Setting my tote down on the sidewalk, I squatted and dug for a notepad and pen. Just as I pulled them out, the meat twitched and the cardboard flapped. A barely-contained shriek clawed at my throat as I landed on my ass. A searing pain shot up my spine, and my heart lurched even as it sprinted in place.
Surely, that had to be a trick of the light. It must be hotter than I realized. I needed to get to Kona and drink some water. I gathered up my notepad and pen, nixing the idea of a note when it happened again. The cardboard flapped and the meat twitched.
My heart lurched into fifth gear, but now I needed to solve the puzzle. Retrieving my pen, I reached out and tentatively lifted the topmost layer of cardboard. It slid off the pile landing in the street.
Without the benefit of cover, however dubious, there was no protection from the stench of putrefying meat. I coughed. Nausea swirled in my belly as I absorbed the sight before me.
It was not a pile of rotting meat. It was, in fact, a dog. A bloody and chewed dog.
* * *
"Thank you," I said into the phone. "I'll wait with him until someone arrives."
"Animal Control officers have already been dispatched."
I nodded even though the official sounding woman at the other end couldn't see me.
"Okay," I said aloud this time. "Thank you."
I ended the call and tossed my phone back into my tote. I was a lot of things, I knew that, but even I couldn't leave such a horribly abused creature alone in this state.
I stood by his head, or more accurately, upwind, where I couldn't smell the infection that had so obviously set in where he'd been bitten and torn. Even to untrained eyes such as mine, it was clear he'd been in a fight. One ear was bloody and ripped. The skin of his jowls was mangled and chewed, and his body was covered in oozy puncture wounds. Sealing the whole fight theory … he was obviously a pit bull.
Where he wasn't bloody or pus encrusted, his fur was that silver-gray color that the canine enamored in their collective insanity had termed blue. That was like expecting someone to believe orange was red. The only blue on the animal was his eyes. They were the pale blue of the sky right after a rainstorm and right now, they stared directly into mine.
I don't know what I expected. Maybe the cold, calculating gaze of a predator? What I got was the agonized pain of the wounded. He twitched again, and a soft exhalation of a whimper drifted up to me.
Unexpected tears burned the back of my eyes. What had this creature done to deserve this?
I moved slowly, doing my best not to make any sudden movements, and crouched down next to his head with my back to him. I learned from watching all of the Cesar Millan that Adam played relentlessly that this posture told dogs you weren't a threat.
For several moments, there was nothing. Then I heard another wheezing exhale, and I was seized with panic at the thought this dog might die. I ruthlessly suppressed it. The last thing I wanted was an injured, frightened dog to smell my fear.
I turned to face him and saw curiosity mixed with pain. I lifted my hand, curled in a loose fist, and brought it to his nose. This was the moment of truth. Hopefully, I'd done enough to gain his trust. I held my breath as he snuffled my hand without lifting his head. The skin of his nose was warm and dry—not a good sign. As I was about to take my hand away, he gave me a tentative lick.
I smiled and crooned, "There's a good boy. Everything is going to be okay. We're going to get you patched up."
I hoped I wasn't wrong. He was in terrible shape, and his injuries were severe. In all likelihood, he was dying.
With exaggerated slowness, I exchanged my crouch for sitting lotus style next to him and gently stroked the area between his eyes, the one place that appeared undamaged, and was gratified to see his large body relax as he closed his eyes and drifted.
"Poor baby, I'm so sorry this happened to you."
I don't know how long we waited, but, for once, I didn't care. I sat on the side of the road, my work forgotten, stroking that gentle, wounded creature until Animal Control finally arrived.
I stood while they muzzled him as a precaution. It took both officers to lift him. Buried under all the cardboard as he was, I hadn't realized the full size of him. He had to be closing in on a hundred pounds.
With stoicism typical of his breed, he gave no resistance. My last glimpse before they closed the door of the air-conditioned compartment was of those soulful eyes full of resignation, as if he knew the road ahead of him held no certainty.
I had saved him, hadn't I?
"So what happens next?"
I addressed the senior of the two responding officers. An older man with thinning gray hair marching to white, tired eyes, and a kind smile, he fished a business card out of the truck and handed it to me before answering.
"First thing is he'll go over to Friendship Animal Hospital where we'll get him fixed up. After that—" he broke off and looked away, rubbing his neck as if a huge weight had suddenly landed there. "After that, it depends."
"On what?" I asked.
He met my gaze directly, "On him, miss. He'll be temperament tested, and then we'll see."
"What if he fails?" Panic crept in, flipping my stomach. I'd saved the dog. I didn't want him to die now.
"Miss," his expression was grim with the burden of experience, "let's just hope for the best."
He left me there, unsure what to do. My task felt incomplete. It was like having a word on the tip of your tongue that eluded you. There was no closure here. No satisfaction of accomplishing a good deed. Saving the dog was an em dash, an interruption, an aside. I wanted the exclamation point that came with a glow and a grin.
At loose ends, I couldn't find my bearings to proceed. My reaction made no sense. I wasn't even a dog person. They required too much maintenance. I preferred the self-sufficiency of cats. Nevertheless, I sat for a long while by the side of the street under an ironically bright sun, staring at the empty space where he'd lain.
5. The Truths I Tell Strangers
I HAVE NO IDEA HOW long I sat there before I found the wherewithal to continue on. This lethargy made no sense to me. I'd done my part; the rest wasn't my problem. Shaking off the lingering fugue, I gathered up my belongings and finished the trip to Kona. Fortunately, my favorite table was vacant.
Some people don't care where they sit in any given place, but I have a thing about anyone coming up behind me. I also like to be able to people watch with impunity. So, I tend to seek tables in corners where my back is to the wall and I can see the entire place. Kona was even better in that there was a table tucked into a corner with a wall plug nearby, and it was positioned next to the large window fronting the cafe. I could watch the street and the cafe freely while having my back guarded.
I dropped my belongings at the table to mark my territory and joined the line to order a large, caramel macchiato. I needed the endorphin rush the sweet concoction would give me to smooth the letdown that still hovered around my edges.
Back at my table, I set up my laptop, ensuring it was perfectly centered in front of me. My coffee took up residence to my left. I placed my ever-present notebook to my right and the fountain pen I favored over ball points. Each item sat in perfect parallel lines with their top edges aligned in a neat row. It's a quirk of mine that when I'm feeling out of sorts, I need perfect order around me. The bustling cafe was doing little to calm me today. I wanted to stand up and shout at everyone to take their seat and be quiet, but I figured that wouldn’t endear me to anyone. So, I remained quiet.
After a few failed attempts at work, I took up my coffee and stared at the pedestrians outside the window as my thoughts cycled back to the pit bull. I failed to understand how people could be so cruel. It was one of the primary reasons I disliked people in general. Their capriciousness confused me.
Animals are defenseless. Take me for instance; I understand my limitations in that regard. Animals need to be cared for. I didn't want to put the effort in, therefore, I had no animals. The same wen
t for children with me. I wasn't interested in caring for a child, therefore I made sure I didn't get pregnant.
"A success story, I see…"
The scrape of a chair and the soft lilt of a British accent brought me out of my ruminations. The same Brit from the week before once again took up residence at the table beside me. He was dressed casually in khaki cargo pants, a black T-shirt, and work boots. I smiled as I realized I expected all Brits to shun casual clothes and spend their time in bowler hats and three-piece suits.
Clearly, he wasn't sure what to make of me sitting there smiling yet silent. His face took on a ruddy cast that highlighted the silvered blue of his eyes. In a moment of insight that had no bearing on the situation, I realized that he was shy by nature.
"I'm not sure what you mean," I replied as one part of my brain registered that we'd fallen into conversation the way long-time acquaintances do. There was no greeting, no segue into conversation. We began as if our last conversation had never finished.
He gestured with his cup in the direction of a table tucked into an alcove across the cafe. “See, you created a love connection.”
I followed his mug and spied Ms. Coach and Charmer sharing a table and, from the way their shoulders touched and his hand rested on her thigh, it was indeed a success story, however unintended. I had just wanted him to leave me alone.
It was really quite predictable. Smirking, I said, "So, I see."
"You're not impressed by your matchmaking prowess?"
He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. I was struck by that. You read lines like that in books, but it was the first time I'd actually witnessed it. In my experience, most people's smiles don't reach their eyes. Rather than windows to the soul, they tend to be blank doors. I'd been told that very thing about myself.
"I wasn't matchmaking," I shrugged. "I was getting rid of an annoyance. That," I nodded in the couple's direction, "is merely a by-product."
"Not a romantic then?" he asked.
I laughed, noticing how the brittle quality of the sound cut the space between us like broken glass.
"Depends on how you define romantic."
I turned to face him then. His hair and beard had been trimmed since the last time I'd seen him and observing for the first time he had a slight gap between his front teeth. I wondered how he would react if I were to run my tongue along the space.
"I enjoy the idea of romance, and I'm a fan of love stories with happy endings. I love weddings and the idea of a happily ever after, but I don't believe these things are a reality. People generally suck."
"Spoken as only someone who has never been in love can say."
The standard rebuttals and arguments jumped to my lips, but I felt too laconic to spend time on the illusion. I generally went out of my way to blend into people's perceptions of normal, but it just wasn't worth the effort to me right now. Instead, I spoke the truth.
"No, never. You?"
As the words left my tongue, Adam's image rose in my mind. The words felt laden with a weight of responsibility I refused to ponder. I pushed Adam out of my mind. I didn't want him there right now.
"Yes, you don't reach my age and not experience love at least once."
His words begged for follow up questions, for a tale to be told, but I didn't feel like summoning the energy to be courteous and pretend to be interested.
Silence descended and I sipped my coffee doing my best to find the motivation to work, but none came.
"A penny for your thoughts."
"Don't you mean pence?" I sounded bitchy, but the lethargy was growing again and I didn't care.
"Pardon?" he looked genuinely confused.
Setting my coffee down, I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath, vainly trying to find the energy to be polite.
"You said 'a penny', but you're British so you wouldn't use pennies."
It seemed reasonable to me.
He laughed that intoxicating laugh again, smiling with his eyes.
"When in Rome, my dear. We are in America after all."
He raised his cup in salute.
"I'm not your dear," I snapped.
"No," he conceded, "but you’re also not the witty, clever-tongued miss of the other day. You were almost Holmesian. It was fascinating."
"You said it was harsh," I challenged, feeling as if my skin were about to burst.
"It was," he smiled unapologetically, "but so is Sherlock."
Grudgingly, as if the information were too intimate, I admitted, "He's one of my favorite characters."
"One of?"
"Mm-hmm," I nodded, amazed he was still talking to me despite my rudeness. "My other is Mr. Spock."
He shocked me then, raising his hand and spreading his fingers in the Vulcan salute before saying, "Live long and prosper."
I laughed, much of my tension flowing out before shaking my head, "I can't do it. My fingers don't cooperate."
He winked at me before saying, "A high-functioning sociopath and an alien culture renowned for suppressing emotion in favor of strict logic."
"Freudian, I know."
"You think?"
I nodded again. I tend to overshare when I'm unbalanced, especially with strangers, because their opinions don't count. This man had no place in my life, so his opinion had no value to me.
"So, if you appreciate the suppression of emotion so much, why do you appear so gobsmacked?"
"What?" I sputtered, almost choking on my coffee. Grabbing a napkin, I mopped up my face and said, "I'll need an English translation on that."
"That was English, madam. The Queen's English."
He grinned, and I laughed despite myself.
"Okay, then I’ll be needin a ‘Merican translation," I intentionally slurred.
His eyes shone with laughter briefly, but they softened as he said, "You look like you're off your stride. Your hair is mussed, and you seem distracted. The other day you were immaculate and quite focused."
"Checking me out, were you?" I teased and he flushed brightly, but I decided not to stroke my ego at his expense. "I'm teasing. It's been a rough morning."
He said nothing, merely waited in clear invitation for me to speak.
Shrugging, I said, "I tried to rescue a dog that I found, and I'm not sure I was successful."
"Why not?"
"He's in pretty bad shape. He looked mauled, and they may end up putting him down even if they manage to patch him up because he's a pit bull."
He tilted his head as he considered me. I grew uncomfortable under his piercing scrutiny.
"What?"
"I'm wondering if you're an animal person or if there is something else."
"Well, why didn't you ask?"
"I'm British. I'm working my way round to deep questions. It's not polite to dive into that sort of thing."
I scoffed at him, "When in Rome, dude." I waved my hand around for emphasis.
"Touché," he smiled. "So, why is this bothering you so much?"
"I don't know and that's bothering me more than the dog. I am not a sentimental person. I don't have mementos from the past, and I don't have any pets. I'm too selfish."
He raised an eyebrow at that. "Your obvious discord over an animal you'd not only never met before but actually put yourself out to save would contradict that."
I waved a hand dismissively at his words. "A phone call is easy."
"Did you leave the animal after your call, or did you stay with it?"
"I stayed."
"I rest my case," he said.
"So what?"
"That was a selfless thing to do."
"Dude, why are you trying so hard to disprove a statement about a total stranger?"
"Why are you trying so hard to prove it?" He raised his silvered eyebrow as if to punctuate his statement.
Usually when strange men focus on me, they flirt, they stroke my ego. It's a game between us. They just want a shot at getting laid, I know that, but it's fun to indulge. This wasn't fun. It w
as pissing me off.
"You know what, dude? I'm trying to work here."
Turning to face my laptop, I hit the track pad to dissolve my screen saver, launched the system specification I was proofing for the Hudson Barnes project, and proceeded to stare at the screen.
"Corky."
"Huh?" I jumped as if I had been shocked, knocking my pen to the floor. The Brit leaned down to pick it up and handed it back to me.
Taking it, I pushed my non-existent glasses up my nose—again—and said, "Thank you. Um, what did you say just now?"
"I said Henry. My name is Henry, not dude. That's an Americanism I detest."
Normally, that type of criticism would have smarted, but I was caught up in the memory of a small, warm, furry body curled up on my pillow sleeping with me. Corky had been a puppy that my paternal grandmother had given to me. He was the runt of a litter her chihuahua, Annie, had birthed after my aunt's Yorkie had gotten to her. I'd been eight years old and in a loveless house where affection didn't exist. Having this tiny creature love me so boundlessly had been soothing.
Then my mother killed him.
Not literally. She left him out in the yard, and our neighbor's dog got into it and infected him with Parvo, an upper respiratory illness that was devastatingly fatal, especially in puppies. She waited three days to take him to the vet because my father protested the expense. Louis Wolfe could have given Scrooge a run for his money.
Corky died a few days later. When she told me, there were no hugs, no kisses or an explanation of death to soothe me. She stood in the doorway of the room I shared with my sister, Helen, and said, "Charlotte, Corky died" before turning and leaving.
I sat there for a long time staring at the pillow he would never sleep on again. I never shed a tear and promptly forgot him … until now.
"Is it that bad?"
"What?" I asked, shaking off the memories.
"My name. I grant you it's a bit mundane, but it's never made someone cry before."
I swiped at my cheeks. Sure enough they were wet. Grabbing a napkin, I dried my face.
"Oh, god," I muttered, embarrassed at such a pitiful display. "I hate crying. It's not you," I waved the napkin as if I could dispel this whole scene. "I'm Charlotte by the way. I thought you said Corky, and I remembered a puppy I used to have."