Page 16 of You and Me, For Real
“Oh, pish posh. At my age? What does it matter?” She smiles, but it’s weak. “Don’t worry about me. I’m sure I’ll feel better soon.”
“If you decide to go to the doctor, I’d be happy to give you a ride.” She drives, but at eighty-two, her eyesight isn’t the greatest anymore.
She blows into a handkerchief. “You quit mama-ing me and take care of yourself.”
“How about I bring you some soup later? I’ve had a crockpot going while I was working today.”
“Don’t be silly, I ate ages ago. It’s nearly my bedtime. Night, sugar.” She gives me a backward wave while coughing before slipping into her apartment and closing the door.
I’ll have to text her son and make sure he knows about her ongoing illness. With my standard key jiggle-and-shove routine, I open my apartment door and brown paint flakes chip off the side. Inside, Teddy paws at his kennel in my living room, eager to greet me. “Hey, buddy, sorry I’m home late.”
His paws tap against the plastic pad as he rotates around. His fluffy tail thumps against the metal walls. I unclasp the kennel and he immediately leaps out, spinning in circles.
I laugh. “I know, I know. I’m happy to see you, too.” He sits, and I scratch behind his ears. “You hungry?”
Odd. I don’t smell the aroma of my beef soup. I put the keys on the counter and enter my minuscule galley kitchen. The switch on my crockpot is on, but there’s no condensation on the lid. I press my hand to it. Cold. I open the lid. The meat is still uncooked.
“What’s going on?”
Teddy sits next to my leg.
I shift the crockpot on the counter and peer behind it. The plug is disconnected.
Ashton, you dummy. How could you have forgotten such a simple step?
Thumping and scratching travels from the bathroom down the hall. Ah. That’s why. This morning, after I’d placed all theingredients in the crockpot, the fosters distracted me with their squeaky toys, demanding I play with them.
Guess ramen for dinner it is. I leave my wasted, uncooked, nearly fifty-dollar soup that would have fed me for the week and walk down my short hallway to check on the pups. This morning, I made sure they had plenty of water, food, and puppy pads for bathroom usage.
I open the door to find total bliss.
Just kidding. The bathroom is a complete disaster.
The toilet paper is completely unrolled, strewn about the room like a tornado came through. Chewed-up bits of toilet paper are all over the floor, with some soaking in their water bowl. The food bowl is tipped upside down. Kibble is scattered all over the floor, and a slew of new scratches and chew marks mar the bottom of my bathroom door.
There goes my deposit.
I sink to the floor, my perpetrators pawing for attention. While they may be the naughtiest little miscreants, they’re also the cutest pair of black-and-white border collie siblings, Cocoa and Chip. I can never stay mad at them for long.
Their tongues loll out, panting happily as I pet them. They invade my space until my back hits the wall. Not one to miss out on the action, Teddy, my giant German Shepherd, not so gently nudges his way in the middle until I have three dogs in my lap. Long tongues cover me in sloppy kisses. Within seconds, I’m in a fit of laughter. I blame sheer exhaustion or delirium at this point.
No matter what chaos these furry friends throw at me, I couldn’t imagine my life without animals. I don’t even like to think about how empty my life was before dogs, despite living with two other humans. These three love me unconditionally and look forward to my homecoming every day. I can do nowrong in their eyes, and there’s something so rewarding about that.
“Okay, okay, let’s get you three outside.”
At the word “outside,” they leap into action, racing for the door of my apartment. I smile at their eagerness. Such simple pleasures in life, and yet, they’re endlessly happy. I only wish I could provide them the freedom they all deserve—the space to run and play freely. Someday, I’ll get the funding for my rescue and pick somewhere with open land outside this clustered city so I can experience their unbridled joy on a daily basis.
Once the dogs are fully exercised and fed, I settle onto my couch with my bowlful of ramen. The pups surround me in curled heaps on the couch, with Teddy on the floor. My feet are propped on the worn, wooden coffee table I snagged at a flea market years ago. I shovel in the first bite of noodles when my phone chimes. A new email notification flashes across the screen. My spoon clatters into the bowl, and I rush to set it down.
My heart’s rhythm increases. This could be about the grant. My fingers shake as I swipe and click to open my inbox. I deflate upon reading the email title.
Desperate Panic-Ridden Novice Dog Parent
The email arrived via my contact box on my dog blog. I started it years ago to help new pet owners in hopes such resources would help prevent so much animal turnover. If people were more knowledgeable about what they were agreeing to and how to tackle the obstacles they’re confronted with, maybe we’d have fewer pets surrendered to the shelter. Occasionally, readers reach out to me with specific questions. Most often, they ask about issues I’ve mentioned in previous posts, and I usually refer them to those.
Over the years,The Furry Godmotherblog has amassed quite an audience, which allows me to pull a regularsupplemental income. Goodness knows I can use every penny I can get. Despite my disappointment at this not being a reply to my grant proposal, I smile at the creative title and open the email.
Dear Furry Godmother,
