Page 3 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“We know,” they say, united.
A few frayed strands of Christmas lights slump above the SPCA’s main entrance. A sun-faded sticker of Snoopy wearing a Santa hat hasstarted peeling away from the glass door. This month is always so stupid, with its leftover cheer and perma-gloom. Earlier, on Charles Street, I nearly ran over a discarded Christmas tree, which felt like January in a nutshell.
Ian scoots to the edge of his seat. “I totally bet they’ll have one, though,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Bella. “Totally.”
If Ihadresearched this—even just some light googling—I’d be less surprised than I am right now. There are no cages, rusty or otherwise. No violence or signs of neglect. No Sarah McLachlan song. Instead, a smiling middle-aged woman named Barbara with a top-notch Baltimore accent guides us down a short, clean hallway to streak-free glass revealing maybe a dozen boxes like tiny studio apartments. Along with twisted-up towels, water bowls, and Santa chewies, each box contains one dog.
“Ohhhhhh,” says Bella. It’s not a word, really, more a release of compressed feelings.
“Mom, wow,” says Ian.
He looks so much like Tim right now that I can hardly believe the cruelty of nature. There are the obvious things: his roundish face and sandy hair with the cowlick. The subtle things are more striking, though, like how he stands cocked slightly to the right, and his expression when he’s happy, like he’s wandered into sudden joy.
Barbara, who’s dressed like a school nurse, taps the glass. “Say hello, everyone.” She’s talking to the dogs, but Ian and Bella say hi, and I ask Barbara how this works, exactly.
“We make it pretty easy, hon,” she says. “Have a look. Take your time. If you see one you like, we’ll go in back for some playtime.”
The kids look at me while I pretend not to be overwhelmed because this…is a lot. The dogs seem to get what’s at stake, too. Tails wagging, necks craned, they stare at us, hoping to be picked. A floppy German shepherd–looking dog with enormous paws does a yoga pose. Less easily identifiable dogs yelp. A lanky thing licks the glass.An older dog with a graying snout bites a shredded towel. A pit bull mix spins in circles.
“Can we take them all?” asks Bella, reading my mind, because I’ve just worked through a scenario in which we come back with a U-Haul. A female with a Lab-like face shows us a rubber chicken through the glass.See? Look!
“None of them are pure breeds, right?” I ask.
Barbara laughs and touches my elbow. “Nah, hon. We’re all about variety here.”
Earlier, as we piled into the car, I made the kids agree to something smallish—a dog that could fit into our lives.Manageablewas the word I stressed.
“What about that one?” says Ian. He points to a wiry thing—still a puppy. It’s white with black splotches and pointy ears, a terrier, maybe.
“Yeah,” Bella says. “It looks manageable. Right?”
Each dog has a name printed on a card above its pen. Some of the names are Maryland-inspired, like Raven or Terp. Others are local street names, colors, or just generic dog names like Turbo or Dusty. The dog we’re all looking at now is called Spot. One of his splotches makes a circle that covers half his face.
“Thought you might like that one,” says Barbara. “He’s a male. Six, maybe eight months old. Cutie, huh? Our newest resident. Little shy, still getting acclimated. Sweet boy, though.”
While the other dogs stand and stare at us, Spot sits looking off at nothing in particular.
“Why’s he here?” I say, then wonder if I’m not supposed to ask that, like maybe it’s rude.
“Sometimes you just don’t know,” says Barbara. “Few days ago, the morning crew showed up, and there he was. Leash was tied to the front door.”
It’s funny what does and doesn’t break through. For the last few months, the part of my brain that regulates feelings has been busy dulling things. But the thought of Spot discarded here in the nighttime makes me, for a moment, unable to breathe.
“Okie dokie,” says Barbara, “who’s up for a little meet ’n’ greet?”
The playroom feels like adoctor’s office, except there’s a wood crate full of dog toys and a plastic scooper that I assume is for poop. I haven’t thought about poop until now, which I remember puppies, like babies, do at a staggering rate. Barbara is off getting Spot, so it’s just the three of us in here. The kids pace and wiggle, unable to be still. All things considered, they really do look cute in their sad outfits.
“He can sleep in my room!” Bella says.
“What?” says Ian. “No way! That’s not fair! Mom!”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say. I’m still trying to manage their expectations, as if Spot’s about to charge in here waving a knife at us.
Barbara taps the door. “Knock knock.” Spot stands at the threshold, half in, half out. Barbara has him by a purple-and-black twine leash. “Best we can tell,” she says, “you’re looking at a mix of a Jack Russell and a cattle dog. Means you’ll probably get some herding behavior. Bossiness, barking, some ankle nips here and there. Nothing you all can’t handle.”
“Hi, Spot,” says Ian.
