Later, because he seems hungry, I go over to Paco’s and buy some dog food and ask if anybody might know who he belongs to.
“A brown-and-white dog with floppy ears? I think he’s your dog,” says Paco with a laugh. “At least now he is. No, seriously. He’s a stray. He hang around here sometimes and then go somewhere else for a while, but he always show up again.”
Great. So he’s a freelance dog. Available on the open market. Everybody in the store has advice for how much to feed him and how to check him for fleas and ticks, and then in the back, it turns out, Paco has shelves with dog collars and one leash, so I buy those, too. As well as a water dish and a food dish. A brush to brush him with. Just because.
“And I’d give that boy a bath before you let him up on the furniture,” says a woman who’s carrying a fat, smiling, drooling baby.
So when I get home, even though I’m exhausted, I fill up the bathtub with warm water and put towels down all across the bathroom floor. I get out my bottle of shampoo and go out in the hallway and say, “Here boy, here boy!” and Mr. Floppy Ears comes crashing around the corner and into the bathroom, where I scoop him up and try to lower him into the tub. He is having none of it. You would think I’d decided to drown him by the way he thrashes around and tries to use my body to help himself climb back out.
“It’s okay . . . it’s okay . . . ,” I keep saying, but he is all wild-eyed, panting, and scrambling now to get out of the tub, churning up the water until I’m hit with a tidal wave so huge that even as it’s soaking me, I’m laughing. This doggie, this bath—both are such antidotes to the earnest, businesslike, life-saving hospital with all its protocols and forms, all the danger lurking right around the next doorway.
“Okay! Okay! You gotta stop with this!” I say to him, and then clamber into the tub with him, still wearing my jeans and sweater, and he settles right down, as if even he is amazed at such craziness. He stands still then while I lather him up and scratch his ears, and he’s panting and I’m trying not to get soap in his eyes and scare him even further. Then he gives me his paw, almost like an offering. A handshake of thanks.
That’s how Noah finds us when he opens the bathroom door—both of us in the tub, covered in soapsuds, the dog with his head propped on the side of the tub, looking contented.
“What the hell?” Noah says. “What is this?”
“This is my new dog. I think I’m going to name him Bedford. It’s my favorite avenue, I’ve decided.”
“Wait. You bought a dog?”
“No and yes. I didn’t buy him. He picked me, as it turns out. He was on the stoop when I got home. Waiting for me. And I do have a favorite avenue. Bedford is everything Driggs Avenue wishes it could be.”
“Oh my God. Who are you, really? I don’t even know you anymore.”
“I’m me. And I’m giving him a bath so he can sleep on the bed. A lady at Paco’s said I had to.”
“I’m sorry, but that mutt is not sleeping with me in any bed.”
I smile at him. Because that’s just fine with me. I had already decided today that I am going to try not to sleep with Noah Spinnaker anymore. After he closes the bathroom door, I write my vow in soap on the tile. Not that it shows, but I know it’s there.
“Bedford,” I say, scratching him under the wet chin. “Already you are solving so many problems, boy!”
The next day is Halloween, and when I go to the hospital to visit Lola, I take her some candy corn as well as some clothes to wear. She looks dried out from the hospital air and exhausted from all the tests, but she says she’s feeling better. They keep poking her with needles, she says. She misses her houseplants and her pictures of Walter. I tell her that I’ve somehow acquired a dog, and she says, “See? Your attraction quotient is at work! You’ve now manifested a dog for yourself.”
“I need to figure out how to manifest you some good health so we can spring you from this joint,” I say, and she sinks back among the pillows and says, “Oh, would you, darling? Let’s forget about love for me and just get me some good health.”
“Maybe both,” I say.
“Just health, sweetie.”
Also there is this: I think the nurse’s aide who comes into the room is in love with the guy who brings the wheelchair to take Lola for a scan. I also think the woman in the next bed is in love with her doctor. I wouldn’t be surprised if I wandered around the hospital for hours and found so many matches we could hold a dance party on the roof and have everybody paired up.
Later that day I take Bedford to Prospect Park, where we find ourselves partaking in a Halloween street fair/farmers’ market clearly attended by every child, parent, and dog in Brooklyn. There are games set up and face-painting booths, an artisanal ice cream truck, a guy selling both organic vegetables and hand lotion. I spend a lot of time looking at a table filled with vintage clothing, candles, soaps, and stained glass lamps. And here I am, just another human who has a dog on a leash, a human carrying a take-out cup of coffee and a phone.
And then he is out of sight. The leash slips from my hands when I stop to pick up a bar of olive oil soap, and away he goes.
I walk for a bit, then sigh and lie down on the grass. Okay, I think, watching the sky. I had a dog. Maybe this is what life is teaching me now, how to let go. I had a life in California and a marriage. Then I had a life in Florida with a man who wants to marry me. Now I have a moment in Brooklyn with a house and my ex and a guy downstairs who is maimed and claims to be irredeemably misanthropic, and I have a new friend who has a child and a wound where her heart is supposed to be, and an old lady who thinks she can’t possibly love again.
The gold sparkles are all around me still. If I squint, I can see them. The same ones Blix saw. It makes me feel so close to her, as if maybe she’s somewhere nearby, floating about in the ether.
After a while, I feel something touching my leg, and then I hear panting and feel hot breath on my face. I sit up quickly and put my hands over my mouth. But Bedford doesn’t care that I don’t want dog slobber all over my face. He stretches out next to me, wagging his tail, smiling, and his eyes look right into mine.
I’m back, he says. When shall we head back home? Oh, and by the way, I brought you a baby shoe.
Please know that I am totally on your side, no matter what is going on upstairs, but IS there a cattle drive situation you are living with? Should I be concerned?
Oh, sorry. I seem to have acquired a canine.
You see? I thought it must be a greyhound, but Roy was sure it was a whole pack of wolves.
LOL. A mutt. Named Bedford. His middle name is Avenue, but that’s only used on formal occasions or when he has ripped up all the garbage in the kitchen. Which, by the way, he just did.
I suspect you are turning into a Brooklynista. There is no other excuse for that name. Fun fact: Roy’s original name was Seventh, and Avenue was HIS middle name, too. #justkidding
Perhaps Bedford and Roy need to meet each other, as the two animals of the house.
You are so adorable. Cats and dogs don’t so much enjoy meeting each other.
Patrick, would you ever go for a walk with me, do you think?
Hey, how is Lola doing?
She’s fine. They’re doing tests. Lots and lots of tests. Patrick, would you ever go for a walk with me?
When is she coming home?
Not sure. Patrick, so you never go out? Never? At all? How do you get groceries?