Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

  I took my leave of Barbie, and with a much lighter step, headed to the Closet.

  * * *

  The next morning found me in front of the local animal rescue league. It was the same one where Adam volunteered. I'd considered going elsewhere, but I wasn't worried about seeing Adam since he would be at work. As it was, I was early, the doors weren't open yet, but I didn't care. It just meant I had first dibs when they finally did.

  In front of the building, there was a bench set in a small patch of grass with a sculpture of a fire hydrant and a mailbox. Something, I'm sure, the canine residents of the shelter enjoyed.

  As I waited, I drew up a list of the traits I was looking for. I had decided on:

  Middle aged - I couldn't deal with a puppy, but I didn't want the dog dying on me either.

  Medium sized - 50-80 lbs. I wanted a dog that would scare people, just not me.

  Short haired - I definitely didn't want dog hair everywhere.

  Male - I read that male dogs are friendlier. I didn't know if this was true, but figured why take the chance of the dog hating me.

  Protective - this dog needs to be willing to guard me.

  Satisfied with my list, I was imagining all the various animals inside and wondered who would be going home with me.

  Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a tall man in dark colored scrubs unlocking the doors. The structure was a concrete and glass cube of a building. Cartoonish murals of dogs and cats adorned the exterior. Inside, the scent of disinfectant laced with lemon the odor of animals assaulted my nose. I marched to the counter and announced I was there to adopt a dog.

  The receptionist gave me a bright smile revealing a tongue piercing. "That's awesome, but adoptions aren't for another hour" as she pointed at a large sign detailing said times.

  Frustration seized me, but even I knew when not to argue, so I said, "Okay if I wait here?"

  She shrugged and said, "Sure thing," before turning back to whatever she'd been doing.

  I killed the next sixty minutes by reading every pamphlet in sight. I had just surrendered to fatigue and was dozing when I came awake to the receptionist saying, "Ma'am?"

  "Is it time?" I said.

  She nodded, "Yup, you can go through those doors." She pointed to a door labeled CANINE FRIENDS with several cartoon paw prints stenciled on the battered surface. "Take a look and come back up front when you’re done."

  She began to walk back to the desk. I called out, "Wait!" Fishing my list out of my pocket, I waived it at her. "I made a list. Can you go get me whatever dog fits these criteria and bring it up?"

  All friendliness evaporated and she scowled. "That's not how this works, ma'am." Her voice became suspicious as she asked, "Why exactly do you want a dog?"

  Right, like I was going to tell her the truth. "For a pet, of course."

  She rolled her eyes at me. I wanted to smack that sanctimonious look right off her face.

  "Look, ma'am," she said. "This is serious. If you aren't willing to do right by the animal, you shouldn't adopt."

  "Of course, I'll do right by it!" I was indignant now. Who was she to judge me?

  She raised an eyebrow, and said, "Is this your first dog?"

  I nodded. "Yeah, I've only had cats before."

  Shaking her head, she said, "Dogs are completely different from cats. You'll have to go see them for yourself, though. Find one who connects with you and then come back. I'll have an adoption coordinator talk with you then."

  She began to turn away, but stopped adding, "Look, I don't know you, but I know dogs. If you're not prepared to love this dog and give it what it needs, you should go."

  She turned away before I could reply, but I didn't follow it up. Whatever.

  * * *

  As the door closed behind me, the odors of antiseptic and something canine grew overwhelming. My eyes watered and, for a second, I considered forgetting the whole thing. The memory of the gun tucked into that man's waistband kept me moving.

  I was standing in a narrow hallway with several offices hanging off either side. The fluorescent lighting cast a yellow haze along walls and scraped floor. There was another door at the far end labeled KENNEL.

  Pushing through, I froze. The room was large and divided into several rows of kennels. From Adam's stories of woe, I expected some dim and squalid canine gulag. Instead, the kennels were large and clean. The windows lining one wall let in lots of natural light. The dogs noticed me immediately and a cacophony of canine voices erupted. The echo created the impression of three hundred dogs rather than thirty.

  I decided to start at the far end and work my way back to the door. The occupants of the first few runs were clean and cheerful. There was a microscopic Chihuahua and a small, shaggy mutt. They were yippy and bouncy and too small.

  I continued along feeling like Goldilocks. The dogs were too big or too small, too energetic or too terrified. So far, none were just right. I have to admit, the more I perused the occupants, the more they cracked open the doors of my heart. Their soulful eyes and trembling bodies made me want to comfort them.

  A tiny sheltie puppy with only one remaining eye, huddled in his bed curled around a stuffed bunny and trembled at the mere sight of me. I wanted to open the cage and scoop him up. As I kneeled, making all the requisite baby and kissy noises, he burrowed even further under his bunny and refused to look at me.

  His fear brought tears to my eyes. I tried once more to get him to come to me, but even the sound of my voice seemed to traumatize him, so I let him be.

  I passed face after face, furry body after furry body, feeling both helpless and in awe of what these people do every day. As much as I didn't want to admit it, a sliver of my consciousness was beginning to see what had drawn Adam to this work. I wasn't willing to concede it was worth sacrificing tens of thousands of dollars, but at least I could reconcile his desire.

  I was on the last row of cages, many of which were empty, and ready to give up finding my ah-ha moment, when I saw him. Goosebumps erupted across my arms and I froze, trying to dissect the feeling of familiarity washing across me.

  The dog fit every criterion. He was big and scary. His kennel card said he was 85 lbs. He had scars across his face and neck. His fur was short and groomed. His card also said he was three years old and named Hugo.

  For several breaths, blue eyes locked with hazel as we took each other's measure. I like to think I passed his. I know he passed mine.

  I knelt in front of the cage door and he rose with slow, deliberate motions from the elevated cot he rested on. He moved as if he was testing each step. Freshly healed wounds crosshatched his haunches.

  When he reached me, he ducked his head, lowering his ears, and pressing his nose through the chain link that separated us. I allowed him to sniff my hand and scratched his muzzle where I could reach.

  "Hey there, Hugo," I whispered and my voice cracked as a disconcerting blend of grief and joy rushed me. "You want to come home with me?"

  I took his rasping lick of my finger as an affirmative. The deal sealed, Hugo tiptoed his way back to his bed, circled and lay down with a loud groan. I chuckled through the water trickling out of the leaky faucet my eyes had become.

  I'd gotten my exclamation point after all.

  4. Houston, We Have a Problem

  "WHAT DO YOU MEAN I can't take him today?" I stared at the adoption coordinator in a near-panic.

  "Ms. Wolfe, there are special considerations for adopting Hugo—"

  "Is this because he's a pit bull? That's discriminatory, ya know." My voice was shrill. I'd finally found my dog and now I couldn't take him with me. This was so not happening.

  I had to give her credit for her patience. She remained unflappable despite my anger. She was an elegant woman with a willowy build and skin that glowed like fresh roasted coffee beans. She was also at least four inches taller than me. I never liked having to look up at anyone I was attempting to negotiate with; even in three inch heels, I was only but so tall.
>
  "If you'd let me finish, Ms. Wolfe," the reprimand was there, though her smile remained. "I was about to say that Hugo is part of a special breed awareness program. The grant funding the program has separate, and specific requirements. So, is it because he's a pit bull? Yes. Is it discrimination? No. It's for his protection. Hugo was fought and we intend to make sure that doesn't happen again. He deserves better."

  I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. I was never good when I didn't get something I wanted. It's not that I have a short fuse or anything. I'm not one to blow up or be volatile. I just take a long time to calm down once I'm angry. I also tend to become irrational. Not a good place to be when I'm trying to get something.

  At the moment, I was hovering on a precipice. No sleep, the confrontation with Henry that lingered like a bad taste, and now this denial combined to inspire me to a full-fledged, show-my-ass temper tantrum. My logical mind was telling me to calm down. This woman was the conduit to Hugo and I needed her on my side. My little lizard brain wanted to curse her out just to make myself feel better. Somehow, I didn't see me telling her to shove her special considerations ending with Hugo walking out next to me.

  My logical mind won. Barely.

  An hour later, I left the shelter armed with hours of reading on pit bull behavior along with an appointment in two days for a home visit. Everything rested on the home visit. If I passed, Hugo would be mine.

  * * *

  I walked toward the Metro station engrossed in fantasies of dressing Hugo up in cute collars and doggy clothes. The info on the breed made it clear that a pit bull needs to be with their human, that they'll almost worship you.

  That was something I could get on board with. A dog that lived to obey my every command and provided me with unconditional worship sounded like my perfect companion. I was so caught up in my fantasies, I almost missed them.

  It was the sound of Adam's name in a low flirty tone that caught my attention. I scanned my surroundings for several moments before I finally spotted them.

  They sat in the crowded patio of a small Irish pub. Adam had what I'm confident was a Guinness in front of him. His companion had one as well. They were sharing whatever food was in the cast iron skillet nestled between them.

  Adam had his back to me, but after three years I'd recognize him anywhere. His posture was relaxed and casual. His laughter at something she said dispelled any possibility that I was mistaken.

  Was he on a date? Why wasn't he at work? He wasn't wearing work or date clothes. Adam was the type to dress up for a date. His jeans and T-shirt were casual, but everything about his companion, screamed I want to have sex with you.

  Her auburn hair was immaculate, not a strand was out of place. She was in full makeup and her outfit was tight enough to enhance her voluptuous figure without crossing over into slutty. She leaned forward as he spoke. This was a woman on the make.

  Not that I had any doubt of her intentions, but when she laid her hand on Adam's forearm, I smirked—case closed. There was no way to tell how Adam was responding to her attentions, but he didn't pull away. I couldn't see his face and if I moved anywhere else, he would see me.

  The sight of him sent a surge of emotion through me that was difficult to filter. Most of it was confusion; I mean, who was this chick and what was she to Adam? Also resentment. If he was eating at that pub, he damn sure hadn't taken that marketing job at the shelter. And, the last emotion I finally identified as longing. I remembered being the one across from him eating expensive meals and—well, not drinking Guinness. It tasted like liquefied bread to me. But, I'd have a cocktail; something fruity. We shared jokes and enjoyed ourselves.

  My eyes watered. I missed—. My thoughts broke off as the pair rose to leave. I darted inside the dry cleaner I was standing before. Plastering myself against the interior wall, they passed by unaware of my presence.

  The teenager behind the counter ignored me as I did her, so I didn't bother with an explanation. I left and stood watching them. They were going in the direction of the Metro as well, which meant I'd have to wait a bit or risk exposure.

  I tailed them at a distance. It was still impossible to discern the nature of their relationship. They weren't holding hands or doing anything intimate. They were much closer together than American mores for unpaired men and woman dictated, though.

  The last thing I saw before they disappeared down the escalator was Adam stepping aside to allow the woman to get on first. She stumbled and he grabbed her to steady her. He didn't let go.

  5. Be Careful What You Wish For

  TWO DAYS LATER, I TEETERED on the edge of a nervous breakdown. My home visit was less than thirty minutes away. I hadn't slept longer than an hour at any given stretch thanks to Lumpy putting in yet another appearance the night before.

  That was the name I'd given to the man with the gun who had been leaving my building as I was walking in. He was a square of a man who looked as if he'd were together from varying bits of clay. His skin was vampiric in its paleness, his nose a bulbous clump in an amorphous face. The muscles of his arms appeared as a series of lumps under a too tight shirt to contain them. And, of course, there was the ever present lump of his gun.

  The ban on handguns in the District was over, but it was still a brazen act to walk around with his weapon on display. It was Lumpy's nonchalance about that gun that put me on edge. If he didn't care that he was flaunting a dangerous weapon, what would he do to someone who got in his way?

  My mind had been spiraling out of control ever since then with fantastical notions of all the gruesome ways Lumpy could off me. Long story short, I needed protection. Pepper spray was now my constant companion, but I didn't want to use it. I wanted people scared as soon as they saw me. Enter Hugo.

  Aaaaaaaand … that led to my current state of nerves. If I didn't pass the test today, they would deny the adoption. My sanity depended on the arbitrary opinion of some random individual I'd never met. I had nothing to work with. No information to build my persona around to ensure the outcome I wanted.

  I never go into a negotiation without doing my homework. When I pitch a proposal, I guarantee I know everything the Internet can cough up on whomever I'm meeting with. Right now, I was going in blind. No name, not even a gender. Saying I felt stressed was like saying Antarctica was cold.

  After yet another once over, I concluded there was nothing more I could do. The Closet was spotless. I'd done everything I could to dress it up so that it appeared estate sale chic rather than just shabby but I was still worried. In an attempt to tip the scales in my favor, I'd already created an area for Hugo with a bed and a chew toy. I'd read that was a good way to keep dogs from chewing furniture. His bowls were already set out against the wall that held my pots. I was hoping to give off a responsible dog lover vibe.

  At precisely 2 p.m. there was a knock on my door. A check through the peephole showed an older gentleman with a full head of white hair and thick unattractive glasses like the kind they issue you in boot camp.

  "Can I help you?" The likelihood was that this was my evaluator, but I wasn't taking chances.

  "It's Mr. Tatasopoulos from the shelter. We have an appointment."

  Sending out a fervent wish to the universe for no mishaps, I opened the door. Mr. Tatawhatsit was a direct contradiction in terms to the heft of the name he'd thrown my way. A large Greek name like that deserved a burly man with a huge voice and an equally large belly laugh. Instead, everything about him was spare. His hair was military short, his clothes the bare minimum to support the end of summer heat wave. There was not one inch of extra flesh on a frame that appeared weathered to the barest muscle and bone required to keep him ambulatory.

  His obvious age had done nothing to diminish the strength in the grip of the hand he offered. I welcomed him in and waved him over to the microscopic dinette I'd acquired and placed under the window.

  "Can I get you something to drink?" Good manners could only help right?

  "No, thank you." He
didn't look at me as he spoke. Rather, he began pulling out documents from the folders he'd brought with him and laying them on the table. When he had arranged things to his satisfaction, he leaned back, clasped his hands across his non-existent belly, and stared at me.

  I remained quiet, waiting him out, determined not to squirm. Just as I was about to crack, his lips twitched in the briefest of smiles and he said, "Why?"

  Huh? Why what? I must have spoken out loud because he elaborated.

  "Why do you want a dog?"

  Mentally, I rubbed my palms together. I'd been able to prepare for this part of the interview at least. What research I'd been able to do assured me this was a standard question on a home visit. Squaring my shoulders, I looked Mr. T in the eye and recited all the reasons for owning a dog. Each one guaranteed to strike the right note of responsible and caring.

  I finished, feeling smug, and waited for the praise and thanks for my selflessness in adopting this cast off creature.

  "Do you have anything original to add?" His voice was deadpan, but I detected disappointment in his lack of inflection.

  "What do you mean?" I played dumb as I mentally scrambled to find a new tactic. I couldn't lose Hugo.

  He pinched his lips together and perused my face searching for something. I put on my "bright-friendly" face and waited. After several seconds, he shook his head and began packing up his papers.

  Nausea washed over me and I began to perspire. He couldn't leave. He had to give me Hugo.

  "No! Please wait." I put a hand on his arm in gentle restraint only to snatch it off when I realized I was touching him. He paused mid-stand and I waved him back saying, "I'm sorry," even though I had no idea what I was sorry about.

  He cocked an eyebrow at me, but sat. The papers stayed in his arms.

  "Sir—" I began, only to be cut off.

  "Ms. Wolfe," his voice was kind, but firm. "I need you to listen to me. You see, you're asking to adopt a living creature with needs of its own. A unique personality that will be dependent on you for everything in its life. On top of that, you've asked for Hugo, a pit bull."