We keep each other safe.
Every night she comes and sleeps pressed up against me—snoring nonstop now—I guess ’cause she’s finally able to really sleep, you know, without having to be afraid.
Of course, I can’t keep her.
There’s just no way.
First of all, I heard back from my editor about the pages I sent, and she was totally supportive. So, other than some minor revisions, it’s finally all set. That is, it’s going to be published. I can’t fucking believe it.
And the other really awesome thing is that when I finally talked to my dad, it turns out he was able to finish his own book about his experience living with my addiction.
So the publishers want both of our books to come out around the same time, and they want us to go on this big-ass book tour thing. That’ll mean we’ll both have to be traveling for, like, a whole month. And since there’s no way Sue Ellen would be able to take care of Tallulah, I’m gonna have to find her a permanent home before then.
Honestly, I really don’t like to talk about it. I mean, it’s gonna be impossible. But, whatever, I don’t need to worry about that shit now. For now all I have to do is try ’n’ find this six-mile trail Russell told me I needed to check out with Tallulah. Apparently, it winds along one of the inlets cutting in through the marshes. Russell says for him, coming out here is his way of going to church. We saw him last night for dinner—that’s when he drew me this little map and wrote out directions. He also kicked me down about a gram of this really good weed that someone at work gave him. We smoked a good bit last night, but I’m saving it this morning till Tallulah and I get to the trail. Really, I love hiking when I’m stoned.
It’s cool, you know, smoking weed feels so much better to me than drinking. Smoking weed is, like, positive and motivating for me. Plus, it won’t make you so sick and desperate, like alcohol does. I mean, sure, it does set off that phenomenon of craving for me to a certain extent, but it’s way less severe than anything else. Besides, it’s not even around that much here, so there’s no real danger of getting fucking hooked. I don’t know, the day after, when I don’t have any more weed, definitely sucks for sure. But I can ride it out. The important thing is, I’m not drinking and I’m not doing hard drugs. Weed’s like nothing. I still consider myself sober, even though I do smoke sometimes. To me, seriously, it doesn’t even count. Pot doesn’t make anyone all fiendy. It just doesn’t work like that.
But, anyway, yeah, I follow Russell’s map to the trail entrance. There’s a sort of dense, low-lying fog covering the marsh so that the tops of the trees are obscured completely, and a silvery light reflects off the gray, still water. As soon as I turn off the car, Tallulah is immediately scratching at the door and sort of half whining, half barking in excitement. I tell her “shh” and rub her ear until she kinda bites at my hand, giving me a look like “Don’t you fucking touch me” and growling some to back it up. Fucking dog is a liability. But she definitely knows how to get what she wants—and I gotta respect her for that.
So I let her go on whining and scratching at the door while I take a couple of hits of the herb Russell gave me. Honestly, what they call good weed here doesn’t even come close to the pot you get in California. The worst shit there is better than the best shit here—no joke. But, I mean, whatever—it still gets me high. My brain kinda clouds over, and I feel this rush of energy and weightlessness surging through my body. A warm sort of joy floods my mind. Colors and sounds become mysterious and fascinating. The world is wide open, and I watch it all unfold with the eyes of a child—everything new, exciting, beautiful, in a way I could never be aware of if I was sober. Every branch and grain of sand and insect fit together perfectly in this harmonious landscape of shared energy and molecular connections. We are all one, and nothing is a mistake. My life, the fact that I’m here right now with Tallulah—it’s all exactly the way it’s supposed to be. My entire existence has culminated in this moment, and I wouldn’t change one thing. I’m just so grateful to be here now.
I open the car door.
Immediately Tallulah takes off down the trail, smelling frantically, chasing different scents out into the marsh, through the bramble, and then back onto the path. She barks and bays like a good hound dog should—yet she’s always aware of where I am, following along with me as I walk. Occasionally she’ll check in, and I’ll give her water from my pack and pet her. When she’s outside, she lets me pet her without being afraid at all—I guess maybe ’cause she knows she has an escape route. Anyway, I take what I can get, until she runs off again—the biggest, goofiest smile on her face you could possibly imagine.
It seems like she has a pretty good life now, and I’m so grateful to be able to give her that. Although she’s totally given me the same thing. Everything is falling into place. I mean, goddamn, I’m going to have a book published. And honestly, I really gambled everything on the hope that it would happen—that I would make it happen. Dropping out of college, living the way I’ve lived, the one thing I had to believe in was my dream of writing a book and getting it published. Well, it’s all happening now. It really feels like a miracle. And walking here, along the dusty dirt trail—tiny black crabs scattering with every step—the fog starting to break apart beneath the sun, revealing a massive metal cargo ship moving slowly up the waterway—Tallulah darting in every direction—I have to say, I feel content. My life is good. The world is good—beautiful, even. And for once I really don’t wish I were someone else. I’m actually kind of cool with being me. It feels totally bizarre—but, uh, good, just the same.
For an instant I close my eyes and inhale, long and deep.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
My eyes open.
And I scream it out.
“Thank you!”
Tallulah freezes in the distance and comes running back to me fast, like she thinks she’s in trouble.
I tell her not to worry, that I wasn’t talking to anyone.
Though I guess I could’ve been talking to a whole lot of people, huh?
There are tears now at the back of my eyes.
And I wonder why I’m such a pussy.
Ch.28
So, apparently there’s some couple a few hours south of here, in Jacksonville, who saw our posting of Tallulah on the Internet and have decided to adopt her. Actually, unless something goes wrong, we’re planning on leaving her there with them today after we drive down.
I mean, it’s not that I don’t want the damn dog, because I do—obviously. It feels good taking care of another living thing—focusing on its needs and desires more than my own—trying to give it a good life—you know, the good life it deserves.
Have I been able to give that to Tallulah?
Yeah, to tell you the truth, I think I have. I think I’ve done a pretty all right job—way better than I would’ve expected. She’s come a long way. And, well, I guess I have, too. I mean, she’s definitely helped me as much as I’ve helped her.
But now it’s time for her to find a permanent home—with a permanent family.
This really is for the best.
Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
On the drive down to Jacksonville, Sue Ellen and I are pretty much quiet the whole time, and Tallulah stays in the back, curled up tight in a pathetic-looking little ball, almost as though she can sense what’s about to happen.
I’ve never been to Florida before, so I guess that’s something, but the drive is plain and ugly and depressing—miles and miles of strip malls; sick, half-dead palmetto trees; trailer parks; shapeless, colorless factory buildings; shapeless, colorless suburban tract homes. Jacksonville itself is gray and industrial and mostly empty.
As we get closer to the suburban community where the couple lives, Tallulah climbs up halfway into the front seat, balancing shakily on the center armrest. She leans her body over on mine, putting her front left paw up on my shoulder so I’m supporting a good bit of her weight. Her body trembles, a
nd she makes these little whining, squeaking noises as she licks at my face kinda frantically. I’m driving and her breath is stank, but I don’t try ’n’ stop her, like I normally would.
All I do is to tell her, “I know, girl. It’s okay.”
I’m not sure if that’s the truth or not anymore. But Sue Ellen has tears in her eyes now, too.
Fuck.
When we pull up to the house, it takes us both a good five minutes before we open our doors—securing Tallulah’s leash and walking her up the redbrick front walkway.
Honestly, I think I was sort of hoping the place would be a shit-hole trailer or something, so I’d be let off the hook.
It’s not, though.
I mean, it looks super nice—one those sort of ’50s ranch-style single-story houses that stretch out real long on both sides—accented with fussy little flower beds and perfectly manicured grass. Palm trees line the driveway. Polished stones decorate the front entrance.
Sue Ellen’s small hand reaches out to press the electronic doorbell, and almost immediately a flesh-colored blob appears blurred behind the etched, fleur-de-lis-shaped glass set into the stained-wood paneling.
The door opens—followed by a high-pitched series of shrieks and oohs and aahs.
“Isn’t she precious,” the rotund woman coos like her tongue’s coming loose in her mouth. “Come here, baby, meet your new mama.”
Tallulah pulls at her leash in the opposite direction, getting herself tangled behind my legs, but, thank God, not snarling yet.
“Sorry,” I say weakly. “She has a hard time with strangers sometimes.”
The woman straightens herself up, adjusting the narrow-framed glasses on her childishly sculpted Play-Doh face.
“Of course, I understand. Poor wittle doggy wog.”
I bite the inside of my mouth. “Yeah, well, uh, anyway, sorry…. I’m Nic and this is, uh, Sue Ellen and you must be, uh…”
“Pam,” she says brightly. “I’m Pam. It’s so nice to meet you both.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Sue Ellen tells her.
We all shake hands, and then Pam invites us in.
“Jock’s finishing up on the grill out back, but I know he’s just dying to set his eyes on little Tallulah, so if you don’t mind, I’ll give y’all a tour of the house after lunch. Y’all do eat meat, don’t ya? I sure do hope so, though, I must say, I never know what crazy notions you kids’ll take into yer heads next.”
Sue Ellen fields that one. “No, don’t worry, we eat meat. Ha-ha. No crazy notions here.”
I put a hand on Sue Ellen’s waist just to reassure her.
The inside of the house, from what I can see so far, is all very, um, precious. There’re little glass trinkets and figurines all over the place, plus lots of superfluous, fragile decorations and pure-white carpets Tallulah would have no problem destroying in a matter of seconds. On the other hand, yeah, the backyard is giant. That’s definitely not something I could ever give her. And even though I take her on all kinds of hikes and things, that’s still not the same as having a big yard to run around in all day. Tallulah deserves a house like this. She deserves more than just a little studio apartment. She deserves someone who’ll always be able to pay for her medical bills and dog treats. Hell, as it is, that Pam woman’s already given Tallulah more treats in the last few minutes than I’d say I ever have in her whole goddamn life. Although, I think that might have to do with what a clever little manipulator Tallulah’s turned out to be. After each treat she’s received, Tallulah sits again, staring up at the woman with large, imploring, pitiful eyes.
“She won’t ever stop,” I say, laughing. “She’ll keep eating ’em till she explodes.”
The woman shakes her head. “No, no. The poor little thing’s just hungry.”
She gives up another treat.
I mean, what can I say? Tallulah’s pimping the shit out of her right now.
Anyway, when we get out into the yard, the woman tells me I can let Tallulah off leash—so I do. No surprise the gluttonous little hound runs straight for the barbecue and the smell of cooking meat. She’s actually just about to pounce on the plate of greasy, swollen hot dogs, when the seriously large man attending them, who somehow Tallulah didn’t seem to notice, suddenly turns and surprises the shit out of her. Tallulah’s tail tucks up tight between her legs, and she bolts off into the corner of the yard, cowering like she’s just been beaten or something.
“Sorry,” I say, rushing over. “She can be pretty wary of men. I mean, especially bigger men. She’ll be all right, though. Come on, Tallulah,” I call out.
Tallulah doesn’t listen.
Then the big man takes a step toward her, and she immediately starts growling like she really means business.
“Sorry,” I say again, this time directly to the man. “She’s a big ol’ scaredy-cat. Why don’t we let her calm down for a minute? Is that okay?”
He kinda guffaws and slaps me on the back. “Aw, no problem, buddy. We understand, don’t we, Pammy?”
Pammy says yes, and then the man sticks out his white, freckled hand to me, grinning and introducing himself as Jock.
I shake his hand and then he goes to shake Sue Ellen’s hand and then we all know each other and everything’s all good, except, of course, for Tallulah acting like some paranoid schizophrenic in the corner there.
We decide to leave her to her delusions of persecution while we all take our seats around the dining-room table—each one of us having been provided with our very own maritime-themed plastic placemat.
“You know,” Pam says, through mouthfuls of potato chips, “I have to confess, the reason we decided to adopt Tallulah is because she looks exactly like the very first dog Jock and I ever had together. It’s really quite something. It’s like they came from the same litter, I’ll tell you what. And I know you agree with me, Jock, that dog, Blue, was the best dog we ever had. He was so gentle and sweet and good-natured—not like the last dog we had. No, that was no good at all. Did the woman at the adoption agency tell y’all the story?”
Both Sue Ellen and I shake our heads.
“Well,” she says, “she was a pit bull our daughter rescued down in Tampa, and of course we just couldn’t say no… could we, Jock?”
“You couldn’t!” he snorts, sitting up straighter in his chair.
She laughs sort of awkwardly at that, opening a second can of Diet Coke and gulping a good bit of it before continuing. “Now, now. That’s not true. You agreed we’d give her a chance. And she really was a sweet little girl. But unfortunately, we both still work during the day, so any dog we get will have to be at home alone until a little after five each night. And while we’ve never had a problem with it in the past, Clementine—that’s what we named her—must not’ve been used to being left alone, ’cause when we got home that first day… well… we…”
Her voice catches, and I see suddenly that her eyes have gone kinda red and glassy, like she’s fighting off wanting to cry.
But it’s Jock who goes ahead and completes her thought.
He shakes his head back and forth slowly. “It was like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre in here, that’s what it was. Pammy had her four cats living here, and that dog, she got every last one. Little bits of cat was spread from one end of the house to the other. It was a darn shame.”
Pam sniffles loudly, clutching her hand to her chest. “It was more than a shame, it was a tragedy. And the worse part of all was that we had to put that poor, sweet dog down. It was one of the worst days of my whole life. So you can see why adopting another dog means so much to me… to us.”
Sue Ellen shoots a glance over my way.
“Wow,” I say, really just trying to process the whole story. “That’s so awful. I mean, that is so, so awful.”
I pause to think for a few seconds before the question comes to me.
“But, uh, I don’t understand…. Why’d you have to put the dog to sleep after that?”
The woman covers
her face with her hands. “We had no choice,” she sobs. “It was too dangerous to keep her after what happened.”
I’m not sure I follow her logic on that, but thankfully I’m saved from having to respond, ’cause Tallulah is suddenly there at the sliding glass door, whining and pawing to come in.
“Oh,” Pam sniffles, straightening up and making a big show out of wiping away tears that I don’t think were ever really there. “Oh, heavens, just look at me. I’m so sorry. Here we are with a new doggy in the family, and I’m boo-hooing like a little girl. Why don’t we let Tallulah in so she can get used to the house? Hon, you mind letting her in?”
That last bit was obviously addressed at her husband, who, in response, rises silently from his chair and goes directly to the door.
Sue Ellen kicks me under the table, but I don’t have time to say anything before Jock’s already got the screen pulled open and Tallulah is inside, running circles around the room with a frenzied look in her wide, glossy eyes. She pounces on the table and I yell at her to stop, and then she gets scared, so she runs and jumps onto the black, slightly purple leather sofa—spinning around several times before finally compacting herself into a tight little ball.
“Uh-oh. Uh-oh,” Pam says, flustered.
Jock walks over to Tallulah in three strides, leaning directly over her.
“Tallulah, bad dog. No getting on the furniture,” he sort of half yells at her.
I stand up quickly so I almost knock over my goddamn chair. “Wait,” I call out. “Wait, I’ll take care of it.”
Jock’s eyes shift back over in my direction. “No, no, it’s all right. She’s gonna have to learn to listen to me. I can handle it. I served four tours of duty in Vietnam. I’d like to think I can get a dog off of my couch without anybody’s help.”
He chuckles to himself, turning back to Tallulah.
“Honey, maybe you should let him do it,” Pam tries, but Jock just snaps that he’s got everything “under control.”
I get myself ready all the same.