Hope(less) (13 page)

Standing just inside the bathroom, holding the door handle
for a quick exit, I offered, “My toothpaste is the one marked with the pink
nail polish on the cap.  I’ll let you use it as long as you promise not to
squeeze the tube in the middle.”  His answer took the form of an accurately aimed
splash of water over the top of the shower curtain, which I barely dodged.

“You’re cleaning that up!”

I closed the door and went to the couch with my book to
wait.  I hoped he’d use the towel before turning back into a dog.  He’d make a
mess if he shook out in there.  After a minute, I actually opened the book and
started reading.

Several minutes later, the water turned off.  Dividing my
attention between listening and trying to associate an action to each sound I
heard, I couldn’t concentrate on my reading.  A moment of silence and then
running water.  It sounded like the sink.  Brushing his teeth?  Then silence
again.  It remained quiet until I heard the doorknob turn.  Quickly, I held the
book higher to block my view just in case he chose not to wear his fur.  Or the
towel.  A chuffing bark, apparently his dog version of a laugh, had me lowering
my comically high book.

He strolled over by me and hopped up on the couch.  Incredibly,
his fur looked even fluffier.  “Don’t get too comfortable, I don’t know what
Rachel’s rules are about pets on the furniture.”  I curled my legs under me to
give him more room.

Forgetting myself, I leaned over to smell him.  “Much
better.” I said straightening.  At his intense look, I went back to reading my
book, pretending I hadn’t just leaned over and smelled a man.  We stayed like
that, sitting side by side in companionable silence, until lunch when both our
stomachs rumbled.

On the way to the kitchen, I noticed his wet towel on the
bathroom floor.  “Next time fold it over the edge of the tub,” I said.  The
bathroom lacked any other available space to hang a towel.  I didn’t want his
towel hung in my room either.  That seemed a little too domestic.

I made us both dry ham sandwiches thanks to the gas station
groceries.  Dry because I’d refused to pay four dollars for a miniature jar of
mayo.  “I’m guessing your bowl of dog food will always be full,” I said as I
set his plated sandwich on the floor.  Sitting at the table, I started eating
my own sandwich.  He finished his in two bites.

“So, we have a week before my classes start up.  What’s your
plan?”  He cocked his head at me.  “Did you want to try to enroll in any
classes?  Study anything?”  He lay down on the floor next to his empty plate
eyeing it sadly.  “Okay.  Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”  I
washed our dishes and went back to reading.  Eventually, he joined me on the
couch.

Later that night, Rachel came home with a manly spike collar
and a leash.  She rushed into the house, tossing her keys and purse on the
table.  From my position on the couch, I watched her kneel down next to Clay,
who stood near his bowl of water.  I wasn’t sure, but I think she’d interrupted
his contemplations about drinking from the bowl.  The thought made me smile.

Trying to ignoring the pair, I focused on my book. 
Shuffling movement sounded from the kitchen along with a few quiet comments by
Rachel.  When the noises didn’t stop, I went to investigate.

“This is a joke,” she grumbled.

I laughed from the doorway watching them struggle.  She
knelt in front of Clay, face to muzzle, trying to get the collar on him.  She
would wrap her arms around his neck to buckle the collar and he’d duck or shift
to avoid her, but never actually get up and walk away.  I caught a twinkle of
amusement in his canine eyes.

Time to take pity on her.  I knew how to reason with him.  If
Clay ever wanted to leave the house, he had to have a collar.  I just needed to
point that out.  “Here,” I offered, holding out my hand. “I’ll try.”

“Good luck!” she said with a laugh getting off her knees and
handing me the collar.  She took my position in the doorway.  “It was the
biggest collar they had.  I don’t even know if it fits, he won’t let me get
close enough.”

I knelt in front of Clay with a half-smile on my face.  I
liked that he had a sense of humor when he interacted with Rachel.  It made
having him in the house tolerable, almost.  But she wouldn’t give up getting a
real collar on him.  He needed proof of license.  Besides, it served him
right.  He’s the one who chose to be a dog.

“Clay, if you want to be able to go anywhere with us, you
need a collar that we can clip a leash on.  Not just the twine you have holding
your tag around your neck,” I said looking him in the eye.  He didn’t move so I
leaned forward reaching for the string that held his current joke of a tag.  He
held still for me while I removed the twine and then replaced it with the real
collar.

Kneeling in front of him, I forgot myself again and treated
him like a dog, patting his side consolingly.  “At least it’s not pink,” I said
with a smile before I realized what I was doing.

I quickly stood and avoided Clay’s direct gaze.  I needed to
watch myself.  The direction of my thoughts, assuming his permanent residency in
the house, troubled me.  Making him comfortable, buying him a license wouldn’t
help me get rid of him.

“Hey, I wouldn’t do that to him.  No pink for our man,”
Rachel laughed behind me.  “I don’t know why he sat still for you and not me.”

I’d forgotten about Rachel.  She moved to pet him, praising
him for his good behavior.  If I wanted a chance of having a friend as a
roommate, I knew I needed to deal with him as a pet.  Besides, he’d get tired
of her affection eventually and run off back to Canada.  I held onto that happy
thought.

“He’s moody,” I said looking into his eyes and knowing I spoke
the truth.  Moody and stubborn with a quirky sense of humor.  Not a good
combination.

Rachel exceeded my hopes as a roommate.  After that first
day of bonding, she didn’t stay home too much.  When not busy working, her
social life called, and she went out often.  Usually, she tried talking me into
going with her.  Turning down her invitations didn’t seem to bother her.  Unsure
of our relationship, I didn’t want to risk someone Rachel had her sights on
hitting on me instead.

Living with Clay, on the other hand, didn’t flow with the
same ease.

Tuesday, he spent most of the day following me around the
house.  Thinking to sunbath, I went to my room to change.  After our talk the
day before, he didn’t attempt to follow me.  When I opened the door, he sat
just outside, waiting for me.  His huge dog head moved up and then down as his
eyes traveled the length of me from head to toe.  I flushed and quickly closed
the door on him to change back into shorts and tank top, opting to cut the
grass instead.  He sat on the porch watching me slowly push the mower back and
forth.  When I moved to the front, he followed me.

Rachel’s frequent absence benefited Clay.  Taking my
complaint about his hygiene seriously, he showered again.  I guessed he would
make it a daily routine.  Since he bathed and gave me privacy as I asked, I had
no reason to complain when I went to bed that night and saw him lying on the
foot of the bed.

When I woke Wednesday morning with him still in fur lying
next to me, I did complain.  Lividly.  “Now just hold on,” I whispered with a
scowl, “You’re a dog.  Act like one.  Fur stays at the foot of the bed.”

He grudgingly moved to his place at the foot of the bed,
watching me the whole time.

“Don’t give me your doleful eyes.  This is your choice, not
mine.”  Then, recalling his previous talent for misinterpretation, which had
caused this coed housing in the first place, I clarified, “not that you’d get
to sleep next to me in your skin either.  So, don’t even think about it.  If
you don’t like the end of the bed, you can always sleep on the floor.”

After getting the paper, I scoured the classifieds for a beater
car finding two promising ads.  Both required a long walk.  I fetched my bag,
tucked the folded newspaper inside, and then grabbed the house keys.

Clay beat me to the door.  I scowled down at him.  He
patiently looked back at me.  After a moment, he shook his neck, jangling his
tags.  Defeated, I clipped on his leash.  He negotiated well without using a
single word.

Using my cell, I called ahead for the first ad and provided
an estimated time when I’d arrive to look at the car.  On the phone, the man
sounded a bit brusque as if my planned visit inconvenienced him.  Shrugging it
off, I led Clay to the address.  A rusty car parked on the front lawn with a
for-sale sign affirmed I had the right place.  A man called hello from the open
garage making his way toward us.

As he neared, his demeanor changed and I inwardly groaned. 
He introduced himself as Howard and looked me over with interest.  Clay moved
to stand between us, his stoic presence a good deterrent.

Howard talked about the car for a bit, going through the
laundry list of its deficiencies.  Then he popped the hood so I could look at
the engine.  In the middle of Howard’s attempt to impress me with his vast
mechanical knowledge, Clay sprang up between us, placing his paws on the front
of the car to get a good look at the engine too.  Howard yelped at Clay’s
sudden move and edged away.  I fought not to smile at the man’s stunned
expression.  At Clay’s discrete nod, I bought the car, not bothering with the
second ad.

On Friday, when I drove to the bookstore, Clay rode a very
cramped shotgun and waited in the car while I made my purchases.  No matter
what errand I wanted to run during the week before classes started, he insisted
on tagging along.

Monday, I put my foot down when I tried leaving for my first
class.  He bristled, and growled, and tried to follow me.

Thankfully, Rachel left first and didn’t hear me scolding
the dog.  “Your license only wins you so much freedom.  Dogs aren’t allowed on
campus and definitely not in the classroom.”  I tried leaving again, but he stubbornly
persisted.  Finally, exasperated, I reminded him that he slept on my bed
because of my good grace.  He resentfully gave in.

After the first week of classes, I didn’t have time to mind
Clay’s constant attention.  Maxing out at eighteen credits, desperate to get
the general requirements out of the way so I could delve into the clinicals
sooner, I spent much of my day on campus in a classroom or in the library.  When
I actually found myself at home, I spent my time studying.  I’d known when signing
up for the courses that they would occupy all of my time and prevent me from having
much of a life.  Other than the fact I couldn’t get a part-time job while
taking the overload, I hadn’t minded the commitment.

Even though I ignored him, Clay still stayed close to me.  I
realized how bored he’d grown when I came home and found one of my books on the
couch, the bookmark on the wrong page.  After that, I took pity on him and
brought back some books I thought might interest him.  The one I thought
particularly clever, about Flora and Fauna of North America, I included to
remind him of home.  He eyed the titles dispassionately.  The next day, a
bookmark nestled between the pages of two of the books.

I woke up one morning with a single word note on my
dresser.  It said simply, “mechanics.”  The first stack of books lay next to
the note.

I turned to glare at Clay who still lounged on the end of
the bed.  “So you can write words to me, just not speak them?”  He blinked at
me.  “Whatever.  You’re going to get caught creeping around the house at night.”

Later that day, I returned the books on forestry and
wildlife, which I’d thought funny, and checked out several books on mechanics. 
For fun, I threw in a do it yourself book for home repairs.

*    *    *    *

The second Friday after school began, disaster struck.

I sat on my bed, closed in my room with Clay lying in his
usual spot.  He contentedly read a book next to me, his eyes devouring the
words on the page.  He’d spent enough time reading next to me that I’d grown used
to our system, a nudge when he needed a page turned.  Trying to turn it with
his nose hadn’t worked out well for him, or the first book.

When he nudged me, I absently turned his page not looking up
from my own book.  When he did it again, I looked up puzzled.  He read fast,
but not that fast.  Meeting my eyes briefly, he turned his head toward the
bedroom door.  Just then, I heard the front door open, and froze when I heard Rachel
talking to someone.

“…and this is where I live.  Please, have a seat and I’ll
change quickly.  My roommate and our dog should be around here somewhere.”

A man answered, “No rush.  Our reservations aren’t until
six.”

I turned wide eyes to Clay.  Rachel had brought a date
home.  I didn’t have time to think about it further because a knock sounded on my
door.  I wanted to ignore it, but instead I quickly closed the book in front of
Clay and said, “Come in.”

Rachel walked into the room dressed in scrubs.  Her smile
and flushed cheeks spoke volumes, as did the way she tactfully closed the door
behind her.

“There you are.  Come meet Peter.”  She walked close and leaned
in to whisper, “Don’t kill me, but he’s got a friend without a date tonight and
I said I had a friend without a date tonight.  Please come with.”

I groaned quietly.  “Don’t do this to me, Rachel,” I begging
back.  “This won’t end well and you’ll probably never forgive me.”

“Come on… please?” she pleaded, sitting on the bed next to
me.  “I really like this one.”

I closed my book.  “That’s the problem.  Remember what I
said?  It’s always a guy that ruins a friendship.  I don’t want to go out
tonight.”  I looked at Clay from the corner of my eye.  He glared at Rachel. 
Not good.  Too human.  I nudged him with a foot and distracted Rachel by adding
quietly, “I like having a friend.”