Carson (a story from “Dogs Just Wanna Have Fun”)

The following week, I received another call.

“Carson won’t come into the house.”

Hm.

“Carson is a dog?” Just making sure.

• • •

As I pulled up to the house, I saw Carson lying in the front yard, as far from the house as the long rope she was attached to would allow. She was a cute little spaniel.

Or would be if I could make the pain in her eyes go away. Even from a distance, I could see something was seriously wrong. Surely they’d taken her to the vet, I told myself as I walked up the patio stone path to—it hit me. A wave of stench. Of cigarette and perfume. So strong, I immediately started getting a—ah. Carson, her sense of smell being 10 to 100 thousand times better than mine, because she has 220 million olfactory receptors, whereas I have a measly 5 million, must have the worst headache. She probably feels like her skull is about to implode. Or has been fracturing apart in a never-ending slow-motion tectonic— Or maybe she feels like someone’s been pounding away— I massaged my temple.

And if the smell was in her luxurious black-and-white coat, as I’m sure it must be, she wouldn’t’ve been unable to get away from it all this time. Weeks, apparently. I’ll bet she wants to die.

I hesitated, then realized that my clothes probably already stink, even from ten feet away, so I was going to have to wash them. When I was a dj, and smoking was still allowed in public buildings, I had designated dj clothes that would never come into the house; I’d take them off outside my house, dump them in a waiting pail of soapy water to soak overnight, then rinse them and hang them up to dry, outside, leaving them there until next gig.

I approached the forlorn little dog, crooning. “Hey, Carson, how are you?” I said every so softly, crouching down and reaching into my pocket for a treat. She looked up at me, head throbbing. Couldn’t even bother to get up. Probably felt nauseous at the thought of a treat. I reached out my hand—she lifted her head and pressed it against my palm. I reached out with my other hand and cupped her head. She wagged her tail, ever so slightly. I thought about where her temples might be.

The front door slammed. I winced. Carson winced.

“Are you Brett?”

“Yes,” I stood up.

The man came toward me, hand outstretched.

He smelled, yes, but—a woman followed, cigarette in one hand and, I swear, atomizer in the other.

“Randy, is this the woman you talked about?” Hair doesn’t come in yellow, I thought to myself. And lips don’t come in scarlet.

“Yeah, hon, this is Brett.”

I backed away from her. And there was no way I was going into the house.

“Carson has a headache,” I said. “And so do I. From your cigarette smoke and your perfume.”

They didn’t seem to understand.

“When did Carson start refusing to go inside?” I asked.

“Right after Sherry moved in. A couple weeks ago. We thought Carson was just a bit jealous, you know, and would get over it,” he smiled at Sherry. Who sidled up to him. “But you think she has a headache?”

“I think her head is throbbing so hard—my head is throbbing,” I reached up to my temple again, “and her sense of smell is a thousand times stronger, ten thousand times stronger, possibly a hundred thousand times stronger, than mine. So what do you think?”

They looked at each other in confusion.

“Why do you think all that no-smoking and fragrance-free legislation was passed? Simply because a bunch of people didn’t approve?”

“Tell you what—” I was so eager to get away, I didn’t really think this through. “I’ll take Carson and give her a bath—the smoke and perfume is in her coat, she’s probably had the migraine of all migraines since you moved in,” I barely glanced at Sherry. I wanted to kill her. She was causing me a lot of pain.

“You take the drapery to the drycleaners, shampoo the furniture and the carpets, wipe down the ceiling and walls and … everything, with something strong, but unscented, leave all the windows open for a week—then call me.”

“Oh,” I added, in case they didn’t get it, “and you’ll either have to give up smoking and stop wearing that gawd-awful perfume or move out.”

I untied Carson’s rope and led her to my car. She came willingly. Shit. This was the part I didn’t think through. Once I let Carson into my car, I was going to have to shampoo the car. Thoroughly. When I drove home from my dj gigs, I wore a plastic raincoat. Damn it. Well, there was no way I was leaving her here.

“Do you have any large plastic garbage bags?” I turned back to the man.

“Sure. Hang on.”

He went back into his house, and came out with a box. I pulled out the first five and handed them to him, then kept the sixth one, the one that had been so inside the box it couldn’t possibly be contaminated. I hoped.

I tore a hole out the top. Not as easy as it sounds, by the way. Then I put it over poor little Carson like a poncho, wrapped the end under her bottom, and set her carefully on the back seat. I got in, ‘forgot’ to wave, then backed out of the driveway.

Carson tore her way out of the plastic bag in three seconds.

And—this was the other part I didn’t think through. No way I was taking her inside my house. To give her a bath in my tub. I didn’t want to be taking my drapery to the cleaners and shampooing all of my furniture and carpets. I had an outdoor hose, but my experience was that most dogs didn’t like being sprayed with a hose. Spunky Doo excepted. And I didn’t have one of those little wading pools. Oh well, the beach it is, then.

Problem was, now I had to go home and get Snookums and Kessie. Couldn’t go to the beach without them. But they wouldn’t know, you’re saying. Oh listen to yourself. Of course they’d know. They’d smell it on me. Once I got the smoke and perfume out of my clothes. Which I could do at the beach. Good thing it was a hot and sunny day. Okay, so I’d just have to give Snookums and Kessie a bath as well.

I thought about the car on my way home to get Kessie and Snookums. And Chum. How he knew we were going to the beach, I’ll never know, but there he was, sitting at my driveway, looking up the road, waiting for me. His beach ball in his mouth.

So he’d had to have a bath as well. I pulled out my phone. In for a penny…

“Impromptu trip to the beach, bath included, can Spunky Doo come?”

“Of course. And for the record? The answer’s always yes. Whenever, for whatever. I’ll have a key made for you.”

“Impromptu trip to the beach, bath included, can Hunk come?”

“Um…yeah, sure. He’s moping around, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“He misses Little Miss,” I said, again. Ever since the dog show fiasco, Little Miss’ person had refused to let her come with us, even though I’d assured her that Hunk had been neutered. Every time I picked him up, Hunk moaned when I turned left at the critical intersection instead of right. “Did you call her? Little Miss’ person?”

“Um, no, I forgot.”

Asshole.

• • •

They all kept their distance from Carson. Kess firmly pressed herself into my lap, Snookums crowded Chum on the front passenger seat, which she did in any case, and Spunky Doo leaned into Hunk, who, oddly enough, didn’t protest, at the other end of the back seat. Just as well. I suspect Carson wasn’t in the mood to be social.

Maybe I could find a carwash service close to the beach. Arrange for someone to follow me to the beach, take my car back, shampoo it, three times, then bring it back to the beach.

Or I could just sell it. My head had really started to throb. Despite having turned the fan on to high and opened all of the windows. I should’ve taken an extra-strength Ibuprofen or something.

I pulled into the parking lot at the pet store and once inside, headed straight to the shampoo aisle. I found something that was both unscented and biodegradable. Grabbed a bottle. Changed my mind. Grabbed the gallon jug. Paid without a word, fingers to my temple.

As I exited the store, I saw Kessie, Hunk, and Chum sitting in a circle on the pavement some distance from my car. Shit! Where was Snookums? Frantic, I scanned the entire parking lot as I broke into a run. No Snookums. Okay, maybe she was still in the car. How did Kessie get out without breaking her leg? And where was Spunky Doo? I couldn’t see him in the car or anywhere in the parking lot.

As I approached, Kessie and Chum parted a little. Snookums was barricaded inside their circle. As was Spunky Doo. Who was being repeatedly nudged, perhaps even nipped, by Hunk. Maybe Spunky Doo was supposed to have been part of the protective perimeter. It was unclear to me. And probably to him as well.

I watched in disbelief then as Chum, closest to the passenger door, crouched down a bit. Kessie leapfrogged over him back in through the window. Snookums followed.

“Good dogs,” I hugged Chum and Hunk when I got to them. “Such good dogs,” I put my arms around each of them. I opened the front door for Chum, and the back door for Hunk and Spunky Doo. Carsonwas, as expected, still lying listless in the corner of the back seat.

• • •

As luck would have it, I passed the high school on the way to the beach, and they were having a carwash. My first clue was the music. I could hear it from a block away. The original Rose Royce. Seriously?

I passed half a dozen of them dancing at the edge of the road, waving huge signs—‘CAR WASH $10’.

They were clearly having a good time. A very good time. Perfect.

I pulled in, nodded to the motley, and wet, crew at the road, then stopped near the small crowd of teenagers closer to the building, surrounded by pails, rags, sponges, washing—more or less—a silver minivan. There was another small crowd a little further away working on a black SUV.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I said. As soon as they saw my carful of dogs, the two small crowds converged into a large crowd. The silver minivan was momentarily forgotten. As was the black SUV. Two kids reached in to pet Chum. Kessie scampered over and put her tennis ball into the hand of one of them. Ever hopeful.

“No,” I said, reaching to retrieve the ball. “Soon.”

Two others at my side cooed at Snookums, who had traded places with Kessie and so was now in my lap. She wagged her tail.

Then Spunky Doo wriggled his way out the window—and went immediately to the group that was dancing. He joined in. The kids were delighted.

I quickly got out of the car. “Spunky Doo!” He was too close to the road. Fortunately, three of the kids danced him back to me, giggling all the way. Especially the one trying to teach him a bit of ballet.

“So,” I said to the crowd-at-large. “Do you have stuff to do the interiors as well? Like real upholstery shampoo things?”

“No, we just have rags, pails, and shit,” a tall young man said.

“Do you need your interior done?” A big and blonde young woman stepped forward, then stopped. Her nose twitched. “What is that smell?”

“Cigarette smoke and—”

“Chanel No. 5,” someone else identified it. “I thought they outlawed that stuff.”

“Apparently not,” I said, then briefly told them about rescuing Carson from the world’s worst headache and then having the world’s second worst headache myself.

“They have those upholstery things at the grocery store,” another young woman, compact and freckled, offered, nodding across the street. “You could rent one.”

I glanced across the street. “Tell you what,” I said to them. “A hundred bucks if one of you goes over and rents one, and a couple others follow me to the beach, to drive back my car, then you shampoo it, many many times, then deliver it back to me at the beach when it’s done.”

They conferred among themselves.

“We’ve got a better idea,” one of them said. A bunch of them proceeded to heft Spunky Doo back in through the window, then stood aside as the freckled girl half-climbed half-dove in after him.

“Cool.” I smiled. Oh to be fifteen. Sixteen. I hoped. With a valid driver’s licence.

• • •

“So,” she said, having found herself nose to nose with Hunk, a doberman, “Is he friendly?”

I grinned as I turned out of the parking lot. “Do you still have both arms?”

She laughed. “Hey you,” she addressed Hunk. “You’re a big—guy?”

I nodded. Hunk didn’t respond. I really needed to resolve the Little Miss problem.

• • •

A few minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot at the beach. I let the dogs out (yes, that was me), grabbed my gallon jug of shampoo, then turned to Sam, the freckled young woman.

“Two hours?” I asked, handing her my car keys.

“Should be long enough.”

“And not a trace of smell. Or I’ll just have to do this all over again.”

“You got it.” She looked at Carson, huddled at my feet, the only one not already splish splashing at the water. “Poor thing.”

• • •

Once I assured myself that we had the beach to ourselves, and everyone was safe doing their thing, I turned to Carson. She’d be first to get a bath. And again the last. At least. I took off her collar, washed it, then put it in my pocket. Might just buy her a new one. Then I picked her up and walked to the water. I waded in, then knelt and set her down. She was very cooperative. Or so depressed she didn’t care what anyone did to her. Wet, lather, rinse. Repeat. I ran my fingers through her coat, working the shampoo right into her skin. I was thorough. Wet, lather, rinse. And repeat again. She shook herself, then walked out of the water, and despondently lay down in the sand.

Chum was next. He’d been in the front seat and so hopefully the smoke and perfume hadn’t permeated his coat that much, but he had the thickest coat of the bunch. Clearly he’d been given baths at the beach before. He set his waterlogged beach ball on the sand, beside Carson—sweet—then stood still in the shallow water as I lathered him. He was, of course, already wet. I then retrieved his ball and threw it out as far as I could. He swam after it. And now he was rinsed.

Kessie’s turn. Wet, lather, rinse. Her and her ball. It became fluorescent again. She was delighted. I threw it down the beach for her to race after. Airdry.

Snookums hadn’t had a bath at the beach yet, but she’d been watching and waiting for her turn. I set the jug beside her in the shallow water, poured some shampoo into my hands, then ran my hands along her little body, scooping up water as needed to work up a lather. She licked the white foaming soap off her leg. Ugh. She shook, and since I hadn’t yet rinsed her, sent flecks of soap all over me. Just as well. I smeared them into my tshirt and pants, adding more from the jug.

She hadn’t actually swum yet either, preferring to splish splash along the water’s edge.

“Chum!” I called our resident lifeguard.

He came swimming toward me with his ball in his mouth. I took his ball and shoved it into my pocket. I left Snookums standing in the shallow water and started walking out, encouraging her to follow me. She wasn’t sure. Chum stood beside her, encouraging and reassuring. He took a few steps into the deeper water as well. She still wasn’t sure.

I went back to her, picked her up, and carried her in my arms until I was up to my waist. Chum was swimming circles around us, showing her how it was done. I eased her into the water, supporting her as her little legs started pumping. She grinned. I gradually supported her less and less, and eventually she was swimming all on her own. I dropped down and immersed myself. Rinse.

She made a circle back toward me, then, assured that I was still there, swam toward Chum. And, possibly inspired by the pet store parking lot events, onto his back. He continued swimming, Snookums still on his back like a baby loon on mama. Interesting.

Once out into the deeper water, he let himself sag, and Snookums was on her own again. She swam a little bit, then climbed back onto his back. He turned and swam back toward me a bit, then sagged again. Snookums swam back to me on her own. I picked her up. She giggled.

Then I set her into the water again and started walking back to shore, Snookums swimming beside me all the way.

And then I threw Chum’s ball for him, again out as far as I could. Such a good dog.

Hunk and Spunky Doo were next. Both had very short coats, so even though they were in the back with Carson, I assumed they weren’t suffused through and through with the stink. Which was just as well, since, at least in Spunky Doo’s case, I’m not at all convinced I got every part of him.

Finally I turned to Carson again, still lying on the beach. I went to her, picked her up, and the jug, then walked back out. I sat down in the shallow water with her in my lap and proceeded to carefully shampoo her chin, her muzzle, the fur around her eyes, her ears—I even rubbed my shampooed fingers inside her ears. Then I shampooed her under parts. And her tail. And under her tail. And between her toes. On each paw. I was determined to cover every part of her. Her headache must have started receding, because this time she swam around a bit. Rinse.

Bath time over, I started walking along the beach. Airdry set on slow. I threw Kessie’s ball along the shore for her, again and again, and I threw Chum’s ball into the water for him, again and again. Snookums did her usual splish splash thing along the water line, and Spunky Doo did his usual race ahead, race back, race ahead thing. Hunk wasn’t interested in playing in the water today, so he just walked beside me, as did Carson.

When we got to the ice cream place, I realized I didn’t have my wallet. I said as much to Shane, the university student who helped run the place every summer.

“No problem, I know you’re good for it.”

“Great, thanks!”

Mint, Butter Pecan, Peanut Butter Swirl, Tiger Tail Licorice, Espresso Express and—Carson was interested. That was a good sign. A very good sign, since ice cream could be a headache trigger of its own. I asked for a taster of Vanilla. Keep it simple. She agreed. Vanilla it was. And Triple Chocolate Brownie Fudge for myself. Because I can, I told Spunky Doo. Again.

We finished our cones, Snookums finished our faces, taking special care with Carson’s, and we headed back.

I had no idea what time it was, so we just sat in the sun until Sam brought the car back. It was, as promised, completely unscented. Still a bit wet, but then so were we.

• • •

We went home and had some supper. Carsonate well, finishing up an entire bowl full of kibble, which I took as a very good sign. Kessie showed her how to use the doggy door that led into the fenced yard, and Snookums helped me prepare the guest bed, again contributing a little squeaky mouse from her bowlful in the bedroom. I showed Carson that that was her spot, and not surprisingly, since it had been quite a day for her, she lay down immediately. (Well, not quite immediately. She turned around five times pawing at the towel to bunch it up a bit more.) (Apparently I hadn’t done it right.)

• • •

Next morning, a little nose poked my face, gently. Kessie. She’d nudge, then stare, waiting. If I didn’t rouse, she’d nudge again, staring and waiting.

I opened my eyes, saw her, and the joy in her eyes, which was reciprocated, and then I saw Carson sitting beside her. Smiling. Carson was smiling. Yay!

She settled in to our routine quite nicely, which was good, because her people never did call. It seemed Randy would rather have Sherry in his life than Carson, and apparently Sherry would rather smoke and wear perfume than have Carson in her life. Their loss. Carsonwas a delightful little dog, happy, alert, and well-mannered.

I retrieved her old collar, took the tag off, and threw the collar away. I washed the tag, just to be sure, then wrote my phone number on a piece of paper and taped it to the back. I then threaded a red bandana through the tag ring and tied it around her neck, making a note to buy her new tags and a proper collar.

It occurred to me that if Carson’s sense of smell was better than normal, for a dog—after all, many dogs seem to live with smokers and perfume wearers with no problem—we might be able to do something with it. I’d happened to read about the possibility that dogs might be able to detect cancer. Surely they’d do that by smelling it. Could Carson smell cancer? And could I teach her to let me know when she did? It was an intriguing idea.

I called the local hospital and spoke to the head nurse of the cancer ward. Until that day, I didn’t know that our hospital even had a cancer ward. She thought my idea had potential. I suspect she was willing to try anything that might reduce the number of people who’d been diagnosed, by traditional means, too late.

We arranged for a room in the basement to be totally disinfected, to become as much as possible scent-free. Then I set up a schedule asking for volunteers—people who’d been diagnosed as having cancer and people who knew they were cancer-free.

Soon after that, we were on our way to the hospital for our first day of training. As we approached the designated room, I heard a loud and angry conversation coming from within. So I paused before entering, to see what the issue was, hoping it wasn’t someone already making fun of Carson and my idea.

“I’m just saying that when you say shit like that—’I thank God he spared her, we’re so blessed’—what does that say about the rest of us who die from it? We’re not blessed? God didn’t care enough about us to spare us?”

I took a step forward, but the woman wasn’t done.

“And she didn’t recover because you prayed for her. She recovered because the cancer stopped spreading. Probably because of the treatment she received. Has your precious little group never prayed for someone who didn’t survive? How do you explain that?”

I started forward again, but—

“You know what I’m tired of?” Another voice. Male this time. “‘Fight it—you’ve got to fight the cancer, Don!’ Because then when I get worse, or die, it’s my fault. Like I wasn’t fighting hard enough!”

“Yeah.” Another woman. “You don’t fight cancer. Or any other illness. You endure it. You treat it. You prevent it in the first place. Why isn’t the government getting rid of all the carcinogens in our environment? Instead of handing out little pink ribbons.”

“Oh don’t get me started on those little pink ribbons!” Yet another woman. “Why they think they need to prettify breast cancer is beyond me. Do they think we can’t take it otherwise? It’s all pink this and pink that, like they’re trying to make it all nice. All girly. First, we’re not girls. Second, it’s not nice. It’s life-threatening. It makes you get rid of chunk after chunk of your body. I don’t see them putting cute little ribbons on gangrene.”

“That’s because gangrene isn’t sexy. Breasts are sexy. That’s what they’re capitalizing on. I swear it’s just an excuse to get boobs in the media. When’s the last time you saw a brown ribbon campaign for colon cancer? Which, by the way, kills more of us than breast cancer.”

“Like wearing a ribbon does anything. For anything.”

Another silence. Again, I stepped forward to enter—

“Speaking of pink, have you been to a Home Hardware lately?”

Loud guffaws.

“Those pink rakes? And screwdrivers? Like we’ve been avoiding raking the leaves and making small repairs all these years because the tools were navy blue and black.”

“Yeah, men are the color-phobes—no offense—not us. They won’t go near a pink screwdriver.”

“It’s all about maintaining the divide. Men on this side. Women on that side. What the hell for?”

“Either that or it’s fucking patronizing. It’s not the lack of pink toolbelts that’s been keeping us out of the trades.”

Another pause in the conversation. I stepped forward and into the room.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Brett, and this is Carson.” I thanked them all for coming, then explained what I was trying to do, essentially that I hoped Carson would smell something similar with each one of them, and then not smell that something with the next roomful of people.

I walked her from one person to the next, asking at each one “Cancer?”, then putting her right paw on their foot, which would be her way of telling me ‘yes’ (I’d decided against a bark for obvious reason), then giving her a treat for getting it right.

Half an hour later, the room was full of people who didn’t have cancer. “Cancer?” I asked at each one and did notput her paw on their foot, then gave her a treat.

Half an hour later, another room full of people with cancer. And then another roomful of people without cancer.

• • •

We did this every day after our afternoon adventure with the crew. I was afraid she might be too tired to concentrate, but she wasn’t. I made sure to vary all the variables. I included men and women, people of all ages, people with different kinds of cancer, people with different stages of cancer.

I almost made the mistake of teaching her to identify those who’d had chemotherapy, until I thought to ask about that. In the first couple rooms full of people with cancer, all of them had had chemo, and I suspected that that would change one’s smell. So I started being sure to include people who had not had chemo, and switched to her left paw. Just to be sure.

I didn’t reprimand her for mistakes, since I wasn’t confident they were mistakes. Perhaps the cancer had gone, and the person didn’t know yet. Or perhaps the person had cancer. And didn’t know yet.

Then I started her on mixed groups and didn’t find out myself who had cancer and who didn’t until after Carson made her decision, just in case I was subconsciously cueing her. We’d go around the room, and at each person, I’d ask Carson, “Cancer?”, and we’d wait for her response. Then I asked the person. Again, I rewarded Carson when she was right, but just sort of ignored her when she was wrong. In case she wasn’t.

• • •

One day, an orderly was waiting for us outside the room. He looked like a football player, and I could see how his muscle would be put to good use here.

“Are you the person who’s teaching the dog to smell cancer?” he asked.

“Not quite,” I replied. “I’m hoping Carson can already smell cancer. As well as a million other things. I’m trying to teach her which one of those million things I want her to tell us about.”

“Cool. Is it working?”

Carson stepped up to the man, and put her left paw on his foot.

He looked at me.

“Do you have cancer?”

He nodded. “Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Stage two.”

“Then I guess it’s working.” I would’ve smiled, but—the man had cancer.

“Wow.” He crouched and started petting her. “You are a fantastic little dog, do you know that?” She wagged her tail. Of course she knew that. “She’s your dog?” He looked up at me.

“Not really.” I told him Carson’s story.

“So does that mean you’re looking for someone to adopt her?” he asked.

I hadn’t really thought about it. Well, I had, but— “Are you interested?”

“Yes. Yes, I am,” he crouched again and resumed petting her. “You have a lovely coat,” he told her. “Oh, I knew you’d like that,” he was stroking her forehead, up from between her eyes.

“I could continue to train her,” he looked up at me. “I mean, it’s perfect. I work here, in the cancer ward, as an orderly. Tim Muldoon,” he reached up to shake my hand. “I’m here every day. So she could come to work with me, every day. I could—how exactly are you teaching her to tell the difference?”

I explained my method. And surreptitiously observed Carson while I did so. She was almost purring.

“I’ve been keeping notes of everything,” I said. “But I don’t have enough data yet to determine whether she can smell only certain kinds of cancer. Or only when it gets to a certain stage. I’m also wondering about whether she’s smelling chemotherapy or other treatments instead of cancer.”

“I haven’t had any chemo,” he glanced up at me.

“Okay, that’s encouraging.”

“But there are other treatments that surely leave a stink, so to speak.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“You know,” he said, standing up, “police train their drug sniffing dogs with a kit. It has a bunch of different scents, each on a strip of paper in a sealed bottle or something. I wonder if we could do the same thing. If different cancers really do have different smells, and there’s no reason to assume otherwise… I’ll talk to the people here in the lab. I swear Ellen is a wizard, maybe she can come up with an equivalent, a cancer detection kit for Carson to use.”

“That would be great!” Why didn’t I think of that?

I looked down at Carson, still considering his request.

“Do you smoke?” I should’ve asked that at the beginning.

Tim laughed. “God, no. And I don’t wear Chanel No. 5 either,” he said. To Carson. “No perfume, no cologne, I’ll even switch to unscented soap and deodorant.”

“And you’re sure you want a dog in your life?”

“I am,” he looked down at Carson, who was actually sitting closer to him now than to me. “I’m sure I want Carson in my life.”

“But what about when—”

“My prognosis is very good. And with Carson, it’ll be even better.”

I was thinking quickly. I knew next to nothing about this person. Then I told myself, once again, take your cue from the dog. And Carson knew—Carson knew he was perfect.

“Okay, but I don’t want to just leave her here, now, with you. That feels too much like I’m just abandoning her.”

“It does. Why don’t—”

“When do you get off?”

“Actually, I just got off. That’s why I came down here. To wait for you.”

“Oh. Okay. Then how about we drive over to the pet store and the three of us will pick out a bunch of stuff for her. I didn’t bring anything from where she was before, and I haven’t actually gotten around to even buying her a collar yet. As you can see.” I nodded to her red bandana. “Then we can drive to your place, we can get her settled in, and then I’ll say my goodbyes.”

“That sounds great, doesn’t it, Carson?” Tim bent down and they snuggled. “We can get you a new collar, and a leash, and a bowl, twobowls,” he corrected himself, “one for your food and one for water, and some toys…” he babbled on as best he could between licks. “You didn’t have anytoys at your old house? Well, then, we’ll get you lots and lots of toys, we’ll fill our house with toys, yes we will…”

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