Traveling Light by Andrea Thalasinos

Except for the animal control truck not more than three hours ago, the driver was probably right.
    She climbed out of the back and stood on the sidewalk next to the dog.
    “Pick him up; pick him up,” the driver’s voice rose.
    She looked at him.
    “Pick his ass up.” The cabbie gestured. “Put your arms around his belly,” he instructed, “and pick his ass up.”
    “He’s heavy.”
    Paula circled Fotis’ belly with her arms and lifted him, scooting him onto the backseat.
    “Christ, whew—finally,” the driver muttered. “After that I need a nap.”
    Fotis sat bent over, his head hanging almost down to his front paws, ears drooped off to the sides.
    “Roll down the back windows,” the cabbie instructed. “Give him some air.”
    Paula rolled down one back window, then the other as she reached across the drooping dog. Her blouse had become transparent with sweat, sticking to her back.
    “Thanks,” her voice softened.
    “No, thank you,” the driver said, wiping his eyes. “That’s the most fun I’ve had since my wife died.”
    Paula looked at him, not sure she’d heard right.
    “Washington Square,” she said. “Anywhere in the vicinity’ll do.”
    Fotis began drooling. The cab was queued bumper to bumper in a line of traffic along Queens Boulevard for the feed on to the Queensboro Bridge. Strings of clear fluid streamed from the dog, collecting in pools on Paula’s black skirt.
    “Jesus,” she mumbled, trying to redirect the dog’s mouth over the rubber mats on the back floor of the cab. The interior of a New York City cab was made to be hosed out.
    Then the dog’s body started rhythmically moving, his head jutting back and forth. A deep burping sound bellowed up from his throat.
    “My God,” her voice quivered. “He’s having a seizure.” She looked up at the rearview mirror for help.
    The cabbie tilted the mirror down to look. “Nah—,” he said reassuringly yet amused. “He’s puking on you, hon.”
    Her eyes met the cabbie’s and he laughed himself into a coughing fit.
    Paula looked down as the dog produced a pile of partially digested dog food in her lap.
    “Lady,” the cabbie said, shaking his head as he caught his breath. He opened the grate and tossed back a soft package of Kleenex.
    *   *   *
    With traffic, it took them until almost four thirty to get down to Washington Square. She’d called Celeste several times and left messages: “Got the dog, need to talk to you, call me.” “Call me, got the dog. Need to know what to do, if maybe you could watch him for me.”
    Paula scanned storefronts as she walked, looking at her phone to see if Heavenly had called. Maybe the place was on Fifth. Fotis walked snugly at her side; his flank had coated the side of her skirt with a swath of grime.
    “Goddamn it,” she said out loud, and stopped, looking for the pet store she was sure she passed every day.
    Fotis looked at her when she spoke, one ear standing up, the other half-drooped. Despite the vomit stain on the front of her skirt, now punctuated with white tufts of tissue fragments, the dog had made a full recovery.
    Paula stopped again. The person walking behind them almost crashed into her.
    “Oh, sorry.” She moved out of the way toward the curb. She could have sworn it was here by the Emilio’s Pizza joint.
    It had started to sprinkle. Swollen gray clouds looked about to surrender their contents. Motion from across the street caught her attention. Someone was scurrying about. Aha, she spotted empty white marble tables. “Pets du Jour,” that was it. A clerk was rolling a clothing rack full of tiny costume-like garments toward the door. Ball gowns and garments covered with sequins, organdy ruffles, accessorized with crowns and magic wands, meant for small dogs.
    Paula crossed the street and ducked in with Fotis.
    “Are you still open?”
    “Yup, we’re open till nine.”
    “Good. Okay if I come in with a dog?” She motioned to Fotis.
    “Sure. We don’t