No idea how much dogs usually pant, but he seems to be doing a lot of it and the day is a warm one. He might need some water. In which case, hassling the nearest human makes sense. We reach the house, and I fish the front door key out of my pocket.
“You wait here, and I’ll get you something to drink, okay?”
But the moment the door opens wide enough he dashes inside. He’s just a streak of matted muddy fur disappearing underneath the couch and dashing through the dining room before making a move for the kitchen. My cousin’s high-pitched shriek is ear piercing. Guess he startled her. I chase after the rampaging canine with ice cream in hand.
“Who the hell are you?” Noah’s standing at the back door, holding the dog up in front of his face. “No collar.”
I put the ice cream in the freezer and find a bowl to fill with water. “There isn’t?”
He shakes his head.
“Shit.”
“Not much meat on him either. Might have been living on the streets for a while.”
“That thing stinks.” Grace dramatically covers her nose with her hand. “Will you please get it out of here?”
“Guess I’ll take him to the vet to get his chip read,” I say, ignoring my dramatic dog-hating cousin.
Noah sets him down in front of the bowl of water and the dog starts lapping it up. “You can’t put him in your car smelling like this.”
“No,” I agree.
“I’m out of here,” says Grace, abandoning us and our new stinky friend to our fates.
Noah watches as the dog keeps drinking. “I’ve got to get to work. The fence is repaired for now. Enough to keep him in if you want to put him out back. I can help you wash him, but it wouldn’t be until tomorrow.”
“Thank you for the fence,” I say. “What can I do for you?”
“Huh?”
“You keep doing things for me. I’d like to reciprocate.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he says, dismissing the idea with a shake of his head. Like it’s silly or something.
A drop of sweat traces a line down the side of his thick neck. It’s embarrassing how thoroughly such a small thing manages to derail my entire thought process. My life and the eternal quest for meaning and or forgiveness. None of it means anything compared to the fine line it leaves down his tattoo. I can almost taste the salt on my tongue. There I stand, staring at him with my mouth hanging open and…shit.
“Sid? Are you okay?”
“Um. Yeah. Yes.” I give him the most fake-ass smile in my arsenal. “Don’t worry about the dog. I’ve got this. No problem.”
“This is a problem,” I say with a sigh. “We have no idea who he belongs to?”
It took over an hour of me and the dog in the bathroom with both bottles of my expensive new salon-quality-sensitive organic shampoo and conditioner to get him clean. He now smells lowkey, like sea salt and lemon. A huge improvement. Though my hairbrush will never be the same. And let’s not talk about the state of the bathroom. Grace hid in the spare room with the door shut the entire time. Coward. My cousin is apparently not a dog person. Waiting until Noah could help me with him tomorrow might have been the smarter move. But getting the dog checked out took precedence.
The local veterinarian, Doctor Jiya, gives me a smile. “No collar or chip makes it hard. We can do a search of local lost animal groups on social media and post about him on there, but…”
“He may have been dumped.”
“Yes,” she says. “You did a good job cleaning him up. But from the state of him, I’d say he’s been on the streets for a while.”
I nod.
“He’s a terrier mix. One of his parents was probably a Westie. No idea what the other might have been. He’s about three years old and has already been desexed, which is the good news. The bad news is he’s probably due for some shots and in need of a good home.”
The dog lies on the examination table on his back with his pink tongue hanging out as the good doctor gives him belly rubs. Dignity does not concern him. This happy behavior is a dramatic change from his mournful howling during bathtime. He keeps looking over at me to make sure I haven’t disappeared. It makes my heart hurt for him.
“I can pay for the shots,” I say.
