almost tips over entirely before I catch her at the last second.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Jeffrey replies.
“
Something
happened,” I insist before adding, “What have you done?”
“What have I
done
?” Jeffrey is shocked.
She was my dog long before we ever met, and while she has become his dog, too, over the course of our relationship, they don’t have the same bond. He does not treat her with the same
attentiveness (or, truthfully, the same permissiveness), and when he’s displeased with her behavior he is always the stepparent absolving himself of responsibility by throwing his hands up
and calling her “your dog.” This can’t really be Jeffrey’s fault, but I wonder just the same.
“Are you accusing me of something?”
I stare at Jeffrey. Am I accusing him of something? Even in this moment I’m forced to wonder if my assertion is about Lily or the text message. I don’t know. But I can feel Lily
tremble in my hands, and I know immediately now is not the time. “No. No, of course not.”
“I hope not.”
“I’m
not
.” I placate him while I place Lily back in her bed, where at least she’s supported by the cushiony sides. “Just watch her while I call the
vet.”
When I get our veterinarian’s voicemail it dawns on me that it is now four o’clock on New Year’s Eve. I immediately dial the first animal hospital I can find a listing for,
even though it’s on the west side of town. When I explain the situation, they insist I bring her in right away. If they can do anything for her, there’s a short window in which it can
happen, and that window is rapidly closing.
I hang up the phone, grab an old blanket, and wrap it around my girl. I lift her carefully, and nod to Jeffrey. “Let’s go.”
In the car we hit a red light that I know to be a long red light and I burst into sobs. My choices now, as I see them, are either having a dog with wheels for hind legs or, possibly, letting her
go. Without warning, without moving or standing or crouching, Lily poops into the blanket on my lap, and my sobbing becomes inconsolable. She’s dying, my baby. Right here in my lap.
The light turns green. I yell at a distracted Jeffrey to “
Go!
” and he steps on the gas and in the chaos I find a doggie litter bag in my jacket pocket because doggie litter
bags are in all of my jacket pockets—I have a fear of being caught without them. I clean up the blanket as best I can and drop the sealed bag near my feet. I know this bothers Jeffrey, but he
doesn’t say anything, and really, what other choice do I have? We both crack our windows for air.
Jeffrey makes decent time across the city, and when I see a sign that says Animal Hospital I make him stop even though the address does not match the street number I’ve scribbled down on
the back of a Target receipt. I must have transposed some numbers in haste.
Inside, the waiting room is small and hot and chaotic and I worry about having a panic attack. The nurse hands us a clipboard with papers to fill out and I push it back at her and say,
“There is no
time
for paperwork.” Jeffrey apologizes for my outburst, which annoys me, and he takes the clipboard and a pen. There is only one free chair and he takes it so he
can write. I lean in an empty doorway and cradle Lily in her tattered swaddling. Soon a doctor materializes for a consultation, and when I explain the situation she tells us that we actually want
the surgical hospital that’s across the street and two blocks down.
Tick tock, tick tock
. Precious moments wasted.
As we turn to leave, a woman who looks like the Log Lady from
Twin Peaks
(although I’m the one holding the log in the form of a paralyzed dachshund) grabs my arm and says,
“Whatever they tell you, don’t kill your dog.” I want to tell her to fuck off, but I’m frozen speechless in my tracks and tears start to well. “She can still have a
happy life if you let her.” Instantly this woman is
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Jeffrey replies.
“
Something
happened,” I insist before adding, “What have you done?”
“What have I
done
?” Jeffrey is shocked.
She was my dog long before we ever met, and while she has become his dog, too, over the course of our relationship, they don’t have the same bond. He does not treat her with the same
attentiveness (or, truthfully, the same permissiveness), and when he’s displeased with her behavior he is always the stepparent absolving himself of responsibility by throwing his hands up
and calling her “your dog.” This can’t really be Jeffrey’s fault, but I wonder just the same.
“Are you accusing me of something?”
I stare at Jeffrey. Am I accusing him of something? Even in this moment I’m forced to wonder if my assertion is about Lily or the text message. I don’t know. But I can feel Lily
tremble in my hands, and I know immediately now is not the time. “No. No, of course not.”
“I hope not.”
“I’m
not
.” I placate him while I place Lily back in her bed, where at least she’s supported by the cushiony sides. “Just watch her while I call the
vet.”
When I get our veterinarian’s voicemail it dawns on me that it is now four o’clock on New Year’s Eve. I immediately dial the first animal hospital I can find a listing for,
even though it’s on the west side of town. When I explain the situation, they insist I bring her in right away. If they can do anything for her, there’s a short window in which it can
happen, and that window is rapidly closing.
I hang up the phone, grab an old blanket, and wrap it around my girl. I lift her carefully, and nod to Jeffrey. “Let’s go.”
In the car we hit a red light that I know to be a long red light and I burst into sobs. My choices now, as I see them, are either having a dog with wheels for hind legs or, possibly, letting her
go. Without warning, without moving or standing or crouching, Lily poops into the blanket on my lap, and my sobbing becomes inconsolable. She’s dying, my baby. Right here in my lap.
The light turns green. I yell at a distracted Jeffrey to “
Go!
” and he steps on the gas and in the chaos I find a doggie litter bag in my jacket pocket because doggie litter
bags are in all of my jacket pockets—I have a fear of being caught without them. I clean up the blanket as best I can and drop the sealed bag near my feet. I know this bothers Jeffrey, but he
doesn’t say anything, and really, what other choice do I have? We both crack our windows for air.
Jeffrey makes decent time across the city, and when I see a sign that says Animal Hospital I make him stop even though the address does not match the street number I’ve scribbled down on
the back of a Target receipt. I must have transposed some numbers in haste.
Inside, the waiting room is small and hot and chaotic and I worry about having a panic attack. The nurse hands us a clipboard with papers to fill out and I push it back at her and say,
“There is no
time
for paperwork.” Jeffrey apologizes for my outburst, which annoys me, and he takes the clipboard and a pen. There is only one free chair and he takes it so he
can write. I lean in an empty doorway and cradle Lily in her tattered swaddling. Soon a doctor materializes for a consultation, and when I explain the situation she tells us that we actually want
the surgical hospital that’s across the street and two blocks down.
Tick tock, tick tock
. Precious moments wasted.
As we turn to leave, a woman who looks like the Log Lady from
Twin Peaks
(although I’m the one holding the log in the form of a paralyzed dachshund) grabs my arm and says,
“Whatever they tell you, don’t kill your dog.” I want to tell her to fuck off, but I’m frozen speechless in my tracks and tears start to well. “She can still have a
happy life if you let her.” Instantly this woman is
Similar Books
