Page 159 of Someone Like Me
The dog —she —appears unsurprised by this and gets busy cleaning her nether regions. And even though I’ve had one of the worst days of my life, even though I feel like weeping for days, I just have to laugh. Laughing at this little mutt might just be how I’m going to get through this.
I drive. My head so thick with memories I can barely keep my eyes on the road. But it’s when I pull into Grandma Q’s driveway and see the light burning in her living room that it really hits me.
She’s gone.
The source of warmth and welcome, of love and forgiveness, of family is gone. Her house looks just the same, just as familiar and inviting, I can’t believe she’s not inside, standing at her stove or watchingEllenin her housecoat.
Did I thank her for what she did for me?
Did I ever tell her what it meant to be claimed? To be wanted after what I’d done?
Did she know how good it felt to be her grandson?
Did she know how much I loved her?
I look down at the little mutt. “Grandma Quincy knew how to make everyone feel at home. I should probably start by giving you a bath.”
As soon as I open the door, she springs to her feet and follows me out. She sniffs the driveway, meanders to the grass, and squats to pee.
Definitely a girl dog.
I unlock Grandma’s front door, and the dog stands on the front stoop, circling the air with her nose, sniffing prudently. I step inside.
“C’mon, girl. This is your home if you want it.”
She puts a tentative paw over the threshold, her black nose angling left and right.
“It’s okay. It’s safe. I promise.”
I know it’s impossible for her to understand me, but something in my voice must reassure her because she steps lightly inside and doesn’t flinch when I close the door behind her. She follows me into the hall bathroom, and I shut the door, plug the stopper into the drain, and turn on the water.
As if on instinct, the little charcoal colored dog backs into the corner.
“Ah, so you’ve had a bath before,” I say. “Sorry, but you’re not staying inside all caked in mud.”
I scan the plastic bottles in Grandma’s shower caddy. Suave and Head & Shoulders. I take out my phone and Google safe shampoos or soaps for dogs. After reading about skin infections and screwing up a dog’s pH balance with harsh fragrances in human shampoo, I learn that Dawn dish soap is safe for dogs.
I shut off the water. “Hang tight, dog.” I close her into the bathroom, head to the kitchen for the dish soap, and come back to find her hiding between the toilet and the wall. Cowering like this, she looks even smaller, and my heart sort of melts.
I squat down in front of her. “C’mon, girl. You have to be brave,” I tell her. She doesn’t move. I pat my thigh. “C’mon dog… I can’t keep calling you dog. What should I call you?” My eyes scan the bathroom for inspiration, landing on Grandma Q’s floral print shower curtain, her tarnished sterling silver hairbrush, and a framed Quincy family coat of arms over the bathroom window. It’s been there forever. I’ve seen the red and gold crest probably a thousand times. As a kid, I liked the silver knight’s helmet above the diamond studded shield the best, but now what stands out to me is the Quincy name on the banner below. Grandma’s name. Grandpa Pete’s name. The family that claimed me more than any Moroux ever did. I look down at the charcoal mop of a dog.
“Okay, Quincy it is. Time for your bath. And you’d better not bite me if you know what’s good for you.”
She seems to take me seriously because even though she’s trembling when I scoop her up, she doesn’t make any noise or give any sign of violence. She splays out all four legs as I lower her to the tub, but when she finds no purchase to stop her from meeting the water’s surface, Quincy just hangs her head and stands perfectly still.
I chuckle, grateful for her docile disposition. “Don’t worry, Quincy. I’ll hurry.” The water reaches above her belly and watery plumes of dirt bloom from her. I work quickly, wetting her matted coat all over. I use one hand to hold her down and the other to squirt blue soap down her spine. Some of the mats come loose under my fingers, but the worst ones on her hindquarters are going to need to be cut out. For now, I just worry about getting her clean.
Minutes later when I lift her from the tub and wrap her in a towel, I see she’s mostly hair. Her body is skinny, and her ribs plainly visible.
“We’ll get you dried off, and then I’ll find you something to eat, girl,” I promise. As I scrub the towel over her, she seems to recover, wagging her tail, shaking off, and then grinding her face into the bath mat. She snorts, scoots, and wiggles her bottom until I laugh out loud. Finally, she gives a full-body shake and a lusty sneeze before looking up a me with an expression that seems to askwhat’s next?
“Food,” I answer, and she follows me to the kitchen.
And, no, there’s no dog food to be found, and I don’t want to go searching for an open grocery store after midnight, so another Google search yields that scrambled eggs make an acceptable meal for dogs. So I grease a skillet and break four eggs into it.
I place a quarter of the steaming eggs into a cereal bowl and set it in front of her. She empties the thing before I even take my first bite, and then she looks up at me expectantly.
“More?” Her dark brown eyes and salt-and-pepper eyebrows are trained on me, unblinking. “Hell, yes, right?”
