Stay (14 page)

“Well,” Mr. Wright said, “Mrs. Mackenzie and I have an agreement about the gnomes. She- ”

“Oh, I bet you have an agreement,” I said, loosening my scarf. The thermostat must have been set to eighty- five at least. “The unit three doors down from me has so many wind chimes I feel like I’m in a creepy horror movie every time I walk outside. Do you have an agreement with them too?” I knew he knew about it. I’d seen him before, sitting in his living room window looking for rule book infractions through a pair of opera glasses.

“I have to stress, Ms. Leone, that this is quite a different matter. Residents have complained.” He looked so smug. “And, if we let your dog stay”-he shook his finger at me-“the next thing you know we’d have pet lions roaming the cul-de-sac.”

Pet lions. It made me think of Gail calling Joe a beast, and I realized where the witch hunt had started. It also meant I wasn’t just fighting Mr. Wright. I was fighting Gail and probably most of my other neighbors too. When Gail got fired up, she made it her business to get everyone on her side.

If Peter were with me, he would know how to handle Mr. Wright. He had that lawyerly way of keeping his cool and acting appropriately. He would have looked down his nose at Mr. Wright and used words like
ergo
and
ilk
, speaking in quiet, reserved tones. I, on the other hand, wanted to pin Mr. Wright’s head in my armpit and give him a noogie. Mess up his damn hair.

“So, because my dog is a little over the weight limit you think he should leave?” My voice wobbled. I knew I was chasing myself up a tree.

“From my best estimate, your dog is at least fifty pounds over the weight limit,” Mr. Wright said. I could picture him in his window with his opera glasses, trying to get a good weight estimate when Joe and I walked past.

My mind raced for a counterargument. “You don’t have a weight limit for people,” I said. I knew I was grasping at straws.

“Weight limits for residents would be discrimination,” he said.

“You’re discriminating against my dog.”

“He’s not a resident,” Mr. Wright said.

“He lives with me. He
resides
in my home.”

Mr. Wright sighed. “He’s not listed on your mortgage.” He pulled at a thread on the sash of his jacket. “According to the homeowners’ association rule book, you have thirty days to find him a new home.”

“Are the Parkers’ children listed on their mortgage? Because maybe they need to find their kids a new home too.”

“Ms. Leone, you’re being ridiculous. Now, I can get you a list of shelters that will take-”

“No, you’re being ridiculous! He’s my dog. I’m not going to take him to a shelter.”

“We have these rules for a reason. We have these- ” His face was getting red. He took off his glasses and rubbed the sides of his nose.

“Gail’s dog yaps all day long, and you let her keep him.”

“Gail’s dog weighs seven pounds.”

“Mr. Buggles wakes me up at five AM on Saturday morning, every goddamned weekend.” I smacked my gloves in my hand.

Mr. Wright winced. “I understand that you’re upset, but I ask that you not take the Lord’s name in vain in my house.”

“And I ask that you not tell me to find a new home for a member of my family.” I wanted to smack my gloves across his face.

“It’s not safe. A dog that size isn’t safe. A bite from a dog like that could be lethal.”

“But he doesn’t bite. And did you see Mitch’s hand when they first got Mr. Buggles? Mitch needed thirteen stitches.”

“Exactly, and if a dog that size can do that kind of damage, think about the damage a dog the size of yours can do.”

“That’s not the point. The point is- there are dogs who bite and there are dogs who don’t, and it’s not about size. It’s about being a good dog or being a barky, nippy piece of shit. Joe is a good dog. He’s my family.” I started crying. It wasn’t just tearing up, it was full-out crying. “Fuck!” I wiped at my face with the back of my hand.

“Again, the language, I ask you to watch your language in my home.” Mr. Wright’s face looked like an overripe tomato.

“Holy fucking shit! Are you happy? Gee fucking whiz!” I was bawling. The collar of my jacket was soaked. “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

“Savannah, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“You don’t even have to ask,” I said. I walked out, and left the door open behind me.

I
tried to put it out of my head when I got home, but it was impossible. Joe could tell something was wrong. He finished his dinner and then circled the kitchen three or four times, whining, before he collapsed on the floor with a big sigh. “You’re telling me,” I said. He rested his head on my thigh and looked up at me with his big brown eyes. I scratched his ears and fantasized about having a truckload of garden gnomes delivered to Mr. Wright’s front yard.

After a failed attempt to focus on a made- for-TV movie about a cheerleader who gets murdered by the class nerd, I got up and started pacing. Joe followed. We walked around the coffee table and into the kitchen again and again. Joe lagged behind and then ran up ahead of me, looking back to see where I would go next.

I argued with Mr. Wright. First in my head, and then out loud.

“How dare you! How fucking dare you tell me I can’t keep my dog in my home.” I slapped my hand on the kitchen counter. “I pay the mortgage. I clean the toilet. This is my house and he’s my dog and he’s not going anywhere!”

I ranted and raved through at least a dozen trips around the first floor before I noticed Joe had stopped following me. I called to him from the living room, but when he didn’t come over to me, I walked into the kitchen to look for him. I found him hunched over by the door.

“Hey, buddy!” I said. “Whatcha do- ”

He started heaving. It was a loud, hollow, gulping noise and his whole body lurched forward. When he finally puked, it hit the door and splashed back on him. He plunked down on the floor when he was done, looking defeated and humiliated.

“Joe!” I ran over to him and hugged him to me. The smell was obscene, like rancid meat, but I didn’t care. I rubbed his temples like my mom used to do when I was sick. He whimpered and pushed his head into my lap. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay.”

After a few minutes, he started heaving again. He stood up, and I ran to the phone to call Dr. Brandt’s office.

After the first ring, I realized it was ten PM. The phone kept ringing and ringing, and I knew that no one was going to answer. Feeling hopeless and scared, I started to panic.

I was about to hang up, when someone picked up. “Hello?” answered a deep, scratchy voice. It wasn’t Mindy’s cheerful chirp. It was Dr. Brandt.

“My dog- my dog is throwing up everywhere. I- ”

“Okay. It’s okay. When he throws up, what’s the consistency?”

“The consistency?”

“Does it look like what he just ate for dinner, or is it more of a bilelike substance?”

“It looks like dinner.” Joe stopped heaving and collapsed on the floor again.

“It’s probably just something he ate. Don’t feed him for the next twelve hours or so, and see how he does. Okay?”

Another round of vomit splashed against the kitchen floor. “Oh, God! He’s puking everywhere! I need help. I don’t know what to do.”

“Ma’am, I think he’ll be fine. We’re actually closed right now, but I’ll give you the number of the emergency clinic, so if it gets worse you know who to call. Got a pen?”

“If you’re closed- I just-I’ve never had a dog before and Joe is just- ”

“Ms. Leone?”

“How did you know?”

“Well, who’s gonna forget a dog named Joe? Look, I’m pulling an overnight with an emergency. Why don’t you come down and I’ll take a look at him, if it will make you feel better.”

“Fifteen minutes?” I asked.

“I’ll be here all night.”

I
buckled Joe in the car and backed down the driveway before I realized I hadn’t changed my pukey clothes. I didn’t even care; I just wanted Joe to be okay.

I had to knock on the door of the clinic for five minutes or so. The lights in the waiting room were off, but the heat lamp in the reception desk iguana tank gave off enough of a glow that I could see Dr. Brandt walking across the waiting room. He had a little hop in his step that made his hair flop in and out of his face. He came to the door and opened it with a key.

“Ms. Leone, good to see you,” he said, with a big smile and no sense of urgency. “Come on in.”

He held the door open for us. I walked in and Joe followed.

“No leash?” Dr. Brandt asked.

I rubbed Joe’s head, and he leaned up against my leg. “He still pulls like crazy. It’s easier without it.”

“I would try for a leash when you take him out. If you work with him, he’ll get better. Come on back; I’ll take a look at him.” He gestured grandly toward the hallway behind the reception desk. I felt like he was inviting me into his home.

“Exam four on the left,” he said, and pointed in front of me. He didn’t seem fazed by the fact that both Joe and I smelled like vomit.

“Why are you here so late?” I asked.

“I had an emergency call with a Golden. Car accident. She made it through okay, but- I like to make sure.”

He pushed the pocket door on room four open, and smacked the exam table. Joe jumped up.

“Is he okay?”

“Let’s take a look.” He pulled open Joe’s mouth. “Tongue’s pink. That’s good.” He reached under Joe and pushed up on his stomach. Joe licked his face. “Well, that’s good. If he had bloat, his tongue would be turning purple, and his stomach would be sore. He’s fine.” He patted Joe’s rump. “Dogs get sick sometimes, and Shepherds have sensitive stomachs. They tend to be high strung. A lot of things can trigger it. Something he ate, something that threw off his routine.”

Maybe my ranting and raving about Mr. Wright made Joe puke. I felt so guilty.

“I think he’ll be just fine,” Dr. Brandt said, smiling.

“Okay.” I hadn’t realized that I wasn’t taking full breaths until I relaxed enough to breathe all the way again. But once I started breathing deeper, I started crying. Hard.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Dr. Brandt came running over to me. “Oh, Ms. Leone! He’s going to be just fine.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Look at me. Joe is fine. He’s okay.” His eyes were clear, bright blue.

“Thank you,” I said. My voice was tangled up in sobs. I was so embarrassed to be losing it in front of him. I just couldn’t keep it together. I felt like everything in my life was balanced on the fine, fragile point of a pencil and it was way too easy to tip the wrong way when anything went wrong. I’d felt like this since my mom died and I was starting to wonder if it would ever go away. “Thank you. I just-”

“It’s okay.” Dr. Brandt kept one hand on my shoulder and reached over to the counter to get me a tissue.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have a lot-a lot of- ” I couldn’t think of the word for it.

Dr. Brandt watched me patiently, waiting for me to finish what I was going to say. When I still couldn’t find the right word, I started sobbing harder.

“It’s okay. This happens. You were worried, and now you’re relieved and- ” He gave my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. His hand was big and solid. Maybe from doing so many surgeries.

“I am relieved.” I focused on his face. Dr. Brandt had beautiful eyes. “It’s just that-” I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down, but I burst into tears all over again. “I’m not going to give him up! I’m not.”

Dr. Brandt wrapped his arms around me. “It’s okay,” he said, softly. “It’ll be okay.” He didn’t seem to mind that I was covered with dog puke. I meant to pull away, but I needed it. I sank into him. His arms were strong and he was so warm. Joe jumped off the table and leaned into the backs of my legs.

I got the feeling Dr. Brandt was going to hug me as long as I cried. I felt silly standing there, letting Joe’s vet hug me, but I liked the way I could feel his collarbone against my cheek, and I liked the way he smelled like pine needles and shampoo. His shirt was so soft.

Finally, he said, “Why would you have to give him up?” I pulled away and told him everything: Mr. Wright and Mr. Buggles, the garden gnomes, and the bright orange envelope.

“The thing is,” I said, realizing I was ranting and not sure I could stop it, “he may be over thirty-five pounds, but he’s not a yippy little shit.”

Dr. Brandt’s eyes sparkled. He pressed his lips together, the corners of his mouth turned up.

“Well, if you’re not going to give him up, I guess you’ll have to move,” he said.

“Easier said than done,” I said. “Can you even buy a house in thirty days?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Dr. Brandt said, pulling himself up to sit on the counter Joe had just been on. “But I’m sure you can work something out. Maybe if you have a plan to move, they’ll let you keep Joe in the condo a little longer. It would be unreasonable of them not to.”

“Mr. Wright,” I said, “is nothing if not unreasonable.”

“But what is he really going to do if you don’t have the dog out in thirty days? It’s not like he can kick you out when you’re already planning to leave, right?”

“Can he call animal control?” I had visions of Mr. Wright directing uniformed men with tranquilizer guns and big nets to come and capture Joe.

“Possible. Not likely, but possible. Tell you what,” Dr. Brandt said. “If it takes more than thirty days, and you can’t get an extension, you can leave Joe with me.”

“Really? You’d do that?” I was starting to get drowsy. I yawned without covering my mouth.

Dr. Brandt didn’t seem to notice. “Sure. Joe’s a great dog.” He tucked his hair behind his ear and it fell back in his face immediately. He had a laid-back, rugged thing going on, the shaggy hair, the faded clothes. I could imagine Diane having a field day with his scruffiness, but, really, it worked on him. He looked like he belonged in an ad for some super manly aftershave, maybe roping a steer or staring into a campfire.