Pug Hill (30 page)

And Roxy, like Annabelle, is nothing if not respectful of my desire to take things slow. Within moments, Roxy trots off. I try not to think that she trots off in search of better action. Chloe squeals and claps her hands, and screams, “Lalo,” which I think means “Elmo.”

And then, just like that, like a good omen that’s always been there, and has simply been waiting for the right time to happen, Kermit, the little black pug, comes bounding up the hill.

“Oh, Kermit!” I say, and Kara smiles, because I’ve mentioned Kermit to her before, and I think she understands. Chloe squeals as Kermit sits down right in front of us, positioning himself so as to best display his rounded belly, and opens his mouth wide for us, and sticks out his tongue. As if all that wasn’t a good enough display of all the wonderful pug behavior, he cocks his head to the right quizzically and then to the left.

“Chloe,” I say, “this is Kermit.”

Chloe squeals and claps, and Kermit, as if on cue, jumps up and spins around.

“Chloe,” Kara says, “do you remember the song we sang that Kermit sings?”

“Ah,” says Chloe and I think she really is trying to remember. Kara helps her and sings the first line,

“Why are there so many songs about rainbows?”
she sings. And I know this song,
I love this song,
and so I join in, too.

“And what’s on the other side?”
I sing.

As Kara and I sing together to Chloe about rainbows being visions and only illusions she is rapt with attention, as is Kermit. I have to say I think Kermit is quite enjoying the song. When we get to the part,
Someday will find it,
Chloe lets out one of her higher-pitched squeals, and Kermit trots off. Before he does so though, he throws me a quick look, and I smile right at him.

Right as we get to the last line,
the lovers, the dreamers, and me,
I think how such a long time ago someone had said to me, “A girl can dream.” I hadn’t listened because I believed at the time that the person saying it to me was being annoying. I wonder though, if maybe I didn’t listen, because I didn’t think it was true. It occurs to me right now, as I sit on a beautiful spring day, surrounded by so many pugs, that a girl
can
dream, and more importantly, that
I
can.

Chloe continues squealing and clapping, so for the next half hour, none of the other pugs run over to visit us. But even so, it’s so nice to sit in the sun with an iced coffee and admire them. I can’t help thinking that as long as you have a place like this to come to, the bad things, really, truly, aren’t as bad.

I think of Holly Golightly and her “mean reds,” the feeling she used to get that was worse than the blues, and always sent her off to Tiffany’s. And the thing is, and I know this now, if Holly Golightly had been a Paintings Restorer instead of a party girl the “mean reds” wouldn’t have seemed so bad at all. Because everyone who’s ever had to restore a painting with red in it knows that red is so hard to restore, because red is what we call a fugitive color: the kind that just flies away.

As the train pulls out of Penn Station, I try not to listen to the little voice inside my head, the one that lives in the bad place, the one that tells me there’s something slightly uncool and maybe a little bit stunted about spending your vacation time with your dad. I try not to listen, but of course I do, and am compelled to answer back (inside my head, of course) that I’m really lucky to have an entire week to hang out just with my dad; that, really, how many people get to do that?

I’m taking the train out to Huntington, but actually I’ll get off at Cold Spring Harbor because Dad decided at some point in my train traveling career that he preferred the drive, so much more scenic, to and from the Cold Spring Harbor station, even though the Huntington station is so much closer to the house.

And I believe the part about the scenic, I do; my dad is very into scenery, is very much a proponent of stopping and smelling the roses, and will often go ten, fifteen, twenty minutes or more out of his way to do so. But I also think he picks me up at the Cold Spring Harbor station because it’s about ten minutes before the Huntington station, and he knows that I’m not the biggest fan of train travel. My dad is one of those dads, and I’ve always felt so lucky for it, whose greatest joy in life has been being a dad.

But as much as I’m looking forward to a relaxing week with Dad, it’s not like I can’t say I wouldn’t like a spa week for myself, but I understand the logic that it’s much nicer for Dad to have someone helping him with the dogs for the week. Not that that is
entirely
the logic, but still. And it is a lot of work these days, especially with Captain and all, and I know Mom felt she had to take Darcy to the spa with her, because of the commune of course.

The train is just pulling up to Mineola. I’ve always thought of Mineola as the halfway point to home, even though I have no idea if it really is anywhere to the halfway point at all. I pay very little attention on the train. After a train ride I’ve been taking for most of my adult life, you’d think I’d know exactly the midway point, like I’d be able to say, “Oh, I know. Mineola is thirty-four minutes into the sixty-eight minute trip,” but really, I have no idea. There are mysteries to the train that I feel, for me at least, will never be solved.

Like when they announce right before my stop sometimes that the last three cars will not platform. How do you know if you’re in the third-to-last car? I mean the last car, fine, you know, because you can look out the back window and see nothing else, but if you look out the back window in the third-to-last car, all you know is that there are cars behind the car you’re in.

It’s too hard to tell, looking through windows reflected in windows if you’re in the third or, let’s say, fourth-to-last. I never know what to do; I always wonder, should I move forward just in case? But I hate walking between the cars, along of course with public speaking, walking between train cars really freaks me out.

I always remind myself to pay more attention when I’m getting on the train, to take note of where the last car actually is, in relation to the car I’m getting on, rather than simply getting off the stairs, and with tunnel vision, right onto the car that’s right there. But I never leave enough time to get to Penn Station, and I’m always frazzled and hectic once I get there, running for my train. I so often forget all about the possibility that I might be in the third-to-last car.

And I have forgotten to figure this out today, and so of course, the announcement comes, “Next stop, Cold Spring Harbor. The rear three cars will not platform in Cold Spring Harbor. If you’re in one of the rear three cars, please walk up.”

I see two people gathering up their things and walking between the cars toward the front of the train. I have to believe that could be as good a sign as any. I get up quickly and gather my things. I begin wheeling my suitcase to the connecting doors, certain that the wheely suitcase will surely make the death-defying leap between train cars that much harder. I slide open the door and step out into all that open air and fear, and somehow I make it through to the next car. I see that the two people from my car, along with two other people, are standing in the middle of the car, waiting there, as we approach the station. The tight feeling in my stomach loosens up again, and I know I’m in the right place, and that, for now at least, I don’t have to face the fear again.

“Cold Spring Harbor,” the announcement says. I step through the doors, onto the platform, wheeling my suitcase behind me, and scan the parking lot. I see Dad at the wheel of his car, and he sees me, and he smiles. He gives a little wave and drives up to meet me.

“Hi, Dad,” I say as he helps me put my suitcase in the back.

“Hello, sweetness,” he says, and after we get back into the car, after we’ve said our “how are you’s?” and answered them with “Great’s,” Dad turns to me, as he always does, and says, “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” I agree, and as we pull out of the station and head toward Shore Road, he points out to me how many of the sailboats are back in the water.

For everyone who hates Long Island, who makes a face like they’ve just eaten soap when you say you are from there, or going there, for everyone who wonders if Amy Fisher is your neighbor or if it’s true that everyone there really has a horrid accent, there are people who love Long Island and see everything that is good about it. My dad is one of those people. He’s been out here, in Huntington and Cold Spring Harbor, for well over thirty years, and he still loves to drive a little farther, if it’s along a scenic road. He loves it even more so if the train comes in at sunset, so that we can drive home along Route 25A, right along the water all the way to our house. He still tells me, no matter how many times we’ve driven together along this road, to look at the sailboats, to see how pretty they are.

Dad and I walk together into the entrance hall of the house. Dad’s taken my bag from the car, and tells me he’s just going to put it up in my room for me, to give me some time to properly say hello to the dogs.

Mom calls out, “Hi, Hope!” from the kitchen and I call back. She stays in the kitchen, and Dad slips upstairs, because it’s easier for everyone this way. It’s easier for everyone because it’s easier for Betsy if she’s given the opportunity to greet people coming into the house without my parents being right there. For some reason, should Betsy be faced with the task of greeting people at the front door in the presence of my parents, she freaks out a little bit, gets a little too hysterical, and being as “conversational” as she is, Betsy’s freaking out can get very high-pitched, very noisy, very, at times, headache-inducing. Betsy, as you know, is a Jack Russell terrier; Mom says such hyperactivity comes with the territory. I’m not so sure.

The dogs clamor around me in the entrance hall. Along with Betsy, there is Annabelle, the French bulldog of whom we have spoken, and though he’s not here yet, because it takes him a little longer to get around these days, there’s also Captain, the corgi.

“You are my best friend,” I say to Betsy, because she’s started gurgling. Betsy barks, indeed she does, but she also does this thing where she starts out gurgling and it’s actually quite charming, some would say adorable. It’s, as my mother would say, seemingly very conversational. The thing is though, right after the gurgling, if you’re not vigilant in the attention that you give to Betsy once she’s started gurgling, she moves pretty quickly to screeching, and the screeching is horrible. No matter how you slice it, it is not charming at all.

“You are my best friend,” I say again, with a little more feeling and not because she necessarily is, but because the thing with the screeching is that Betsy has extreme issues with jealousy. Everyone has consulted and everyone has agreed on the protocol: it’s important, for Betsy’s ego and also for everyone else’s peace of mind and sanity, that Betsy is to be told, especially loudly, and especially in large groups, that she is the “best friend,” of whoever has just walked into the house.

“You are my best friend!” I say even again, switching over to a high-pitched, breathless voice, the tone and pitch of which has been determined as the most soothing to Betsy. Thankfully, it takes. She flips over on her back to display her belly that of course I am inclined, as anyone would be inclined, to squat down and rub.

With Betsy so briefly occupied, I have a moment to say hello to Annabelle. Annabelle is much smaller in stature than standard French bulldogs, and like so many of the pugs I adore, very girthy. She’s a free spirit, a rough-and-tumble-type of girl, looking for love and adventure everywhere. I know you’re not supposed to pick favorites, but since they’re not really my dogs anymore, they are my parents’ dogs, Annabelle is my favorite. This information should stay between us however; I would hate for Betsy to find out about it. Annabelle runs around us in circles and does this thing she does, just like the pugs, where she stands in one spot and leads herself, with a throw of her head. She jumps up, and spins a tight, tight, standing-in-one-place circle. Then she does this other thing that just kills me: she gets on the entrance hall rug, lies down, front legs stretched out in front of her, back legs stretched out behind her, and proceeds to drag herself around by her front legs, in an almost perfect figure eight. Really, it just kills me.

I can hear Captain lumbering in, coming slowly down the hallway. I can hear the quickening of his toenails against the hardwood floors. I can tell that he’s trying to walk as fast as he can, even with his diabetes, even with his cataract, and his malignant sarcoma that has left him with a large goiter-like thing on his back. The doctors said that surely, the goiter-like thing didn’t cause him any pain, but that it also meant he wouldn’t make it past Christmas. But here he is in May. Captain reaches the group and I try to settle down Annabelle and make sure that Betsy stays flipped over on her back. I look right at Captain, and as I do so, his eyes remind me so much of Spanky, and the thought of Spanky can still almost bring tears to my own eyes. In case Captain’s eyes remind me of Spanky because Spanky (as I think he has a way of doing) has come to visit and is taking residence temporarily in Captain’s eyes, and because it will still be nice for Captain to hear it a few more times, I look at him and say very softly, “You are my best friend.”

Coming home—or is the right term going home?—it can bring up a lot of things, it can make you feel a lot of things, is what they say. And it does for me, of course it does, but at times like this, kneeling on the floor with all the dogs gathered around me, I feel like all I need is for Betsy to stay quiet, and for a little blue cartoon bird to fly down and land on my shoulder where it will sing a peaceful melody and I’ll turn my head and bat my eyelashes and then, pretty much, I’ll be Snow White. You know when she sits in a meadow with all the baby animals flocking to her because she is so lovely? Right now, that’s exactly how I feel.