Love Is the Best Medicine (6 page)

“That’s it,” said Eileen, sweeping the dog back into her arms. “I’m taking her for a bath. It’s what she’s probably been trying to tell me all along.”

“Do you need a hand?” asked Ben, though the lack of conviction in his voice instantly prompted a raised brow from Eileen. “’Cause if it’s okay with you, I thought I might do a little work in the barn.”

“Go ahead,” said Eileen. “I’m going to give Helen her makeover and then I’m thinking us three girls might do a little movie night together.”

Ben watched them disappear up the stairs of their small two-story contemporary home and headed outside to a large salt-box-style barn sitting kitty-corner to the main house. The property was set back from the main road, surrounded by the solitude of seven acres of open fields and deciduous woodland. Ben was an artist, a painter. The barn was where he worked, and for him late-night sessions were often his most productive. Tempting as it might have been to join his wife for a tick-picking soiree and bear witness to the unimaginably defiled water sluicing from that wretched dog’s body, he had deadlines to meet on a number of commissioned paintings. Besides, this was Eileen’s project. As her husband he had grown accustomed to his wife’s spontaneity when it came to acts of kindness, generosity, and empathy, be it toward people or animals. It remained a huge part of her appeal. It was plain to see how both sides would benefit as her bond with the foundling blossomed. Eileen would relish the opportunity to transform this furry pauper into a Westminster princess.

P
EPE
Le Pew did not relinquish her perfume without a fight. Rinse after rinse the water ran black as Eileen worked the doggy shampoo into an unruly lather. Throughout the careful, head-to-tail liberation of ticks in various stages of satiation, and all the suds and spray, Helen had stood silently in the tub, head outstretched, doleful eyes staring up at her, trembling like a cell phone in vibrate mode.

The wet fur revealed the real folds and contours hidden underneath and it was clear from the surfeit of body fat that Helen had been an accomplished scavenger for some time. What kind of a life had she been living? There were no obvious scars or bruises to suggest anything like physical abuse. A label of neglect seemed to be a better fit, or maybe forced independence, though it was hard to imagine this relatively small, pure-breed spaniel competing against coyotes and raccoons in the wilds of Massachusetts. Where did she get her street smarts? How had she survived the harsh New England winters? Based on what Eileen had experienced so far, not-so-little Helen had obviously learned to use charm and flirtation to her advantage. What she lacked in speed and savagery she more than made up for with feminine wiles.

As Eileen began to towel Helen dry, the dog remained quiet, maintaining a passive stare. Eileen carefully lifted up those heavy, pendulous ears, gently dabbing at the red, raw, and swollen interior, long since abandoned to the will of thriving bacteria and fungi. She maintained a soothing monologue as she worked, the white towel finally swaddling the dog’s head and chest, a canine version of a shrouded E.T. staring back.

Eileen felt it then, a keen awareness of this animal’s need for her. And it was the absence of sound that sealed her fate. Eileen studied this creature staring back and realized her silence was saying volumes. It felt as though the dog’s silence was a pause, a moment between them in which Helen was waiting to be understood. Eileen read this
telepathy as a plea that said
“Look at the state I am in. Do you really think anyone will miss me? When do you think was the last time anyone even acknowledged my existence?”
She tried to imagine how bizarre the last few hours must have been for this dog, but in that moment, kneeling beside the tub, with her and Helen’s eyes locked, Eileen focused on trying to convey one simple message—
trust me
.

T
HAT
first night, Helen ultimately squeezed into a tight space between two couches. Perhaps it was the closest approximation to a familiar sleeping arrangement. Only then did Didi make her move, going over to where this stranger lay and, with great deliberation and delicacy, sniffing this
Mini-Me
over her entire body without waking her up. Apparently satisfied, she trotted off to her own bed to retire for the night, leaving Eileen puzzled by this detached introduction. Didi was used to other dogs. She was well socialized, a popular player at the local dog park. It was true that they rarely entertained other canine guests in the house, but this interaction seemed so reserved, almost awkward, it was as if the big girl knew to give Helen some space. Perhaps something in the way Eileen handled this newcomer made Didi realize she should go slowly.

By the next morning the physicality of the relationship between Helen and Eileen became apparent. It was as if they were adjacent convicts in a chain gang. Everywhere Eileen went, Helen was sure to follow, at her heels, moving from one room to the next, a furry lady-in-waiting. If Eileen went to the bathroom, Helen would insist on joining her. Conversely, Eileen’s efforts to encourage Helen to use their backyard for her toilet needs were met by hesitation and a look of abject fear.

“She won’t go outside without me,” said Eileen to Ben, who drifted into the kitchen, grabbing his first cup of coffee of the day. “I’ve tried a couple of times but she digs in at the door and stares at me. I think she thinks I’m getting rid of her, asking her to leave.”

Ben eyed his wife over the rim of his mug, taking a swallow, noticing the spaniel tethered by some invisible thread to his wife’s ankle. The painting had gone well the previous night and he had worked late. He had managed to miss the “canine reveal” after the midnight makeover, and to his disappointment, although the dog looked much improved, there remained more of her distinctive fragrance than he would have liked. The smell had been downgraded but it was still there, already acquiring a familiarity, like the odor on entering the home of an ailing grandparent, something you could endure and forgive, even tolerate out of kindness.

“She looks much better,” he said, letting his eyes convey the unsaid remainder of his sentence.

“I know,” said Eileen, dropping down to pet Helen. “It’s her ears and her breath. Her teeth are awful. Not that it has affected her appetite. She’s eating like she’s headed for the chair.”

Ben paused mid-sip, letting the sentence hang, wondering if his wife was feeling him out. But Eileen was elsewhere, stroking under Helen’s chin and throat.

“I’m going to sort you out today,” she said, speaking directly to the dog. “See what we can do for you.”

Eileen smiled up at her husband, and Helen followed her gaze, and Ben’s artistic eye instantly framed the shot, seeing the photo opportunity—the woman he loved and by her side a dog with an open heart, as though they had always had one another, as though they had already filled albums together.

I
T WAS
Eileen’s mother, Clare, who provided some crucial information with regard to Helen’s background. They had chatted early that morning about the dog lurking in the shadows of a restaurant parking lot, their failed attempt to find out where the dog came from, and how natural it had been to name her after Clare’s recently deceased mother.

“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” said Clare, hardly pausing to provide the answer to her own question. “Our local animal control officer.”

“You told him about Helen?” Eileen was unable to hide an element closer to panic than curiosity, as though her mother had inadvertently collaborated with the enemy.

“I did. But don’t worry, I kept everything very vague. I made it sound like a friend of mine had seen an old black spaniel wandering around town.”

“And?”

“And he knew all about Helen. Shaking his head, rolling his eyes. He looked exasperated.”

“Did he tell you where she lives? Who’s supposed to be looking after her?”

“He wouldn’t say,” said Clare, “but he told me he’s fed up with picking up that poor dog. He says no matter how many warnings he gives them, the owners never take care of her or keep her on their property.”

Eileen wondered whether she should give the officer a call herself.

“Did he say if anyone had reported a neighborhood spaniel as missing?”

She heard Clare huff a laugh into the phone.

“That was the first question I asked. He told me no, and when I described the dog he told me they never do. They simply don’t care. In fact he went even further. I don’t know whether he thought I was holding something back but he said, ‘If you find her, don’t call me, better to call MSPCA law enforcement.’”

Though Eileen appreciated this advice, due diligence necessitated she go online and track down the phone number for Cocker Spaniel Rescue of New England. Scrolling down their Web page she saw a dozen cockers up for adoption, and what struck her most was not the uniformly happy smiles on their furry faces, but their ages in the
adjacent bios. With few exceptions these were young dogs in excellent health.

Eileen dialed the number as two quotes caught her eye.

“For every dog we can adopt out, five more are abandoned, abused, or given up.” And then, transparently situated next to an image of a pleading dog, the highlighted line, “We need forever homes.”

Eileen introduced herself to the energetic female volunteer on the other end of the line and quickly discovered that no one had con tacted them to report a missing cocker spaniel fitting Helen’s description.

“I’m afraid she already has a number of strikes against her,” said the volunteer.

“You mean her age,” said Eileen.

“Yes, there’s her age. People are less likely to adopt an older dog. They worry about health problems, the cost of veterinary care. They worry about not being able to break them of bad habits. They worry about getting attached and getting their heart broken if the dog is only with them for a short time.”

This explained the photographs of predominantly younger dogs.

“The other big issue is her color.”

“Her what?”

“It’s been called ‘black dog syndrome,’” said the volunteer.

“Black dog what!” said Eileen. “You’re telling me adopting a dog is influenced by color … by race?”

Eileen looked down at Helen. She had strayed a short distance from the computer desk, sitting with her back legs extended in front of her, front legs balanced in between, scooting along and wiping her bottom across the carpet in what appeared to be a well-practiced movement.

“No one knows exactly why, but it is a proven fact that black dogs are simply less adoptable.”

“People discriminate based on a dog’s hair color?”

“It’s not just dogs,” said the volunteer. “It happens in cat shelters too. Maybe there’s something superstitious about it. Maybe
people worry about seeing black hairs shed all over their light-colored furniture. The most popular theory seems to be that adopting a dog is all about love at first sight. Eye contact. Dark dogs can get lost in the shadows of dimly lit shelters. If you go unseen, you go unadopted and for the most part, wearing a shocking pink ribbon around your neck doesn’t do much to improve your chances. Black dogs stick around three times longer than dogs of any other color.”

“I didn’t even mention that her ears are a mess, her teeth are not great, and she seems to have a problem with her anal sacs.”

“Look,” said the volunteer. “We will gladly take her off your hands. But I’ll be honest with you, based on her age, color, and just those few health problems alone, the chances of a successful adoption are slim to none.”

Eileen didn’t want to ask what would happen if Helen wasn’t adopted. She thanked the volunteer for her time and hung up.

L
ATER
that day, when Eileen laid out the case for keeping Helen, she did so point by point merely to give Ben a chance to object or even to hesitate or provide a different perspective. Hope and trust found him in full agreement. And besides, they had pursued every reasonable lead to discover this dog’s roots and found not only dead ends but barricades, off-the-record inferences whispering “give it up—she’s so much better off with you.” Eileen and Ben agreed that if at any time anyone came forward looking for her, they would do the right thing and she would go back to where she came from. If not or until then, they had a new dog and Didi had a new sister.

The first order of business for this impromptu adoption was a thorough health check by Didi’s regular veterinarian, Dr. Judy, who was happy to make a house call a few days later.

“I can see why you fell for her,” said Dr. J., contending with the
effervescent creature at her feet, the stubby little tail swiping back and forth with the frenzy of windshield wipers in a downpour.

“I know,” said Eileen, “she’s got a wonderful personality and she’s already so attached to me.”

Eileen paused for a second, as if deciding whether to share a confidence.

“This morning, I bought her a little doggy bed with matching blanket so she could sleep next to me in our bedroom, and even when she is sound asleep, if I get up in the night to go to the bathroom, she’ll wake up and start sniffing along some invisible trail until she finds me.”