“We found him at a senior rescue-dog farm. He seems to enjoy a roll around in the grass, but there’s always senior dogs that need a place to stay, and anyway, Jenna thought he belonged with you. I’m sure you can arrange country field trips for him.”
“I can’t—”
I run my hands over his ears then cup his big head while he wags and whines, snuffling my hands and licking my wrists tentatively.
“He was a puppy when I lost him.” My throat is clogged up. “I’m sorry, boy. I’m really sorry. I tried. I know you don’t remember me.”
The dog wags his tail slowly as he presses his nose to my palms.
“I think he’s confused. He doesn’t know who I am. You should take him back,” I plead to Zephyr.
His eyes crinkle. “Of course he remembers you.” He rests his hand on my head. “You’re his best friend.”
Suddenly the dog’s ears perk up. Buddy shoves his sturdy body up against me, then he’s yipping happily like he’s a puppy again and licking my face, his whole body vibrating, trying to knock me down on my back like he did when I was smaller.
He licks the tears off my cheeks, my eyelids, as he sprawls on top of me on the warm wooden deck of the terrace.
“I can’t believe you found him.” I half laugh. “I can’t believe—I never thought I’d see him again, you know?”
I sit up, Buddy trying to crawl in my shirt, licking my ear and woofing the barks I thought I’d never hear again.
“How?” I choke out.
“Jenna.” Zephyr beams. “She showed me the photo of you two, asked me to put out feelers in the senior-dog charity circuit. I’ve gotten heavily involved lately.”
“Anything,” I tell him solemnly. “I’ll give you all anything. I don’t care how much money you want. I’ll write you a ten-million-dollar check. I don’t care. Just,thank you,” I say helplessly. “Thank you. You have no idea what this… Thank you.”
“Oh, we don’t like to take much big money, only small donations. Money corrupts. If you want to buy some dog food, great, but even better are volunteer hours. There arealways bowls to be cleaned. I volunteer with inmate rehabilitation.” He raises on the balls of his feet. “And a little Pacific wren told me that someone has community service hours he needs to complete.”
“Of course,” I say, cupping the dog’s big head. “I’ll be there.”
“Jenna did ask for one thing, though.”
“Anything.”
I can’t look at him, too absorbed in my dog,my dog, in front of me, who is so excited that he won’t stand still long enough for me to get a good look at him, wanting to play like we’ve never been apart.
“She’s posting this to Instagram, I believe,” Zephyr says. “Move in, you two. Smile for the camera.”
I can’t really manage it, afraid if I give in to the overwhelming happiness and relief that I’ll wake up and realize it was just a dream. I just stare at the camera in his hands as he snaps some shots.
“When are your volunteering hours?” I squeeze Buddy. I can’t bear to leave him, not when I’ve just finally gotten him back.
“No time like the present, and they’re dog friendly!”
50
JENNA
“Iam,” I announce drunkenly to my audience of naked elderly women, senile senior dogs, and of course, the mounds of zucchini, “verygood at my job.”
The post didn’t just go viral. It’s freaking nuclear. My caption? Pure poetry.
I wrote it like I was McCarthy talking about my dog getting stolen then miraculously returned after fifteen years. The thousands and thousands of comments are littered with sobbing emojis, threats against people who steal other people’s dogs, and women declaring their undying love for McCarthy and their desire to wrap him in blankets and feed him pasta.
He does look vulnerable with the tears on his eyelashes as he hugs his beloved childhood dog. Like I just wanted to cup his face and kiss him, feel him rest his head against my chest and curl up around me.
We are in our season of independence.
