Making a mental note to spread out the appointments between these kinky fuckers, I check my eyeliner one last time and walk away.
I’m at the front door when I remember to grab a phone. A car’s been arranged for my transport to the appointment and back, and Inez knows where I’ll be today, but I like to keep one on me in case of an emergency.
The cell phone I’m using this month is on the kitchen counter beside the one I dropped in Talent’s office. I pick that one up to throw it into the trash, stepping on the lever to lift the trash lid, but stop short of dropping it in. Flipping the screen open, dim blue light illuminates the small square screen. The battery icon blinks in the corner. I scroll through the recent call log to find the number from where Talent called Inez as the last activity on the phone. They spoke for eleven minutes and fifty-eight seconds. There’s no other activity.
The problem with these flip phones is the technology is dated and the home screen isn’t password protected. If I weren’t so careful, he could have seen everything. I still don’t know how I feel about Talent having Inez’s number.
Jumping out of my skin when there’s a knock on the door, I let the trash lid fall shut and snap the phone closed. The car service is instructed never to come to the door, so unless someone’s died or we’re under attack, it better not be the driver if he wants to keep his job. Panic from the sudden fright mobs in my chest, and I toss the cell phone back to the counter and reach the door as the intruder knocks a second time.
“What is it?” I ask, expecting to see someone in a black driving cap.
The woman from the park, still holding the same tumbler as a prop, takes a step back and blinks offensively. When I was barefaced and barefoot she might have considered me her equal, but in full makeup and tall in stilettos, she’s intimidated. Getting this same reaction from people over and over gets boring after a while.
If all women recognized their worth, this world would be a very, very different place.
Even you, Dog Mom.
Dog Mom runs her hand through her naturally curly hair and straightens her cotton sweater. It’s not much of an improvement, but she’s brave enough to look me in the eyes. I’ll give her some credit. It’s more than most have the courage to do.
“It looks like you’re on your way out. I’m glad I caught you in time,” she says.
I don’t say a word.
She throws her hand up and says, “These things happen, but you left your dog outside. Or he got outside. Or maybe you thought he was inside, but he’s not. Small dogs can be hard to keep track of. I’d hate for him to get lost or eaten by a coyote.”
Sure enough, Dog emerges from behind her legs and walks past me inside like he’s the king of the castle.
Even male dogs have egos the size of the Titanic.
Dog, meet iceberg.
“See, he knows where to go,” Dog Mom says with admiration. “Getting lost can be traumatic for the little guys.”
“Actually,” I reply. “He’s not my dog. You can have him if you’re that concerned.”
She laughs out loud, slapping her palm atop her thigh in a dramatic attempt to be included in the joke. This isn’t small talk.
“That’s hilarious. I always tell Spencer—” She points over her shoulder with her thumb “—my basset hound who you probably saw this morning, that if he doesn’t behave himself, I’m going to send him to the pound. Of course, I don’t mean it, but he tests me sometimes. I’d be lying if I said the thought hasn’t crossed my mind once or twice.”
I close the door in her face and find Dog curled up on his bed in the kitchen. Unlike Dog Mom, I won’t bully the stray by threatening the animal shelter if he’s not on his best behavior. As someone who’s lived on the streets, I empathize with the mutt because I ran away after Cricket died and was homeless for two years. Life on the run was hard, but I preferred it over being at the mercy of the foster care system.
From one street kid to another, I know Dog would rather take his chances with the coyotes than face the confines of the shelter.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter to the matted pooch. I grab my cell phone from the counter. “I haven’t spoken to a single soul the entire time I’ve lived here. You overstay your welcome for one night, and now that lady won’t shut the hell up.”
With Dog Mom lurking around, nominating herself as the apartment complex’s animal control officer, I can’t kick him out again. He’ll end up right back here when she finds him, and she’ll trap me into another conversation.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Dog. This arrangement ends as soon as I get home.”
Which would have been the logical thing to do.
You’re lucky there’s room for two on this headboard, Jack.
Instead, after my appointment with the banker, I ask my driver to swing by the pet supply store to get a small bag of food. He takes this as an invitation to make conversation. My contribution to his rapid-fire questioning is to close the glass partition between the front and back seats. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure Inez knows never to send him to me again.
“How many drivers do you think this city has, Lydia?” she’ll say in an irritated tone like she does every time I request a new one.
My heels tap on the cheap tile floor as I push a blue shopping cart up and down each aisle. I toss a brush, dog wash, and treats into the basket before I make it to the dog food section. There’re so many options, I’m stuck reading ingredient labels and wondering if I were Dog, would I want chicken and potatoes for every meal of the day or steak and carrots?
Unable to decide, I purchase both flavors.
Not because he gets to stay. But if he’s going back on the streets to fend for himself, he should have a good dinner and hearty breakfast before he goes.
Dog is enthusiastic when I get home, leaping at my feet and yapping. We take a quick trip to the grassy area, where I let Dog run ahead so I can hide among some trees. The last thing I want is for another tenant like Dog Mom to take my presence as an invitation to socialize. I’m not here to bond with strangers over our pets.
I don’t have a pet.
Dog isn’t staying.
He sits well as I attempt to brush his fur after we’re back in the apartment. Some spots are so tangled and ratted, I take the kitchen scissors to them and consider it a win.
“The bald spots will grow back,” I mumble, lifting him into the kitchen sink for a bath.
The amount of dirt and grime that washes away as I scrub Dog’s fur softens my bitterness toward the little creature. Homelessness is filthy. Exposed to the elements, constantly on the move, and never sure if I’d have a bed to sleep in at night, cleanliness was sometimes washing myself in public restrooms or talking a trucker into letting me use his shower pass at truck stops. But who the hell is going to give a stray dog a bath?
I wash Dog twice for good measure and am surprised to discover that once he’s clean, his fur isn’t gray but white. He looks like some sort of terrier mix who can’t weigh more than ten pounds. The missing spots of fur don’t seem to bother him, and I think they add to his charm. There’s no way to know if he’s ever lived in a home before, but he’s well behaved and mostly listens. He had to have belonged to someone at one point.