Pug Hill - Alison Pace [96]
“You are my best friend,” I say again, with a little more feeling and not because she necessarily is, but because the thing with the screeching is that Betsy has extreme issues with jealousy. Everyone has consulted and everyone has agreed on the protocol: it’s important, for Betsy’s ego and also for everyone else’s peace of mind and sanity, that Betsy is to be told, especially loudly, and especially in large groups, that she is the “best friend,” of whoever has just walked into the house.
“You are my best friend!” I say even again, switching over to a high-pitched, breathless voice, the tone and pitch of which has been determined as the most soothing to Betsy. Thankfully, it takes. She flips over on her back to display her belly that of course I am inclined, as anyone would be inclined, to squat down and rub.
With Betsy so briefly occupied, I have a moment to say hello to Annabelle. Annabelle is much smaller in stature than standard French bulldogs, and like so many of the pugs I adore, very girthy. She’s a free spirit, a rough-and-tumble-type of girl, looking for love and adventure everywhere. I know you’re not supposed to pick favorites, but since they’re not really my dogs anymore, they are my parents’ dogs, Annabelle is my favorite. This information should stay between us however; I would hate for Betsy to find out about it. Annabelle runs around us in circles and does this thing she does, just like the pugs, where she stands in one spot and leads herself, with a throw of her head. She jumps up, and spins a tight, tight, standing-in-one-place circle. Then she does this other thing that just kills me: she gets on the entrance hall rug, lies down, front legs stretched out in front of her, back legs stretched out behind her, and proceeds to drag herself around by her front legs, in an almost perfect figure eight. Really, it just kills me.
I can hear Captain lumbering in, coming slowly down the hallway. I can hear the quickening of his toenails against the hardwood floors. I can tell that he’s trying to walk as fast as he can, even with his diabetes, even with his cataract, and his malignant sarcoma that has left him with a large goiter-like thing on his back. The doctors said that surely, the goiter-like thing didn’t cause him any pain, but that it also meant he wouldn’t make it past Christmas. But here he is in May. Captain reaches the group and I try to settle down Annabelle and make sure that Betsy stays flipped over on her back. I look right at Captain, and as I do so, his eyes remind me so much of Spanky, and the thought of Spanky can still almost bring tears to my own eyes. In case Captain’s eyes remind me of Spanky because Spanky (as I think he has a way of doing) has come to visit and is taking residence temporarily in Captain’s eyes, and because it will still be nice for Captain to hear it a few more times, I look at him and say very softly, “You are my best friend.”
Coming home—or is the right term going home?—it can bring up a lot of things, it can make you feel a lot of things, is what they say. And it does for me, of course it does, but at times like this, kneeling on the floor with all the dogs gathered around me, I feel like all I need is for Betsy to stay quiet, and for a little blue cartoon bird to fly down and land on my shoulder where it will sing a peaceful melody and I’ll turn my head and bat my eyelashes and then, pretty much, I’ll be Snow White. You know when she sits in a meadow with all the baby animals flocking to her because she is so lovely? Right now, that’s exactly how I feel.
After a few more minutes of being a modern-day Snow White, I get up and head to the kitchen. I walk in and see Mom, where I expected to see her, standing at the counter, chopping something. Mom, nine days out of ten, likes to spend a large portion of the day involved in food preparation. Should you question this, she will tell you it makes her very happy, and she will tell this to you in a way that says, really don’t question