Page 3 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
My phone draws my eye as I set down my empty bottle.
I should text my mom back. She’s in Oregon, so it’s only nine-something her time. But what do I even say?Thanks for the links to my high school ex’s wedding pics. You’re right! His wife IS beautiful! And their wedding looks amazing! Definitely something I wanted to see! Also, thank you for offering to buy my plane ticket home for Christmas again this year, but I’m not sure I can handle an entire week of Look on the Bright Side pep talks and not-so-subtle setups with sons of your friends’ friends.
She means well, but I don’t have the energy tonight. Or ever, really.
I turn off the volume in case she decides to torture me with good intentions again. Then I flop sideways and curl up to unwind with a bland but entertaining rom-com playing on my TV, drowning out thoughts that would otherwise spiral on repeat for hours.Dog. Plant. Christmas. Joy. Loans. Blister. Friend. Wedding. Pizza. Tired. Grind. Rut. Sigh.And back todog.
I don’t even realize I’ve fallen asleep until a noise in the hallway wakes me Saturday morning. It sounds like Cycle Guy, banging his bike around as he wedges it into the elevator while apologizing profusely to Dog Lady, who says it’s no trouble but in a way that implies maybe itistrouble, as Pilot lets out a single, adorable,passive-aggression-free yip. Such is life on the sixth floor of the Maple Lane Apartments, aptly named for the street they’re on, even though only a few of the trees that used to flank the winding street have survived through decades of urban development. Still, we have one right out front, and in the fall, with its bright scarlet leaves, it’s gorgeous, and I can’t pass it without marveling at its beauty and resilience.
Sitting up and stretching out my neck, I see a voicemail notification. I assume it’s my mother, wondering why I haven’t texted back, and decide she can wait until I’ve showered and brushed my teeth, but then I notice the number isn’t hers. It’s one I don’t recognize at all.
Too curious to leave it until I’m fully awake, I go ahead and play the message.
Hi. I’m calling for Cameron Goode. My name’s Andy Faulkner, and I’m the shelter manager at Hounds and Hearts in Syracuse. We have your fostering application on file, and while I know it was submitted some time ago, I’m hoping you’re still interested. It’s a time-sensitive situation, and a complicated one, but if you’re still looking to foster, or even adopt, please return my call at your earliest convenience at...
He finishes with his number and Hounds and Hearts’ hours of operation. I replay the message three times, perched on the edge of my futon, certain I’ve misheard. He must be trying to reach a different Cameron Goode, one with a lucrative, work-from-home job; lots of free time for long, meandering walks; a dog-loving partner; a big house; and an even bigger fenced yard. But no. Apparently, he means me. And since the message suggests the matter is urgent, I call right back.
A cheerful woman’s voice answers, “Hounds and Hearts. How can I direct your call?”
I explain who I am and the voicemail I received.
“Oh, thank god,” she says through a dramatic exhale. “This poor dog. I mean, I’ve just never seen... and she’s such a sweetheart, and none of us could bear it if...”
A throat clears in the background.
“Sorry,” the woman who answered says. “I’ll let Andy explain.”
She passes me off to Andy, who reiterates that he runs the shelter in Syracuse, a little over an hour away from Ithaca by car. I confirm that yes, I am the Cornell vet school student who filled out a fostering application over a year ago, noting an interest in golden retrievers and detailing my relationship with my family pet.
“So, here’s the situation,” he says, adopting a more formal tone. “We have a seven-year-old female golden retriever in need of a home, and she’s had a rough go of it.”
I inch forward on the futon, prickling with anxiety. “How rough?”
“She’s been chained outside her whole life, on a concrete pad, underexercised and overfed. She currently weighs in at a hundred and twenty-five pounds.” He pauses there, as if he knows I need a moment to absorb this, and I do. Not only am I horrified that someone left their dog outside for seven years without space to run and play, and without proper warmth, love, and shelter, but Marmie weighed about sixty pounds for most of her adult life. That’s half of this dog’s current weight. “Her obesity has left her immobile and fighting hyperthyroidism,” Andy continues. “She’s not doing great and we’re not even sure how long she has. Obviously, this isn’t a dogwho can easily enter the average family home. She needs medical care, and, if she pulls through, someone who can work with her to regain mobility and social engagement.”
I swallow down the sob that wants to emerge. I’ve always known becoming a vet means dealing with the hard times and not just the happy times. That animals experience pain, illness, injuries, infirmity, neglect, and abuse, and that a vet’s job is to make their lives as long, healthy, and happy as possible, and to not fall apart while they do it. But the thought of this poor dog breaks my heart. It’s absolutely crushing. How can anyone treat a living being this way?
“Still there?” Andy asks.
“Yeah. Yes. Sorry,” I say through a rush of breath. “This is... a lot.”
“I know,” he says, and then repeats, as though his heart is breaking, too, “I know.”
We take another moment, not a long one, but a necessary one.
“Your message said this was time-sensitive?” I prompt, already suspecting what that means but silently praying I’m wrong.
“I’ll be blunt, Miss Goode. You’re not our first call. We’ve worked through our list of regular foster homes. Reached out to applicants who seemed more... secure.” The pause that follows is loaded, and I appreciate Andy’s attempt to soften the truth—namely, that I’m his last resort—but it’s not like I don’t understand. If I was in his shoes, I’d be my last resort, too. “This dog needs a lot of one-on-one care. We don’t have the funding or staff to provide that here, not with so many other dogs also needing our attention. We’ve called some other shelters, but they share our limitations. If we can’t find a foster home within twenty-four hours—”
“I’ll be there,” I say. And I know,I knowthis is madness. I’mnever home. I don’t have a car. Or help. Or time. Or space. Or savings. Or upper-body strength. I shouldn’t even pet-parent a healthy little handbag passenger like Pilot. How am I supposed to care for a hundred-and-twenty-five-pound retriever who needs intense rehabilitative care?
But how can I let her die?
“You sure?” Andy says. “She might not—”
“Doesn’t matter,” I interject before he can finish that sentence in a way that will yank the awaiting sobs from my chest, the ones I’m barely keeping down. “I just need to sort out a ride, but I can come by this afternoon if that works for you?”
He doesn’t answer right away, probably rethinking this whole thing since I just admitted I don’t have a car. Obviously, this is an added challenge, but not an impossible one.
