Dancing Dogs (10 page)

It took about fifteen minutes to haul the bags from the car—Joan and Pearl trekking back and forth together. Then everything had to be put in its proper place. There was much crinkling of paper, shifting of bags, opening and closing of cabinet doors, the soft
thwump
of the refrigerator opening and closing—Pearl sometimes stuck her head in and sniffed.

When the unpacking was done, Pearl came over to Joan for a cuddle and a kiss.

Joan loved so many things about Pearl, but if there was a single thing, it was the special love that existed between people and dogs, the powerful emotion each evoked in the other.
They knew each other so well, accepted each other so completely.

Unlike the love of some people and even of some dogs, Pearl’s was absolutely unconditional. Other creatures could be fickle, cruel, unpredictable. Joan never could say for sure what was going on in Pearl’s alien mind, but the love in her eyes, the acceptance, the dependability, and affection were profound. It was a tonic for Joan, which helped her forget the arthritis in her legs, and Harry’s death two years earlier.

Joan had found Harry lying on the floor in the hallway. She still remembered the awful scene—the shock, the fear; paramedics storming in, trying to revive him, taking him out; the painful days that followed. She had experienced death before—the loss of her parents, others—but Harry’s death was a more profound and painful wrench than she had imagined, or was in any way prepared for. Her world turned upside down. Her days were filled with fear, and an aching sense of loneliness and loss.

Joan had been with Harry for much of her life, loved him, cared for him, and it was as if the structure and rhythms of her life simply collapsed, leaving a bottomless black hole. She nearly fell apart at first. She didn’t eat, sleep, or feel at peace. She didn’t want to go out or see anyone.

It was better now, so much better. She was eating, walking several times a day, going out, seeing friends, even having some fun. She felt hope again, looked forward to things. Much of the healing came in the small rituals of life that she and Pearl did together—the walks, shopping, resting, driving. Joan didn’t know if she would have survived without Pearl’s steadfast presence. The gratitude she felt for Pearl was beyond her ability to describe, or to convey to others.

This night, as on most nights, she and Pearl had dinner
together, eating side by side. Sometimes, she left some of her food for Pearl, who always took it away, although she never saw her eat any of it.

Then, it was time for the clearing of plates and bowls. And a walk. Again, Pearl seemed to know it was time. They went out, down the front walk, and out onto the street. Some of their friends were out. Donna with Bear, Harold with Bailey. “Hey, Joan. Hey there, Pearl,” Donna would always chirp. “Isn’t it a wonderful evening? Bear is so happy to see you. He loves you so much, more than the other neighbors!”

Sometimes Donna was a little bit too enthusiastic for Joan, but still, she was always courteous and happy to listen to the neighborhood gossip.

Then, the ball was thrown, and this was a game Pearl almost never seemed to get bored with, although Joan’s legs were getting a bit stiff with age, and the bending was difficult. Pearl dropped the ball and Joan rushed over to pick it up. It was getting chillier, and Pearl was tiring. Joan was anxious about her; Pearl could sense that. When they got home, Pearl would get her pain tablets, mixed in with some peanut butter or pudding.

Afterward, Joan and Pearl settled onto the sofa, next to each other. The wood stove was going, and the room filled with a warm glow.

Then it was time for telephone calls. First Anne, a friend, then check in with the kids, maybe talk to the grandkids.

“Mom, we’re worried about you, living all alone in that house,” Chip said almost every night. He felt bad about living in sunny California while she was in the chilly Midwest.

“Why don’t you move out here?” he would always offer.

Joan would have hated to move. She loved her routine,
doing the same thing at the same time every day. A move would be disorienting, traumatic.

“I’m not alone,” she would always respond.

“I know, I know,” he said. “But she’s a dog.”

There was no response to that, and so they just moved on.

Joan always felt safe with Pearl. With her around, she would be watched over, taken care of, protected. If anybody came around, Pearl would notice, go investigate. Being in the house, up on a hill—the nearest neighbors separated by hardwood trees and shrubs, out of sight—could get lonely sometimes. But not with Pearl.

Whatever dangers and trials were out there in the world, they melted away here, the two of them together, in their own little corner of the world.

Chip had brought a PC on his last trip, installed it in a corner of the living room, left elaborate instructions on how to use it. But honestly, it made both of them uncomfortable. It produced new and strange noises that were disconcerting—bings, hums, clicks, and other sounds. Joan didn’t like seeing it in the corner of the room. She didn’t like the eerie light that flickered from the screen. It was strange and ugly and even smelled funny.

The dog got up and moved away whenever the screen lit up or beeped.

After the phone calls, it was time for a snack. Tea, scones, biscuits. The two ate delicately, nibbling at their food. This was reading time, and Joan especially enjoyed the quiet, as she did the familiarity. There was little noise, other than the shifting of human and dog against upholstery and pillows.

The computer was off. So was the TV. The phone never rang after nine
P.M
. There was no traffic in the street. The only sound in the house was the humming of the refrigerator
and a mild buzzing from the digital table clock that was a gift last Christmas.

Joan and Pearl both nodded off, both breathing heavily, snoring slightly. Pearl snuggled against a down pillow, while Joan liked to lie against the afghan that was usually draped over the back of the sofa. The wind whispered softly against the large glass windows that Harry had put in the summer before he died.

Joan dreamed of Harry almost every night. All kinds of images of the man she had lived with streaked through her mind. Their walks, their rides in the car, their time at the ocean. Snuggling with him in bed on cold dark nights was one of the things she most missed.

At ten o’clock, Joan usually stirred, and then Pearl followed suit. The news was turned on, mostly for the weather. The rest of it was almost always bad, something dead, on fire, or angry.

Then, a final brief stroll just outside on the lawn, by the drive, a last chance for a dog to eliminate.

Finally, the walk upstairs to bed. Applying lotion to the human face, a heating pad for the sore canine joint, followed by some brushing for each. Then one lying down, pulling the covers up, turning off the light, and the other circling, pawing, plopping down in a ball, grateful for a warm, quiet spot next to a human that she loved. And then a pat, a kiss, a good night.

The night was usually uneventful, two good and quiet sleepers. Sometimes, one had to get up and use the bathroom, and sometimes, the other had to go by the back door and be let out briefly. Both of them had slightly unpredictable bladders. But most nights, they slept through until first light.

In the morning, it was Joan who stirred first, when the
first rays of sunlight crept in through the blinds. Pearl never moved until Joan did, and Joan waited for the alarm clock to come on, blaring its staticky classical music. There was no digital alarm in the upstairs bedroom, just an old-fashioned radio clock.

The day began: showering, dressing, going downstairs, opening the back door so a dog could do her business, and then breakfast. Coffee. Blood-pressure pills. Toast. Kibble mixed with a piece of chicken sausage, some joint pills, and kidney medication.

The first and longest walk of the day, around the block, down to the park, to see the other people and the other dogs, to get off leash and run a bit, as much as aging legs allowed.

Then back to the house: some cleaning, tidying, bill paying. A ride to the doctor, then to the vet for a routine checkup.

Joan handled herself well at the vet, but it nearly undid Pearl, who was nervous for hours before going.

Finally, it was time to come home, to meet Sue, an old friend who had lost her dog a couple of years earlier and who was thrilled to get on the floor and scratch the belly of another one. Sue came over for lunch every other week, alternating with her bridge club. She always brought sandwiches and treats.

Soon, it would be time for the afternoon walk. The neighbors sometimes joked that it was never really clear who was walking whom, and this was true. It never was, not to Joan and Pearl either.

And when they got home, Pearl went out to check the mail, and Joan walked slowly to her food bowl to eat the rest of the kibble she had left that morning.

E
MMA DIDN
’
T NEED
CNN
TO TELL HER SOMETHING WAS UP
. E
VEN
before the Great Recession officially struck, she shifted her hours at the Washequa Animal Shelter before her boss could think to ask her. Washequa had once been a booming auto town, centered for decades around a GM assembly plant, but it shut down in 2008, leaving the town shell-shocked and decimated. For several months, people had been pulling up to the “Surrender Your Animals” bay of the shelter more and more often, mostly at night, because even though it wasn’t their fault, they were often ashamed or heartbroken about what they had to do. The bay was created to give animal owners a safe and anonymous way to drop animals off at a shelter rather than abandon them.

One night alone, there were five dogs, six cats, a turtle, four rabbits, and a badger. The next night there were a dozen dogs and nine cats. After that, Emma decided to work nights so she could be there for the animals when they were dropped
off. She didn’t like to leave any animal out in the Surrender Bay all night. They were upset enough without that. She liked to get them inside, fed, registered, and settled. It was hard for her to go home and sleep if she knew animals were sitting out there. She could only imagine what their owners felt.

She remembered one beagle was sitting in his crate, howling. A note was taped onto the front of the crate door: “My name is Darryl. My owners have lost their home and their jobs. They can’t really afford me anymore, and they hope you will find a great home for me and make sure that I am loved and cared for. Thank you. Please keep me alive.”

Emma saw a lot of notes and messages like Darryl’s, and she saved them all. One little girl wrote a letter to her surrendered Lab, Duncan, every day for two months. Emma didn’t have the heart to tell her the dog had been put down.

There was a tinted glass window by the bay where Emma could look out and not be seen. Fathers came in the dead of night—Emma guessed they didn’t want their kids to see their dogs and cats leave—and hurriedly, almost furtively, put the animals into one of the dozen large crates that were left open by the staff. There was a donation box next to the crates, but most of the time people were so eager to get away, they didn’t put anything in it. Some probably couldn’t afford to. She saw a woman fall to her knees sobbing as she hugged her cat for the last time. There was an elderly couple surrendering their ancient dachshund, telling him softly they were moving to a facility that couldn’t take him, thanking him for his love and loyalty. A young girl in tears left her parrot in a cage, then rushed back to the car where her mom yelled for her to hurry up.

Every so often, the tortured families returned in the
morning in a panic to get their animals back. “We just couldn’t do it,” said one mother, who came with her two children to get their mutt back when the shelter opened at six
A.M
. Emma was still there, about to tag the dog and put him in quarantine. The shelter rules said that once a dog was surrendered, people had to go through the whole adoption process—including a $60 fee and interview—before they could get the animal back, but Emma looked the other way once in a while.

“I don’t have a job, and I’m not sure where we’re going to be living,” said the woman. “But I guess it will have to be a place that takes dogs.” Her kids, both girls, were crying, hugging their dog for dear life. Emma stood in the bay and waved good-bye as their battered Taurus pulled away.

Two weeks after Emma started working nights, it was all over the news—the stock market was crashing, unemployment was soaring. There would be more animals coming into the Surrender Bay.

The shelter’s budget had been slashed and slashed, the staff reduced by a fourth, and even though Emma worked sixty hours a week, she was on the payroll as a part-timer—$13 an hour and no benefits. But she felt the animals needed her more than ever, and this was true. And she had something few people had—she loved her work, every minute of every day. In this job, Emma saw, you felt needed, for sure. It was pure. The animals needed you and were grateful for every scrap of food or cuddle that they got.

She didn’t keep dogs and cats of her own because she knew then there wouldn’t be room for emergencies, or for the animals she liked to give an occasional treat by getting them out of the shelter for a night. She did this especially
with dogs and cats she knew were likely to be put down. Her own Last Suppers.

The shelter was a flat single-story building that had been donated to the town by a machine shop that had once occupied the space. It had a reception area, a surgery, a meeting place where people could spend time with the animals, a “containment” room for dangerous or sick dogs or cats, and various rooms that held between fifteen and thirty crates of various sizes. There was also a row of exercise pens in the rear of the facility. The place was swabbed and scrubbed twice daily, but it still had that shelter smell—a combination of blood, fur, vomit, and fecal waste mixed with disinfectant and alcohol—that had woven itself into the walls.

The shelter held 140 animals, and had been filled up for months. Now it was overflowing. Crates were stacked in the hallways and reception areas. So many animals were being abandoned that they couldn’t close the shelter, yet they didn’t really have the money to fund it either. So the staff simply did whatever it took. Some days, Emma and the other employees drove around in the shelter van to local pet stores—they often went to the wealthier Cleveland suburbs an hour to the north—to beg and borrow kibble and canned food. One pet-supply chain let them have damaged bags of food, or food that had been returned for one reason or another.