It cannot be a dog’s purpose to understand what people want because it is impossible.
The summer after Trent’s hair grew back some men came and took everything from our home. CJ spoke to them and led them through the house, so I knew it was okay, but I still barked at them out of habit. CJ put me in my crate when I barked and also put Sneakers in the cat crate, which I felt was a bit of an overreaction on CJ’s part.
Sneakers and I went for a long car ride in the backseat of a car, still in our crates.
At the end of the car ride the same men were there, this time carrying all of our things into a new house. What fun to explore the unfamiliar rooms! Sneakers sniffed around suspiciously, but I was rampant with joy, racing from place to place.
“This is where we live now, Max,” Trent said. “You don’t have to live in an apartment anymore.”
Since he was talking to me, I ran over and put my paws on his legs and he lifted me up in the air. I looked smugly down at Sneakers, who was pretending not to care. Trent was a good man. He loved CJ and me and I loved him. That night, as I dozed off, curled against my girl with Trent sleeping on the other side of the bed, I thought about how devoted Rocky had been to Trent. You can usually tell that a man is good if he has a dog who loves him.
We didn’t ever go back home again. We were in a small house with stairs and, most delightfully, a grassy lawn in the back. Sneakers was unimpressed with the yard, but I loved it out there. It was quieter and there were fewer food scents, but I could hear the musical sound of barking dogs and smell the plants and the rain.
Trent left most days right after breakfast, but CJ stayed home to be with me. There was a little room she liked to sit in with a desk and a couch and soft chairs and a bed for me to lie in. Friends would come over and sit in a different room, one that had a door to the outside, and then CJ and I would go down the hall to bring the friends into CJ’s favorite room to talk. I learned never to bark at any of these people, though I always knew when they were waiting in the other room and would go to the door wagging my tail.
“Good boy, Max,” CJ would say.
Sometimes the people would be sad and I learned that if I jumped up into their laps a little of the sadness would go away as they petted me and cried. I loved that my girl had so many friends who came to visit.
I was happy. A year went by, and then another. CJ was always a little sick, but gradually she seemed to be improving, getting stronger.
We had lived in the new house for a long time when my legs began bothering me in the winter. They were stiff and sore when I woke up in the morning, slowing me down. Our walks outside became as halting and short as they had been when CJ was very sick and pushed a chair in front of her.
Sneakers was slowing down, too. The two of us often napped on the couch at opposite ends, getting up in the middle of the day to switch places.
“You okay, Max? Poor dog. Is the medicine doing you any good?” CJ would ask me. I could hear the concern in her voice and I would wag at my name. My purpose now was to be with my girl when she went to lie on the couch every few days, and to snuggle with her and take as many naps as possible. That’s what she needed.
I did my best to hide my pain from her and Trent. I could feel her sharp concern whenever she could tell that my joints were flaring with a sensation very much like when Beevis tore into my ear and made it bleed.
I no longer tore around in the backyard, barking with sheer joy. I was too tired. I still felt the joy; I just kept quiet about it.
Sometimes I would be lying in the sun when CJ would call me and I would lift my head, but my legs wouldn’t seem to want to move. CJ would come and pick me up and hold me in her lap and I would feel her sadness, so I’d struggle against the weakness that was enfeebling me and manage to lift my head and lick her face.
“Are you having a good day, Max? Are you in much pain?” she asked me after a particularly bad spell, when I was barely able to move for several minutes. “I think maybe it’s time. I’ve been dreading this moment, but tomorrow, I’ll take you to see the Vet. You won’t have to suffer anymore, Max. I promise.”
I sighed. It felt good to be held by CJ. Her hands as they stroked me seemed to smooth away the pain. Trent came out and I felt him right there, too, his hand petting me.
“How’s he doing?” Trent asked.
“Not good at all. I came out and I thought he was gone.”
“Such a good boy,” Trent murmured, stroking me. “You’re the best dog, Max. You took care of CJ your whole life. Now it will be my job. You can let go any time you need to. I won’t let you down. Okay? You did a good job, Max.”
“Oh, Max,” CJ whispered. She sounded so, so sad.
Just then, I felt a familiar sensation rising up within me, a warm and gentle blackness. Something was happening inside me, something swift and surprising. The searing agony in my joints began to withdraw. “Max?” CJ said. Her voice sounded far away.
I was unable to move, or to see them anymore. My last thought, as I felt the rising waters float me away, was that I was glad CJ and Trent still had Sneakers to take care of them.
Sneakers was a good cat.
TWENTY-NINE
I was vaguely conscious of sleeping for a long time, of awakening from a long, long nap. Eventually I opened my eyes, but everything was milky and dark.
When my vision cleared enough for me to be able to focus on my mother and my siblings, I saw that we were all colored with splotches of brown, white, and black and all had short fur.
I could not hear CJ’s voice, nor could I smell her. There were other people, though, many of them, often wearing long, flowing clothes and also small blankets on their heads.
We were in a tiny room with a few rugs on the floor and light coming in from a window up close to the ceiling. My siblings—two girls and three boys—were involved in continual play, wrestling and, as we got older, merrily chasing each other. I tried to ignore them to concentrate on sitting in front of the door to watch for CJ, but the fun was just too infectious.
For the first time it occurred to me to wonder if any of them had experienced other lives and had people they, too, needed to find, but they sure didn’t act like it. I was the only puppy who seemed to have any concerns at all beyond playing, playing, playing.
The people who came to see us were all women. I soon learned to identify their smells and discern that though their garments were all the same, there were six separate people, all of them older than CJ but younger than Hannah. The women delighted in us, coming in to laugh as the puppies jumped on them and tugged on their long robes. They picked me up and kissed me, but one of them in particular paid more attention to me than the other women did. “This is the one,” she would say. “See how calm he is?”
“There’s no such thing as a calm beagle,” one woman responded to this.
“Oh, Margaret, a puppy isn’t going to work out,” said another. “I know they’re cute, but they’re too full of energy. We should get another mature dog like Oscar was.”
The woman holding me was, I soon realized after hearing her name a number of times, called Margaret.
“You weren’t here when we got Oscar, Jane,” Margaret said. “We had several false starts, and when we finally found Oscar he was with us such a short time before he passed. I think training a puppy from the start will give us many years.”
“But not a beagle,” the first woman said. “A beagle is too hyper. That’s why I didn’t want to foster a pregnant beagle in the first place.”
I wondered which one of the women was named Beagle.
I could tell from the heaviness in my bones and muscles that I was destined to be a bigger dog than I had been as Max. I felt a sense of relief that I wouldn’t need to devote so much energy to proving to dogs and people that inside I was a big dog who could protect my girl. When the woman set me down I went over and jumped on one of my sisters—I was already larger than she was, and I enjoyed being able to dominate her with my size rather than
my attitude.
Soon after we had started eating mushy food out of a communal bowl, we were led outside into a grassy area that was fenced in. It was spring and the air was warm and fragrant with flowers and new grass. I could smell that we were in a humid climate with rains frequent enough to support many species of trees and bushes. My siblings thought the yard was pretty much the most wonderful place imaginable and reacted every morning to being let out into it by racing around in circles. I thought it was silly but generally joined in the fray because it was fun.
I wondered when CJ would come get me. That had to be why I was a puppy again. Our fates were inextricably linked, so if I was reborn it must be that my girl still needed me.
One day a family entered the yard—two little girls and a man and a woman—led by one of the six women who took care of us. I knew what their presence meant. The puppies all ran over to play with them, but I hung back, though when one of the little girls picked me up I couldn’t resist kissing her giggling face.
“This one, Daddy. This is the one I want for my birthday,” the little girl said. She carried me over to her father.
“Actually, one of the nuns has already spoken for that one,” the woman said. “He’s going to have a job. We hope, anyway.”
The little girl dropped me to the ground. I gazed up at her, wagging. She was older than when CJ was called Clarity but younger than when Rocky and I were taken home by Trent and CJ—I had never known my girl at this particular age. When the little girl scooped up one of my brothers, I was oddly disappointed. I would have enjoyed playing with her some more.
In rapid succession, my siblings went home with other people, until soon I was the only dog left to be with my mother, who was named Sadie. The two of us, my mother and I, were out in the yard taking a nap when several of the women came out to see us. I picked up a small rubber bone and carried it over to the women, hoping one of them would want it and would chase me.
“You’ve been such a good dog, Sadie, such a good mother,” Margaret said.
I tossed the rubber bone and pounced on it so they would call me a good dog, too.
“You’re going to love your new home,” another woman said.
A third woman picked me up and held me nose-to-nose with my mother. We sniffed each other, a bit disconcerted by the awkward and unnatural situation.
“Say bye-bye to your puppy, Sadie!”
The woman snapped a leash onto Sadie’s collar and led her away. Margaret held me so I couldn’t follow my mother—clearly, something was going on.
“I’m going to call you Toby, okay? Toby, you’re a good dog, Toby. Toby.” Margaret crooned to me. “Your name is Toby.”
It occurred to me that my name must be Toby. I was stunned—Toby had been my very first name, long, long ago. Margaret obviously knew that.
Humans know everything, not just how to take car rides or where to find bacon but also when dogs are good or bad and where dogs should sleep and what toys they should play with. Still, I was astounded to hear Margaret call me Toby. I’d always marked every new life with a new name.
What did it mean that I was Toby again? Did it mean it was all starting over, that I would next be named Bailey?
Sadie did not come back, and gradually I came to understand that this place full of women draped in blankets was my new home—a home like none I’d ever been in. For the most part, I lived in the fenced-in area, though at night I was brought in and put in the room where I had been born. I wasn’t lonely, though—throughout the day women would come out to see me, often tossing a rubber ball or pulling on a toy with me. I soon learned to recognize most of them by smell, even though their hands all were cloaked in similar scents.
What was bewildering was that unlike any other life, there was no single person for me to take care of. More women than I could ever count would play with me and talk to me and feed me. It was as if I was the dog for everyone there.
Margaret taught me a new command: “Be Still.” At first she would hold me down and say, “Be Still,” and I thought she wanted to wrestle, but she kept saying, “No, no, Be Still.” I had no idea what she was saying, but I knew that “no” meant I was doing something wrong. I tried licking her and squirming and every other trick I could think of, but none of them pleased her. Finally I gave up in frustration. “Good dog!” she said, giving me a treat even though I hadn’t done anything.
This went on for several days until finally it dawned on me that “Be Still” meant “just lie there.” Once I made that connection, I could lie down and not move for as long as she wanted, though I could scarcely contain my impatience—why did we have to wait so long for me to get a treat?
Then Margaret took me places I’d never been before inside the building. I saw women sitting and women standing and women eating—this last group seemed the most interesting to me, but we spent no time with them before moving on. Margaret wanted me to “Be Still” while sitting in people’s laps. I didn’t care much for the whole operation, but I cooperated.
“See how good he is? Good dog, Toby. Good dog.”
One woman went to a couch to lie down and I was placed on a blanket next to her and given the command. The woman was giggling and I was dying to kiss her face, but I did as I was told and got a treat out of it. I was still lying there motionless, holding out for another morsel, when several women gathered around me.
“All right, Margaret, I’m convinced. You can take him to work with you and see how he does,” said one of the women.
Margaret reached down and picked me up. “He’ll be fine, Sister.”
“No, he won’t. He’ll upset everyone and chew on everything,” another woman warned.
The next morning Margaret put a collar on me and led me on a leash out to her car. “You’re so good, Toby,” she said to me.
We took a car ride and I was a front-seat dog! I wasn’t tall enough to stick my nose out the window yet, though.
Margaret took me to a place very much like where I’d gone with CJ to sit with her on the couch. I could smell many people and could tell some of them were sick. It was quiet, and the floor was soft.
Margaret carried me around and people petted me and hugged me, or, in the case of a few of them, they lay unmoving in their beds and gazed at me. “Be Still,” Margaret commanded. I concentrated on not moving, because I’d learned this was what was required when people were ill. I did not signal when I caught the strong, familiar scent coming off of a couple of them—the smell that had been on Trent’s breath for so long. I’d learned that the command to signal under such circumstances was “Pray,” and no one instructed me to do that.
Margaret soon put me down on the ground outside in a yard that was walled in on all sides. I had a lot of energy pent up inside me and ran around for a while, and then Margaret gave me a rope with a rubber ball on the end of it and I shook it and dragged it around, wishing I had another dog with me to join in the fun. I could see, on the other side of the windows, people watching me, so I made sure I put on a show with that rope.
Then Margaret took me back inside the building and introduced me to a cage. “Okay, Toby, and this is your home.” A new pillow was on the floor of the cage, and when Margaret squatted and patted it I dutifully went over and sat on it.
“This is your bed, Toby. Okay?” Margaret said.
I didn’t know if I was supposed to stay on the pillow, but I was tired and took a nap. I woke up when I heard Margaret speaking. “Hi, would you page Sister Cecilia for me, please?… Thanks.”
I gazed drowsily at her. She smiled at me when I yawned, a phone to her face.
“Cecilia?… It’s Margaret. I’m still at the hospice with Toby.… No, even better than that. They love him. This afternoon some of the guests even sat and watched him play out in the courtyard. No barks, not even once.… I really do, yes.… Thank you, Cecilia.… No, of course, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. He’s a very special dog.”
I heard the word “dog” and wagged my tail a
couple of times before easing back into sleep.
Over the next several days I adjusted to my new life. Margaret came and went, but not every day, and I soon learned the names of Fran and Patsy and Mona—three other women who liked to take me around for visits with people who were lying in beds. Patsy smelled strongly of cinnamon and faintly of dog, and none of them wore the flowing clothing that Margaret wore. They’d tell me to Be Still, so I’d lie there with the person. It reminded me a little of when CJ’s friends would come to visit and cry and I would lie on the couch with them. Sometimes the people wanted to play with me and sometimes they petted me and often they just wanted to nap, but nearly always I could feel their joy coming through.
“You’re an old soul, Toby,” Fran said to me. “An old soul in a young dog’s body.”
I wagged, hearing the praising tones in her words. People are like that; they can talk and talk without ever saying “good dog,” but that’s what they mean.
Other than those visits, I had the run of the place. Everyone called out to me, some of them sitting in chairs that moved when Fran or one of the others stood behind them and pushed. The people loved me and hugged me and snuck me treats.
One place I loved was the kitchen, where a man named Eddie was always cooking. He would tell me to sit and then give me a wonderful treat, even though Sit was the easiest of tricks for a dog.
“You and I are the only men in this place,” Eddie would say to me. “We got to stick together, right, Toby?”
Always before I had been with just one person and had devoted my life to loving that person. At first that person was Ethan—so sure was I that loving him was the reason I was a dog that when I started taking care of baby Clarity it was only because I knew Ethan would want me to. Gradually, though, I came to love CJ just as much, and began to understand that it wasn’t disloyal to Ethan to do so. Dogs can love more than one person.