Dog Crazy (15 page)

“Job dissatisfaction, great apartment across the country becomes available, relationship crumbles . . . sounds like the perfect storm.”

I smile. “The winds of change blew me all the way to San Francisco.” I start to take a sip of wine, then realize that if I do, I'll be finishing off the last bit and Henry might take it as his cue to leave. I lower the glass without drinking. “Well, you've seen my résumé and interrogated my former bosses . . . is it too soon to ask what do
you
do?”

Henry laughs. “Seems a bit nosy, but I suppose I can oblige. I'm a physician by training but I haven't practiced medicine in a few years. I've been working with a partner—an engineer—to develop a new type of medical device for patients with heart disease. A group of investors is funding our work, and we're about to begin a trial at a cardiovascular center in Los Angeles.”

“Hence the upcoming move.” I realize we're treading into troubled waters here, and hope I don't sound judgmental again.

Henry seems unfazed—he's either forgotten or forgiven how I'd chided him for leaving his sister during such a difficult period. “The timing is terrible on a personal level, but I have to oversee the trial. Our ideas . . . we really do think they could revolutionize cardiac patient care.”

Maybe it's the wine making my thoughts a bit soggy, but as I listen to Henry it occurs to me that he and I have the same professional impulse—we see a wounded heart and want to fix it. He looks down at his wineglass, empty now, and then at mine. I smile, lift my glass, and take the final sip.

“Well,” Henry says, “I suppose I should get going.” We stand and walk toward the door together. “How about I call first next time?”

I'm not exactly clear on what he means, but I smile and nod.

“Good.” He steps outside, then turns back toward me. “Aloha, Maggie Brennan.”

“Good night,” I say. He heads up the path and I shut the door behind him.

Much later, as I'm closing the shades in my bedroom, I catch sight of myself in the reflection of the dark window and realize that I'm still smiling.

T
he photos that Anya took of Seymour and Giselle turn out to be every bit as wonderful as I'd hoped. In the best of the bunch, his golden coat glows richly and his mouth is open, midpant, so that he looks like he's grinning up at the camera, revealing his pink tongue and a neat row of bright white teeth. His big, black nose, wet with good health, nearly balances out his long ears. He looks playful and happy. There's still a hint of anxiety lingering in his honey-brown eyes, but it gives him a depth of personality that I hope is more endearing than worrying. Giselle, even in her pristine breed-standard glory, actually seems a bit overshadowed by Seymour, which serves our purposes well. Seymour is the star.

I upload the new photo to the SuperMutt website and tweak Seymour's bio for the umpteenth time. I don't want to misrepresent him; it would be completely beside the point and probably
harmful to the poor guy if he ended up in a new home only to be moved once again because I had not been forthright about his issues with loud noises and leashes. But I decide there are ways to reveal Seymour's flaws while focusing on his many positives—his sweet nature, the trust in his eyes, how well he gets along with other dogs.

I do some research on basset hounds and golden retrievers and incorporate bits of each breed's temperament in Seymour's description. I even learn that his particular crossbreed—basset retrievers—is highly sought by those looking for the temperament of a golden in a smaller, potentially lower-energy package.

Well, what do you know,
I think as I click through pictures of basset retrievers on my laptop,
goofy-looking Seymour is actually a “designer” dog in the vein of Labradoodles and cockapoos.
I stick that surprise bit of information in his description, too, and also add a little note to make it clear that Seymour is up for adoption, but the poodle in the photo is not.

I e-mail Sybil to let her know that I've updated Seymour's photo and description on the website.
I think Saints Grant and Chip are willing to foster him a bit longer,
I write,
and I really think we'll get some new interest in him soon.
I let her know about a few final auction items I've secured for the SuperMutt fund-raiser. The gala is three weeks away, and I know she's busy pulling together all of the final details for the event.

As usual, Sybil replies immediately.
That photo is perfect! What a stroke of luck to find a photographer who is not only talented but also clearly “gets” dogs—and is willing to work for free! Do you think
your friend Anya would be willing to photograph the dogs that we'll have up for auction at the event? I'm thinking we could blow them up (maybe black-and-white?) and hang them around the cocktail party space. We would of course give Anya credit for the photos and include her contact information or anything about her business that she'd like to share—I bet she'll get a ton of interest. It's not in the budget to pay her at the moment, but maybe she'd be willing to do the work in exchange for the fantastic publicity? Maybe she'd even want to auction off a photo shoot? Or am I pushing my luck? You know me, Maggie . . . I get greedy when it comes to the dogs!


It's a great idea on many levels—great for SuperMutt, and great for Anya, too. I e-mail Sybil right back to let her know that I'll ask Anya about the additional work.

The sooner the better,
Sybil responds.
The clock is ticking. It won't be long before we're toasting ourselves to a job well done. Couldn't do this without you, Maggie, and I can't wait to finally meet in person!


“W
HY WOULDN'T YOU
go?” Lourdes asks when I tell her about the SuperMutt fund-raiser. “I thought the curtain fell on
The Agoraphobic Therapist
.”

I picture myself trapped below the heavy velvet folds of a stage curtain. “It did,” I say. “Or it's in the process of falling. But this is different. You know I've never liked parties.”

Lourdes rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but whenever I dragged you to one in college, you had fun. Admit it. You should go to the fund-raiser. Maybe you'll meet someone.”

“How am I supposed to start dating again when I still can't walk outside without your poodle glued to my hip?” Giselle, smart girl, trots over to where we're sitting at the kitchen table and puts her head in my lap.

“Where there's a will there's a way.”

Leo is out with some friends from work, so I'd had dinner with Lourdes and the kids and then helped her put them to bed. Now we're sitting at the kitchen table doing what we do best: working our way through a bottle of red wine and a bowl of spicy garlic-and-Parmesan popcorn. I'd invented the popcorn recipe when we were in college, and over the years it had become our happy place in food form.

Lourdes brightens. “If you don't want to go to the party, will you at least let me set you up with one of Leo's friends? We could have him over for dinner—a double date! You wouldn't even have to leave home. Problem solved. Now that you're doing better, I really think you should start dating. But you should meet a lot of guys. Don't get serious until you find one you're sure you actually like this time. Don't jump into anything.”

“What do you mean, ‘one I actually like this time'? I liked John.”

“Sure, you
liked
John. And you liked Rich and Simon and . . . who was the guy before him?”

“Another Rich. Rich the First.”

“Right. Rich the First. He was likable, too.”

I throw a piece of popcorn into the air and catch it in my mouth. “This is a problem because . . .”

Lourdes pulls a face. “You
know
why this is a problem. I've been telling you this since college. Just because you like a guy doesn't mean you should date him for years on end. Like isn't love.”

“I loved all of them, too. I liked them
and
I loved them.”

“Rich? You loved Rich?”

“Which one?” I shake my head. “It doesn't matter. I loved both Riches.”

“Okay, but even love isn't always
love
. You need to start cutting your losses earlier. These relationships you find yourself in drag on and on. It's like watching some boring French movie that you know is never going to actually go anywhere—it's all talking, talking, talking and jokes you feel obligated to laugh at just so you can be sure you're still alive.”

I grin. “Tell me how you really feel.” As usual, Lourdes's assessment of my love life is pretty accurate; I have a history of sticking with relationships that aren't likely to go anywhere. Lourdes thinks dating is like driving, that if you're alert and conscientious you can see the “Dead End” sign in plenty of time to turn off the road and take another route. Unfortunately, I seem to be one of those daters who get caught up in the motions of a relationship, rocked into complacency by pleasant scenery and a warm seat.
Asleep at the wheel,
Lourdes calls it. And I'll give her this—my relationships with men do all seem to end with a crash.

“I mean, take John, for example,” Lourdes continues, on a roll now. “You told me a month into dating him that you knew you weren't going to be with him long term. And then you stayed with
him eight more months! You're not a dog. You don't have to be loyal to someone just because he buys you dinner.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “You're right.”

Lourdes does an exaggerated mouth drop. “I'm sorry, what did you say? I think this wine is affecting my hearing.”

“You're right!” I repeat in a sort of stage whisper, cupping my hands around my mouth as though I'm yelling. I don't want to wake the kids.

Lourdes takes a satisfied sip of wine, watching me over the rim of her glass. She sets the glass down, her eyes narrowing. “Wait a minute . . .” She presses her elbows onto the table, leaning toward me. “Holy shit! Have you
already
met someone?”

For some reason I think of the way Henry's shirts fit him—close but not tight. I think of the line of his chin, how sometimes there is stubble there, and sometimes it is clean. How I can't decide which I like better. He looks like someone who cares about his looks but doesn't obsess over them. I'd never realized it before, but it turns out that I find the absence of vanity very sexy.

“You caught me, Lourdes,” I say. “Vern and I have finally succumbed to an attraction that's been building for months.”

Giselle, fed up with my lack of focus and languid pets, sighs and heads for her dog bed.

Lourdes looks at me from the corner of her eye. “Who is Vern?”

“Vern! Vern. Our mailman. He prefers ‘mail carrier,' actually. He's quite evolved. And you know I'm a sucker for a man in uniform.”

Lourdes snorts. “Maggie. You are not allowed to hook up with our mailman. He's sixty years old!”

“He has the calves of a twenty-year-old triathlete.”

“And a comb-over.”

“Love's a funny thing.”

“Okay,” Lourdes says, “but when you're running your hands through Vern's two hairs, who are you
really
thinking about?”

I give up. There's no point in trying to keep anything from Lourdes, anyway. She always gets it out of me eventually. “It's nothing. It's silly. He's the brother of the woman I'm helping. Anya's brother Henry. It probably isn't even ethical. Nothing's going to happen.”

Lourdes lofts her eyebrows. “Not ethical? I thought you said she isn't your patient.”

“Well, she isn't. Technically. But we met in a patient-therapist context. It's complicated.” I give a little shrug. I really don't think of Anya as a patient, not a
patient
patient, anyway, though admittedly she's not a
friend
friend either. “It would just be weird.”

Lourdes takes a large gulp of wine, finishing it off, and then begins gesticulating with her empty glass. “Life is fucking weird, Maggie! If you like someone, date him! Chuck the fucking vitamins already! Get your hands dirty! Go outside! Fuck the fear! Wear a sundress in the rain! Catch the flu! Feel it all! Fuck the rules!”

“That's it,” I say, reaching for her wineglass. “I'm cutting you off. I feel like I just walked into Andrew Dice Clay's fortune-cookie factory.”

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
, I e-mail Grant and Sybil letting them know that I'd like to help Seymour work on his leash skills and anxiety issues with the hope that it will aid in getting him adopted. Grant e-mails back right away to let me know that he'll make
me a spare key first thing in the morning and that I should feel free to pick Seymour up for walks anytime. His relief is practically palpable.

Next, I e-mail Anya and ask if she minds if I bring Seymour along on our daily walks. The walks I take with Anya won't be baby steps for Seymour either—they're often pretty long—but we usually wind up in a park, and I suspect Seymour will enjoy the open space and be considerably more comfortable with heights than I am.

If Seymour proves to be too much of a distraction,
I write,
I'll work with him another time.


I don't mind,
Anya responds.
That ball of nerves needs all the help he can get.