What a shit idea it had been to work for himself, by himself. Well, it had been incredibly lucky when Lauren was alive and fighting, but it was shit now. He could get a job somewhere, but the thought of leaving the house every day, coming home to it . . . no. Not yet. The literature said not to make big decisions the first year of widowhood.
He eventually found himself running on his own street, having circled back, unsure of how long he’d been gone. Pebbles was panting and filthy. He took the stairs to their apartment, opened the door and looked at the kitchen clock.
11:09.
Jesus. It was, impossibly, still morning.
Wash the dog. Towel her dry. Take a shower. Get dressed. Clean the bathroom of wet dog fur. Eat. Drink.
12:13.
He sighed and closed his burning eyes. Lay down on the couch, but was tormented by visions of Lauren’s last hours. He sighed again, got up and headed for his computer.
Pebbles came trotting over, but she was wobbly, favoring her left back leg. “What’s the matter, pooch?” he asked, the sound of his voice too loud for his own ears. “You okay?” He ran his hand down her leg, and she whimpered.
“Great, Josh,” he said out loud. “Now you’ve ruined the dog.” Pebbles turned to lick his face. “I’m sorry, honey. I’ll take you to the vet, okay?”
Yes. Even if she was just a little sore from too much exercise, it would give him something to do. If there was one thing he was good at, it was doctor’s appointments.
He called the vet’s office and gave his name.
“Pebbles? An Australian shepherd mix?” the receptionist asked.
“That’s right.”
There was a pause. “I was sorry to read about your wife’s death in the paper. She was lovely.”
Lauren’s obituary had been in the Providence Journal, since she’d been a damn impressive woman and had grown up here. “Thank you,” he said after a pause, remembering to speak.
“Come in at two,” she said. “We had a cancellation.”
“Thank you,” he repeated, and hung up.
By the time they got there, Pebbles wasn’t limping anymore. Still. They were here. It could fill the day.
In person, the receptionist was all-business, which Josh appreciated. He checked in, sat down and waited. Looked at Cat Fancy magazine, which was a real thing. Checked his phone. A text from Jen asking him over for dinner this weekend. He answered yes immediately. Thank God. He’d see the kids. It would be noisy. Darius would slap him on the shoulder. He’d be back in the land of the living, in other words. He asked what he could bring. She told him to bring some beer. He would do that.
There was another text from his dentist, reminding him he had an appointment, press Y to confirm, C to cancel. C it was. Wasn’t he suffering enough?
The thought made him smile a little. Lauren would’ve liked that joke.
He glanced at the other clients in the waiting room. An older woman was talking in a baby voice to an enormous cat, who stared with murderous eyes at the Great Dane across the room. The Great Dane sat motionless—perhaps scared of the cat—while his owner read something on his phone.
A youngish woman—thirty, maybe?—sat with a very ugly, patchy dull white dog of indeterminate parentage, and wiped away tears. The dog (he was 93 percent certain it was a dog) looked really old; its bottom teeth—the ones that remained—jutted out, its eyes goopy. Probably here for euthanasia, Josh guessed.
Its owner noticed him looking and wiped her eyes again. “What’s wrong with your dog?” she asked.
“Oh. Um . . . she was limping before.”
“How old is she?”
“Two and change.”
“She’s pretty. What’s her name?”
“Pebbles.” Interact, Josh, he heard Lauren say. “Yours?”
“Duffy.”
Josh didn’t ask what was wrong with Duffy. He didn’t want to know, frankly, because he suspected he’d respond with, “Big deal. My wife just died.”
The cat growled. The Great Dane whimpered, then tried to climb on his owner’s lap.
“My dog’s really old,” Duffy’s owner said.
No shit, Sherlock. “Really?” Josh said. “He looks great.” White lies were good for the soul, Lauren used to say.
“He’s sixteen.”
“That’s . . . great.” Josh wasn’t aware that dogs lived that long.
“I know he’s old, but . . . I’m hoping for a couple more years.” Her face scrunched as she tried not to cry.
I was hoping for a couple more years, too, lady. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“Duffy?” one of the techs called, and the woman stood up, old Duffy in her arms, his head on her shoulder like a baby.
“Thanks for talking to me,” she said, looking back at Josh.
It was an oddly sweet thing to say. “You’re welcome.” He should say more. “Feel better, Duffy.”
“Good luck with your dog.” She waved with her bottom hand, and Josh nodded, forcing a smile. If that dog lasted another month, someone should call CNN.
He looked down at Pebbles, who seemed to agree.
Shit. Someday Pebbles would die, too, and that would be it, his last tie to Lauren, the only pet they’d ever owned together. Their fur baby . . . no, scratch that, he wasn’t going there.
But Lauren’s dog, still. “I’m sorry, Pebs,” he said in a whisper. “Sorry we lost her.”
As he suspected, Pebbles was perfectly healthy. “No more than five miles on a run, okay?” the vet said cheerfully, giving him some anti-inflammatory. “It’s great for her, because she’s a working dog and used to a lot of exercise, but she’s bred for it in spurts, not a marathon. Give her a week off, then ease back into it.” He scratched Pebbles’s ears, getting a cow-like moo of appreciation.
“Thanks,” Josh said.
“We were all really sorry to hear about your wife,” the vet added, not looking at him.
“Thank you.” He was grateful for the lack of eye contact.
When he got home, he gave Pebbles her pill and a snack, then went to bed and fell into a black, dreamless sleep.
He was awakened by a pounding at the door, an irritable voice calling his name. Sarah. He stumbled to the door.
“What’s wrong?” he said, opening it.
“I texted you three times and called twice,” she said.