Pug Hill - Alison Pace [63]
I want to close my eyes for a minute. I know that if I did, I’d be able to hear my mom’s voice, the mom of my childhood so many years ago, and I want to hear that. But the British guy doesn’t look quite as wrapped up in the story as I am. I figure an important part of public speaking, of a lot of things, actually, might be knowing when to get to the point.
“So, right, Boswell came home,” I continue, “and she was magnificent, she really was, but everything scared her and even though she’d been touted, in New Hope, as a wonderful watchdog, once Mom got her home, she spent the majority of her time underneath the kitchen table, chattering her teeth. And this was in the suburbs.”
I talk more about Boswell, about how magnificent everyone thought she was—how breathtaking everyone agreed—but so much more than that, how sweet to everyone she was, how loving she was, although she was perhaps not the sharpest tool in the shed. As I talk about Boswell, as the British guy listens rather attentively, I forget that I just decided that I hate him, and then decide that I don’t. I change my mind in honor of Boswell, because even though she may not have understood all that much, if Boswell understood anything, I like to believe she understood love.
“I see.”
“And I think it was hard on Boswell, harder still when, because of the magnificence and all, Mom decided to show her. She literally had to be carried out of the showring, and we think it was a long time after that until she was the same.”
“They are quite handsome dogs,” he says, and I agree that mastiffs are indeed quite handsome dogs, but I worry that even with my speech, I may not have changed his mind. Still though, I am inclined to give credit where credit is due.
“Boswell was very pursued by the neighborhood dogs,” I say this because it was true, and also, I throw it in as a deterrent. “That might get kind of difficult at the dog run.” Though tempted, I leave out the long part about the year and a half that Boswell spent pursued by Cosgrove, a ne’er-do-well mutt who lived down the street. I leave out the part about how Boswell had a hysterical pregnancy and went into hysterical labor on Christmas morning.
“Just like the baby Jesus!” Grammy McNeill had exclaimed, before we realized the puppies weren’t coming.
“Oh, Jesus,” Nana had said.
“Ah,” he smiles, indulging me. “Maybe it’s not the best city dog.” I smile back and I think it’s nice that he said that. I think also that there must be something in the air at Pug Hill. Here, you can be a bit crazy about dogs and their memories, and people won’t necessarily run from you as if you are insane.
“Well, it was a pleasure meeting you.” He pauses, and it occurs to me for the first time that I don’t know his name.
“Hope.” I reach out my hand.
He shakes it and says, “Marcus.”
“Nice to meet you, too. Good luck with the dog search.”
He stands and puts his hands into his pockets. We say good-bye and he turns to go, without a last glance at the pugs. I watch him for a while as he walks west, over another hill. I turn back to the pugs and pull my coat tighter around me. I think of love, not because of the British guy, of course not because of the British guy, but because of Boswell and her star-crossed love with Cosgrove, because if Boswell believed in anything I like to think she believed in love.
I take one last look at the pugs and get up myself and walk back toward home. I’ll meet Pamela soon for coffee, and then I’ll go home and get ready for the week. I’ll practice reading out loud for class on Thursday. I’ll stand very straight in front of my mirror, I’ll take deep breaths. I’ll make eye contact, even if it’s only with myself. I’ll Take the Room even if I’m the only one in it, because like