“Sometimes is good.”
She took another bite, and washed it down with some wine. “So when do I get to meet Jimmy Junior?”
“That’s up to him,” I said.
“And he still hasn’t come out of the closet?”
“Not yet.”
“What does he do if you get too close to him?”
“Growls at me...and means it.”
“And where’s he going to the bathroom?”
“Let’s just say I can kiss my deposit goodbye. And a lot of shoes as well.”
She nodded. “So he’s yours now?”
“It’s the only way I can guarantee he’ll never be hurt again.”
“And what if he never comes out of the closet?”
“Then he will be safe in that closet forever.”
She nodded and set aside her wine. “A better life, at least, than what he had.”
I agreed. I drank more beer and listened to Junior’s whimpering. I had spent the better part of the past few days sitting on the floor across the doorway of my spare bedroom, reassuring Junior whenever he whimpered. I spent my time reading the newspaper and working the crosswords. Sometimes I sat quietly and closed my eyes and listened to the street sounds outside. I brought him water and food, but as far as I could tell, he had yet to eat or drink.
The vets who had sedated and removed the hooks from Junior in Mexico had also been kind enough to wash and shampoo him. Granted, not so kind as to work out his many tangles, but I was hoping to get to that someday. They had given him all his shots, and given me some pain medication. They also gave me a sort of doggie Prozac that I hadn’t used yet, but was tempted to.
Shortly, Cindy and I finished our dinners and retired to the living room where I had DVR’d some movies. We were halfway through a brain twister about dreams within dreams that I was beginning to think made no sense, when I heard a noise from the hallway. Cindy, whose head had been on my lap, perked up. She had heard it, too.
“Is that—”
“Shh.”
She shushed, and now I could hear the claws on the wood floor. Hesitant at first. Actually, hesitant throughout. One slow step at a time. One slow, painful step at a time.
I slowly...ever so slowly...turned my head...and saw the most pitiful creature I had ever seen in my life. Junior could barely stand, his leg muscles having atrophied in the cage. The little guy was shaking as bad as ever, or even worse.
He saw me looking at him, and let out a small noise. Cindy caught her breath. We both didn’t dare to move.
He stood there looking at me, shaking and swaying. The slightest wind would have knocked him over. He seemed to be in pain, his body hunched. The wounds in his paws had been thoroughly cleaned and bandaged, but the bandages didn’t last very long. He had worked them off within hours.
I smiled at him, and softly said, “It’s okay, boy.”
He made another sound. Cindy sat up slowly. Ever so slowly.
Junior stood there at the living room entrance, shivering and swaying and panting. I had no doubt that he was thirsty. And then something amazing happened. Something so damn amazing that I nearly wept.
The little booger took a step toward me. Cindy gasped again. Or maybe squealed. Junior’s ears perked a little.
But he kept coming toward me...slowly, haltingly, painfully.
He limped on both front legs and a new anger arose within me, an anger that did me no good now, so I beat it back.
“Come on, boy. It’s okay.”
And he kept coming until he stood uncertainly before us. He eased back a little, taking some of his weight off his front paws. I could still see some blood caked on at the back of his whitish paws. Doggie stigmatas.
I carefully held out my hand.
Junior nervously leaned forward, sniffed it instinctively. He looked at my hand, then up at me, then he rested his furry jaw in my open palm.
Next to me, I heard Cindy crying softly.
Girls.
Chapter Thirty-three
“If you ask me,” I said, “all you have to do is look an animal in the eye to know they have a soul.”
Jack nodded thoughtfully. “I can buy that.”
“But am I right?”
“I’ll leave that to you to decide.”
“Animals either have a soul or they don’t,” I said. “Which is it?”
“Which do you believe it is?”
“I believe animals have a soul.”
Jack nodded. “A sound belief.”
“But you will not confirm or deny,” I said.
“It’s not my job to confirm or deny,” said Jack.
“And what’s your job?” I asked.
“To allow.”
We were at McDonald’s on a warm Saturday afternoon. The jungle gym was rocking. The drive-thru line wrapped halfway around the building. McDonald’s must be doing something right. Jack was looking as homeless as ever. He wore a tattered and stained windbreaker, holey jeans. Mismatched sneakers and different-colored socks.
I drank some Coke, snacked on some fries. After a few moments, I said, “I’m a vegetarian now.”
“I can see that.”
“But is that the right way to live?”
He sipped some of his coffee. “It is dangerous ground, Jim, when others determine what is right.”
Somehow I knew he would say this. “So it is up to the individual to define what is right?”
“Always.”
“But what if their right is wrong?”
“Then who’s to determine what is right or wrong?”
“You, of course,” I said.
He looked up at me. Steam from his coffee made some of the dirt on his jaw waver a little. “I know you, Jim. You do not react well when someone tells you to do something.”
“I follow the laws of the land,” I said. “For the most part.”
“Do you agree with the laws?”
I shrugged. “Most.”
“And what would happen if you didn’t agree with what I determined was right or wrong?”
“I would say, who am I to question God?”
“But I want you to question God, Jim. I want you to question everything.”
“Why?”
“Because the answers you receive will define who you are, and how you will live, and how you will treat others.”
“But not everybody will come up with the same answers.”
“That’s the point, Jim.”
“So there are no wrong answers?”
“None.”
“But what if my answers hurt others?”