine to his, until I fall asleep.

One.

Two.

Three . . .

I
s this it?” Henry asks, slowing the car.

“Yes.”

We've been driving up the coast for over an hour. Henry has reached for my hand a few times, but each time he does, Seymour, who sits in the middle of the backseat with his head hovering between us, flicks his nose under our clasped hands until we have to release each other and pet him instead. We indulge him every time. Despite my assurances that we are heading somewhere fun, despite the back windows being cracked for his sniffing pleasure, Seymour has been panting anxiously the entire drive. We're still getting to know each other, so maybe it isn't fair to assume he's going to like our destination. If he doesn't like cars, maybe he won't like beaches either. Like humans, no dog is quirk-free.

I lean my head back against the seat, thinking of the call I'd
made that morning to my mother. I heard the emotion in her breath when I told her that Toby was dead, and the smile in it when I told her about Seymour. In between the two, I told her everything—the one hundred days at home, the small anxieties that I'd allowed to build up over the years without telling anyone, and the way Giselle and Seymour and my friends helped me work my way through them.

“Oh, Maggie,” she said. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I just—I didn't want to worry you.”

“That's supposed to be my line,” she answered. “
I'm
the mother.” I could hear her struggling not to reveal how hurt she was. “But you're doing better now? You're leaving your apartment? Every day?”

“Yes. Every day. I promise.”

“Good.” Her voice cracked on the word. She was silent a moment, then cleared her throat. “And work? How has it weathered this storm?”

“It's been slower than I'd hoped,” I admitted. “But I'm starting to think of ways to expand the practice. I've been speaking with the director of SuperMutt about the possibility of training some of the rescue dogs to be therapy dogs. There are so many people out there with phobias and anxieties that could be helped by the companionship of a dog—and the dogs would benefit, too, getting a forever home and an important new job. I'd work with both of them—the people and the dogs. I'm looking into an Animal-Assisted Therapy certification course.”

“It sounds like a good complement to your practice,” my mom said. “The human-dog bond can be so healing.”

“Why don't we get you a dog? After I finish the course, I could fly out to Philly for a visit and check to see if there are any suitable dogs at the SPCA. I could work with both of you.”

She was quiet. I knew the dark bird of panic that was spreading its wings inside of her at that moment; I'd lived for too many months with one of my own.

“Mom,” I said, “you don't have to give me an answer right now. Just tell me you'll think about it, okay?”

“Yes,” she said finally. “I will.”

And I believed her.

H
ENRY PULLS THE
car into a spot in the small parking lot. Stretching to the north and south are soaring cliffs that lead down to a chain of sandy coves. Even from the car, we can hear the roar of the ocean as it breaks against the beach. Despite the paved parking lot, these are wild beaches, with steep, crumbling paths and powerful waves. I take a long, deep breath, push open my door, and sling my bag onto my shoulder.

Seymour hops out of the backseat and sniffs the air. He's excited now, his tail wagging and his eyes bright. He spots the path that leads down to the beach and tugs against the leash and starts doing one of the full-body shimmy things I've learned he does when he's happy. The tip of his tail trembles.

Let's go!
his eyes implore.
What are we waiting for?

Pebbles skitter out from under my feet as we make our way down the path. Behind me, Henry slips, landing heavily. I turn and hold out my hand to him but instead of letting me pull him up, he pulls me down. He wraps his arms around me and kisses me for all of two seconds before Seymour is clambering on top of
us, licking our faces and snuffling into our necks. Henry ruffles Seymour's fur, laughing.

Once we're down on the beach, Henry gives my hand a squeeze and heads off with Seymour to check out an area of boulders around the edge of the cove. I walk down to the frothy water, kick off my shoes, and sit, digging my feet into the wet sand. Then I pull the box of Toby's ashes from my bag. This is the exact spot where he rested on that day months earlier, staring out with such uncharacteristic calm at the sea. I hold the box, warm from the floor of the car, in my lap. The sun sparkles harshly against the water but I don't take out my sunglasses. I want to see it all, to feel it all—when you're too concerned with protecting yourself, I've realized, you risk missing the beauty of every day.

Each time the ocean retreats, I hear Henry chatting unselfconsciously with Seymour, encouraging him to explore. I'm reminded of my theory that you get the right dog for the right period of your life.
Maybe,
I think,
if you're lucky, you get the right guy, too.

I stare out at the water, missing Toby. He was a good dog, and he changed my life and helped shape the person I've become. Losing him feels like losing a piece of myself. But it's time to keep moving—moving is, after all, what Toby liked best. It's what he taught me to do.

I'm not going to release Toby's ashes into the waves like I once planned. I just can't. I came here to show Henry and Seymour the beach that Toby and I loved. And I came here to mark Toby's death in quiet ceremony, not because it is the last time I'll think of him, but simply because I love him.

I can so clearly remember the way Toby looked lying on the
beach that day that it feels almost as though I can still see him beside me, gazing out at the ocean, thinking about . . . who knows what? The beauty and peace and power of the natural world? All of the years of his life that had led up to him finding himself on that breathtaking beach in California, including whatever pain or joy that first, mysterious year of his life held? The shortening stretch of time that lay before him? The fish he would eat if he could just get his paws on them?

I smile, lost in happy stories, remembering.

O
N THE WAY
back to San Francisco, the car hugs the turns of the coast. Henry and I open our windows and let in the cool, salty air. Seymour, tired at last, is curled in a tight ball in a corner of the backseat. Every once in a while, I stretch back to pet his soft, warm side.

We cross the Golden Gate Bridge and cut through the city. When we reach Cole Valley, Henry keeps driving.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You'll see.”

We wind our way up Twin Peaks, the city below us expanding, its buildings and streets shrinking. With every turn, Sutro Tower looms larger. At the top of the hill, Henry parks the car. In the backseat, Seymour springs onto his paws, panting.

I peer out at the enormous tower. “I don't know, Henry,” I tease, pulling the replica from my bag. “The real deal up close and personal kind of makes this one look a little . . . cheap.”

Henry pretends to huff. “I'll have you know that is the finest Sutro Tower replica on the market.”

Outside, my stomach does a little flip as we near the wall on the edge of the lookout.

“Is this okay?” Henry asks. “It's normal to feel some vertigo up here. I think everyone does.”

I nod.

Henry points out the line of Market Street that cuts through the city below, leading toward downtown. “And that's the Mission,” he says, showing me where to look. “There's a great restaurant there that projects old movies on the wall of an inner courtyard.” He moves his finger over toward a neighborhood called Nob Hill and tells me that when he needs to clear his head he walks through Grace Cathedral's outdoor labyrinth. He moves his finger again and says that a black speck out in the bay is actually a ferry headed to Tiburon, where we could go for dockside beers and fish and chips at a place called Sam's.

“It's usually sunny there,” he tells me. “So we can escape the summer fog.”

As I listen to him, the flip-flopping sensation in my stomach slows. I reach down and pet Seymour.
That's life,
I think, feeling my last bit of anxiety drain away. You just hope that your excitement for the life you could be living—the life you
can
live—will be enough to soften the needling pricks of your fears.

Back in the car, we drive slowly down the steep, curving road, edging our way back into the city.

“Where to next?” Henry asks.

It's exactly what I always thought Toby would say if he could speak—what most dogs would say, probably, if they could, their joy overflowing, infectious, wise.
Where to next?

I look at Henry, thinking of all the places we could go.

“Home?” he asks.

“No, not home.” Seymour presses his wet nose against my neck, making me laugh. “Not yet, anyway. Surprise me.”

I open my window all the way and settle in for the ride.

I
t is with enormous thanks that I acknowledge:

My editor, Emily Krump, for her generous and thoughtful partnership in this endeavor, and for pushing me to expand and ground the story in all the right places. Emily, this book is better for your hand in it, and I'm so grateful.

The tremendous team at William Morrow, including but not limited to Liate Stehlik, Jennifer Hart, Kaitlyn Kennedy, Molly Birckhead, Carolyn Bodkin, Serena Wang, Martin Karlow, Emin Mancheril, and Diahann Sturge.

My wonderful agent, Elisabeth Weed, for her astute guidance, and for laughing at my jokes.

My dear friend Jeanette Perez, who just can't seem to shake me, and whose suggestions always hit the mark. My heartfelt thanks also to Issabella Shields Grantham, Alison Heller, Meg Kasdan, Carol Mager, and Phil Preuss, whose insights and support strengthened this book.

Tara Cronin for answering my questions about pet
bereavement counseling and for introducing me to
The Grief Recovery Handbook
by John W. James and Russell Friedman, which proved to be a valuable resource. Thank you also to Caroline Schram for answering my various questions about veterinary medicine. Despite the wise counsel I have received, I've exercised dramatic license in the writing of this book.

My parents, my friends, and the many Donohue, Mager, and Preuss family members whose encouragement means the world to me.

Phil, for being my touchstone, day brightener, and best friend—in other words, my real-life forever love interest. And Finley, Avelyn, and Hayden, for bounding through our days with an inspiring amount of puppylike gusto.

My dogs! How I've loved each and every one. Cole, I could not ask for a sweeter fur companion during these busy years of raising a family and building a career. One version of happiness is writing with an undemanding dog snoring nearby.

King Oberon, my good boy, you remain perpetually underfoot. This one is for you.

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