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“He got Woody from the rescue. He’s been donating to Working Buddies for years.”
“Did you know?” I ask Emily. She shakes her head. “Do you think he knows about the dog? Is this not a surprise?”
“No, he doesn’t look at the pictures. Says he’d take them all home if he did,” Emily says.
“Do you know if Randy is ready for another dog?” Priscilla asks.
“We don’t know. We just think he needs to meet him.”
“I get it. He’s great.”
Gravel crunches a few feet away, and we turn to see our dad’s black Suburban pulling up. He hops out, with a confused crinkle of the eyebrows.
He wears his uniform—distressed jeans and a forest green polo shirt with the Woody Finch logo on it. He’s a guy who always smiles, is always in a good mood, but he melts when he sees the dog.
“Priscilla, it’s nice to see you again.” He takes her in a half hug before he goes for what he really wants. The dog.
He kneels, and Koda approaches him slowly, then goes for his face, tongue first. He wiggles under his hands as he pets him. “Who is this?”
“This is Koda. Isn’t he sweet?”
“Is this why you wanted me here?” he asks, looking back at us. He still pets the dog, without a hint of anger, rubbing his erect ears so effectively, the dog leans into his hand and groans.
“This is the dog Shiloh and I picked up a while ago, and I thought he might be a good fit. For you,” I say. “He has similar coloring to Woody.”
“Good personality too,” Priscilla says. “He needs some training, but nothing you can’t handle.”
“You’re just a puppy,” my dad says, rubbing the dog’s neck. Koda’s tongue flops over the side, long and goofy. Dad gets close, and the dog nips at his nose lovingly.
I wasn’t home when he first got Woody; I had already escaped to Seattle to get as far away from this town as possible. Emily told me about shredded flip-flops and the time Woody stole a whole package of tortillas from the counter and ate them all. Eventually, the dog calmed down once he realized he was safe and home. My dad took Woody everywhere. When he opened the brewery, he designed the office with a dog enclave, a carved-out space for a dog bed, dog bowls, and a hidden compartment for treats and toys. He still brings out the toys once in a while for the dogs that visit the brewery.
Without a dog to love, my dad smiles, but it’s not the same.
He still rubs the dog’s ears, and I can see the wheels in my dad’s brain turning. He’s thinking about how it will work. If he can love a dog as much as Woody.
“Did you two seriously set me up?” Randy asks. His hands haven’t left this dog’s fur, and the dog is living for it.
“Maybe,” Emily says.
“It’s time. Woody has been gone for almost a year,” I say. As that comes out of my mouth, I shudder at my own hypocrisy.
A year did not even put a dent in my grief, and now, I’m telling my dad to get over a dog I’m sure he loved more than me.
Dad stands up, looking at the dog and Priscilla. His smile is sad, his eyes glassy. I know he misses his buddy, and seeing a German shepherd always gets him sentimental. He finally says, “Priscilla, excuse us. I’d like to talk to my children privately.”
“Of course,” she says. The dog is already distracted by a squirrel running up a tree.
Dad guides us closer to the jungle gym, his hands still on our mid-backs.
“We just thought you might want to meet the dog,” Emily sputters.
“I appreciate it, sweetheart. I really do.” He looks back at the dog wistfully. My dad does not hold in his emotions. He cries at movies, hugs us for no reason, and showers dogs with scratches and pets. His way of living gives me vicarious anxiety. I spent the eight years I was with Amy masking every emotion I had, bottling it, pushing it down.
Making sure no one, including Amy, saw the hurt and fear I had inside.
It must be so freeing, just to feel out loud.
My dad rubs the bridge of his nose. “That dog is really nice. I just…I don’t think I’m ready. It’s too much.”
