Page 45 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
The snow looked beautiful from inside a warm office, but it’s cold and wet to walk through, especially since I didn’t check the forecastbefore I left home this morning so I’m in leaky sneakers, I left my scarf behind, and I lost my only hat somewhere between classes last week. Everything around me also feels sapped of color, as though the city’s conspiring to reflect my mood. Or maybe my mood’s conspiring to reflect the city. Either way, I barely notice the holiday decorations and people bustling about with poinsettias and glittering shopping bags. I’m too busy wrestling with a profound sense of failure, and with an equally intense sense of frustration that once one part of my life comes together, another seems to fall apart.
I try to channel some of my mom’s unrelenting cheer but my dad’s shadow looms larger right now. I’d never felt his disapproval more strongly than when I committed to coming here to pursue my veterinary degree, despite the cost, and despite Cornell’s reputation for intense rigor. I assured my parents I could handle it. Now here I am, not handling it, just like my dad predicted, adding the sharp sting of wounded pride to an already overflowing well of feelings.
The feelings only multiply when I arrive home to discover that Aggie, with her continued gains in mobility, found a way to pull a bag of granola off the kitchen counter. The bag is empty but the slimy, stinky, acid-yellow, granola-filled vomit all over the apartment points a clear finger at the cause. Also, Aggie’s not on her bed, where I usually find her when I arrive. She’s hiding behind the futon, looking like I’m about to accuse her of murder.
I curse internally, not at her but at the situation, and at myself, at how I’ve failed in two important areas of my life today: school and taking care of Aggie. If I was home more. If I’d paid more attention to how she’s getting around. If I was more careful about what I left on the counter.If, if, if.I don’t want to deal with this right now, butI don’t have much choice, so I take a deep breath—as deep a breath as I can manage, given the noxious fumes I’m forced to inhale—and count out my exhale—one, two, three, four—as I remind myself that life with a dog comes with a few unforeseen digestive issues. Heaven knows Marmie had her fair share. She was like a vacuum, picking up anything that intrigued her and often swallowing it before we could take it away. This was bound to happen at some point, and at least I have hardwood floors.
I weave my way over and crouch before Aggie, stroking her ears as she avoids my eyes.
“You’re okay,” I tell her. “It’s all okay. It’s good you got most of it out, though you may have a bellyache for a while. And I guess cereal’s going in a cabinet from now on.”
Her belly gurgles. Poor girl. She’s been on such a strict diet. Her body must be in shock.
“Hey, good news,” I say, still trying to catch her eye. “This is a very doglike thing to do. So, you know, good job being a dog, doing dog things, even if they’re naughty-dog things.”
She lets a short, sharp breath out through her nose. I get the feeling she doesn’t believe me. Or maybe she’s trying to digest raisins for the first time in her life and she’s really confused.
Whatever the case, I get her outside for a short walk, which we can do without the wagon now, just in time to avoid dragging it through winter weather for every quick pee. I wish I had more energy to enjoy her eager curiosity about the snow, the way she sniffs every footprint like it’s the key to a great mystery of the universe, but we’ll get more snow in days to come, and of the less slushy kind. So I let her sniff for a while, and do her business. Then we return home, where I dry her off and lay clean towels out on the futon beforehelping her up. She can mostly do it on her own now, but I don’t like her to stress her already overtaxed hips and knees.
While she watches me with her head between her paws, the picture of dejection, I use the stand-up shower to rinse the worst of the vomit from her bed, her pillow and blankets, and several small rugs, clean what remains on the floor, and throw anything that’s soiled into a pair of bulging garbage bags I load into her wagon. For good measure, I pile my regular laundry bag on top. Might as well get it all done if I’m headed to the laundromat. I really wish this place had on-site laundry, though if it did, I probably couldn’t afford to live here.
With less than three hours before I need to head to work, I’ll have just enough time to run everything through, and by some miracle of divine intervention, enough washing machines are open for me start all six loads at once, despite the dingy sign that requests patrons limit our use to only four. Whatever. No one’s here. I already feel guilty about leaving Aggie alone again when she’s not feeling well. I’m getting this done as fast as I can.
While I wait, I slump into the world’s least comfortable plastic chair and grab my phone.
CAMERON:If a dog barfs in the woods but no one’s there to see it...
HANNAH:Uh oh. I’m guessing “the woods” is a metaphor?
CAMERON:“The woods” is my apartment. Every inch of it
HANNAH:Yikes. Is she OK? Are you OK?
CAMERON:She’s good. Just needs to ride it out. I’m... exhausted. Not my best day
HANNAH:Hot Sweater Guy isn’t cheering you up?
CAMERON:Are we still calling him Hot Sweater Guy?
HANNAH:Guy Who Shackled Your Hands to His Bed While Drooling Over You Like the Dessert You Skipped Because You Were Both Too Desperate to Bang doesn’t have the same ring
CAMERON:I never should’ve told you about all that
HANNAH:You ABSOLUTELY should’ve told me. At least one of us is having fun!
I smile to myself while also sighing. I love how overjoyed Hannah was when I told her about everything that happened that night. But also, I’m not sure how much fun I’m having these days, not with my schedule more packed than ever. Everett’s schedule, too, with extra marketing work for the holidays. We make a point of seeing each other on Friday and Saturday nights, but that’s aboutall we can manage. He’s been amazing, though, at keeping up by text or dropping by to say hi, and I swear, I’m only avoiding malnutrition because he keeps bringing me food, often couched as “leftovers from a meeting,” but sometimes he skips the lie and admits he picked it up on the way home. He’s determined to get me off my cereal and toast diet. I’ve lost the will to fight him on it. Now that I’ve also lost my appetite for granola for the foreseeable future, I’m even less inclined to argue.
HANNAH:BTW, I checked out his TikTok account
CAMERON:What did you think?
HANNAH:It was cool seeing his work. He’s really good
CAMERON:Yeah. He is really good
HANNAH:Wow. Someone’s horny
CAMERON:I meant at his job!
