Page 42 of Wayward

“So many things, dear.”

She wasn’t even kidding. We had to talk about his shots, when he needed more of them, and how often. There was a flea-and-tick pill that had to be taken monthly. On schedule. Not to be missed. There were bells I needed to put on the door so he could jingle them when he needed to go out. He’d been trained to do that, and I needed to keep that up. It was also important that when I walked him, he was in his harness so I didn’t choke him. He also needed to be clipped into his seat in the car, that had already been installed, so he couldn’t jump out.

She just kept going, occasionally stopping so I could sign something on her tablet.

They had given him a collar made out of soft, pliable seat-belt material, so very durable and comfy, and he had a rabies vaccine tag that was blue and another tag with my name and number on it. Not his, just mine.

“Why not his?” I asked Shannon, who had taken over from Connie because now we were talking about all the stuff that had been loaded up in the car for me. She was telling me, in detail, that while some people swore by an extendable leash, the vet techs did not because you couldn’t put immediate tension on it if something unforeseen occurred.

“He’s a small dog, so if an unleashed dog comes after him when you’re walking, you want to be able to yank him back to you immediately. The extendable leash could get tangled or stuck. Things happen, so a regular one is best.”

“Okay, but—”

“And as for the name on the tag, you don’t want someone to know his name in case they want to keep him. Little dogs get stolen a lot. Some to be bait dogs,” she whispered, covering Misha’s ears. “Others because they’re so cute and people just grab them up. So that’s why it’s only your name on the tag. Plus, when someone calls, if you ever lose him, you can tell them his name, and when he responds, they’ll know he’s yours.”

“But he doesn’t know his name is Misha.”

At which point Shannon said, “Baby,” using the old name from his previous owners. Misha continued to look at the people walking behind me. “Misha,” she said, and he turned right to her, waiting.

“That’s only because you said Baby like you were dying and Misha all happy, using a high-pitched voice.”

“I did, you’re right, but I don’t think it matters,” she said, chuckling.

I shook my head at her.

“He knows that’s his name. Dogs are very smart and pick their people just like we pick them. Make no mistake.”

I thought perhaps it had more to do with how his previous owners had treated him, but I went for practical instead. “You realize I don’t even know if Ada Farley will let me have a dog.”

She waved her hand at me. “She will. I’ve been buying pottery from that woman for years, and I can say with all confidence that she loves animals. Last time I was there, I saw at least ten cats lounging around the steps of her house, and she feeds the crows that sit on top of her little studio out back.”

“Studio?”

“Where do you think she makes the pottery?”

I scowled at her. “I’m sorry my brain didn’t make that leap fast enough,” I said sarcastically.

“That’s all right,” she consoled me.

God.

“You’ll get caught up, honey.”

Now I was being placated. “Is her stuff any good?” I asked for a change of subject from me being slow.

“Oh yes. I use my plates and platters and mugs and cups all the time. It’s all microwave and dishwasher safe. I love it. I’ve told her she should sell it every Saturday at the farmer’s market at the center of town, but there’s the loading and unloading and the setup, and she doesn’t have anyone to help her.”

“Why not?”

“Well, she doesn’t get along with everyone. No matter what they all said in there, she’s a bit prickly, kind of odd. I can be around her long enough to pick out and pay for pottery but not any longer.”

“Because why?”

“Her conversation sort of flits from one thing to another, and it’s hard to follow.”

It was interesting information.

“So Misha will probably be good living with me is what you’re saying.”