Chapter 5
Nan
If Nelson were human, I’d have given him a cup of tea and a peach turnover—my standard protocol for people who’ve suffered a loss. But dogs are different. Suffering comes as more of a shock to dogs because they can’t see it coming. Even when unexpected, people have a basic understanding that tragedy comes to everyone eventually and so are more readily comforted by small acts of kindness.
Like people, dogs experience grief in different ways. Some move through it quickly, attaching themselves to someone new so easily that it seems they barely miss the someone who came before. I’m not saying that a dog who attaches quickly to a new human didn’t feel love for the one who passed, far from it, but over the years I’ve noticed that those who had suffered more before their adoption, and were rescued from some traumatic situation, tend to grieve longer and more deeply than most.
What I knew of Nelson’s history, related to me by a neighbor familiar with his situation, bore this out. Nelson was just a puppy when Helen Find, his departed owner, discovered him shivering and abandoned by some garbage cans near her garage. He was worm-ridden, flea-infested, and so skinny that Helen assumed he was feral. But when she reached out her hand, the pup got down low and scooted toward her on his belly, frightened, but so eager for love and affection that he took the risk.
From that moment on, Helen and the dog were inseparable, absolutely devoted to each another.
“When the cancer got so bad,” the neighbor said, “Helen refused to go to the hospital unless Nelson could come along. Of course, they couldn’t do that, so the doctors called hospice. It was too late by then anyway. Do you know that dog never left her side? Not for one minute? And when she finally passed, he whined and cried like his heart was broken. It was almost human. Never saw anything like it,” he said.
Helen Find’s neighbor sounded surprised. I wasn’t. I’d seen it before, and not just in dogs. Nelson and Helen’s story was one of true love. Most people don’t understand it because they’ve never experienced it. Those who have never forget. They can learn love and trust again, but it takes patience, understanding, and time. How much time? There’s no way of telling. You just have to wait.
The only thing I could do for Nelson at that moment was hold him. And so I did, stroking his black and silver head until he fell asleep; then I carried him across the room to Blixen, who had been watching patiently from her bed.
“Here you go, Blix,” I whispered.
Blix rolled onto her side and I tucked Nelson up close. Blixen curled herself into a C around Nelson’s body, sighed, and closed her eyes. Poor Nelson. I’ve fostered over a hundred dogs in my lifetime. It’s never easy to see them grieve. But it’s something I’m called to by temperament, experience, and circumstances.
My Jim was killed in a plane crash when I was only forty-two, so I’m acquainted with grief. But Jim and I had a good life. Apart from our time together being too short, I have no regrets. Jim left me with four wonderful reasons to go on living too.
Jim Junior, whom we called James, was twelve when his dad died. Chrissy, Matt, and Dani were ten, eight, and five. Later, I adopted three more children, Kyle, Brianna, and Emily—all teenagers when they came. Older kids can be hard to place, but they deserve stable homes too. I tried to provide that for all my kids—biological and adopted—as well as an education.
James is a radiologist and Chrissy went into teaching. Matt and Kyle went into business together, designing video games. Brianna is a social worker. Emily married Dan, who opened his own microbrewery near Bend. She’s a stay-at-home mom to two-year-old twin boys.
It gets lonely sometimes, now that the kids are grown. But I keep busy; in helping other people I help myself as well. I believe that everything, the good and the bad, happens for a reason and is part of something bigger—purpose with a capital P. I also believe we each have an individual purpose, lowercase p, that fits in with the grander plan, and that part of the reason we are here is to find it, because everyone matters; each person’s contribution, large or small, has an impact.
Losing Jim was just that, a loss, a terrible one. But in enduring that loss, I came to find my purpose—to comfort and nurture others, first our grieving children, then other people’s children, now any person or pet who crosses my path and needs what I might have to offer—tea and a turnover, a word of encouragement, a listening ear, a way station on the path to a new home. Nurturing and comforting, that’s why I’m here in this place, in this moment. That’s my purpose.
And I’m fortunate to have the resources to fulfill it. I’m not wealthy. In fact, I live quite frugally. Insurance and the settlement from the airplane manufacturer allowed me to stay home with the children and keep my house and land. Acre and a half lots are impossible to come by in Portland now. Not a week passes without some developer knocking on my door. I’ll never sell. I was born in this house. My memories are here and so is my garden.
Where else would I have room to grow my tomatoes and artichokes and rhubarb? Six varieties of basil? My clary sage and elephant garlic? And I could never leave my blueberry bushes—my father planted those bushes. Even if I could find a house with sufficient land, it wouldn’t have soil like mine. How many cubic yards of compost have I worked into it over the years? My garden soil is black gold. Priceless. And where would I keep the chickens if I moved?
My coop has room for twenty-five birds. When the kids lived at home, I needed that many hens to keep us in eggs. I only keep a half dozen now, but it’s nice that they have room to roam. Besides the chickens, there are the dogs to consider.
Normally, I don’t have more than two foster dogs at a time so they can stay inside the house. Every now and then the rescue faces a sudden emergency and I’ll have to take in several dogs on short notice. That’s why I converted the old goat barn into a comfy, state-of-the-art kennel with heated floors, good ventilation, a hot water bathing station, and pens for up to eight dogs. James drove up from Ashland with Leila and the kids and spent a whole week helping me with the remodeling.
That’s another reason I’ll never leave this house—the kids. The whole crowd and all eight grandchildren show up every summer, second week in July, for our annual Homecoming Week. When the garden is at its peak, and the grandkids are outside hooting and whooping in a wild game of tag while the grown-ups sit on the deck sharing memories and a bottle of wine, there is no place in the world I’d rather be. That’s as good as life gets.
No. I’ll never sell my house, not for any price. There are certain things money cannot buy. On the other hand, there are times when it comes in awfully handy, which is what prompted me to phone Monica. I knew she was out with Grace, so I only planned to leave a message. I didn’t expect her to pick up.
“Why are you answering your phone?”
“Uh . . . because it rang?”
“But you shouldn’t be taking calls while you’re on your date.”
“My date?” Monica sounded confused. “Oh. I ended up not going. The restaurant is slammed and my head is killing me. I’m going to Urgent Care later.”
“Oh. Grace was getting all dressed up when I talked to her. She must have been disappointed.”
“No, no, she’s fine. I sent a text, told her and Luke to have fun without me.”
“Wait,” I said slowly, certain I must have heard her wrong. “You mean Grace was already at the restaurant when you sent a text to say you weren’t coming? She’d be having dinner with a total stranger.”
“So? What’s the difference? It isn’t like I know him either.”
“She knows you. That would have made it less awkward. Don’t you think . . .”
I let my question trail off, realizing that there was no point. Monica has a good heart, the best. Look at how she’d taken in Desmond. He’s such a sweet dog, but Newfoundlands are so enormous. She’d give you the shirt off her back if you asked for it, but she’s not the most emotionally sensitive person I’ve ever met.
“She’ll be fine,” Monica said breezily. “Luke’s a nice guy and she needs to get out more. So, what’s up?”
Between Monica’s cut-to-the-chase tone and the background music of banging pots and pans, I knew the restaurant was busy and she had work to do.
“Nothing important. We can talk later,” I said.
“It’s okay. I’ve got a minute. What do you—Hang on a sec.”
Monica moved the phone away from her mouth, but she was shouting so I had no trouble hearing.
“Hey! There’s a piccata order for table six sitting here! Think one of you could quit examining your navel long enough to take it to the customer?”
Listening in, it occurred to me that when it came to running a restaurant kitchen, there are worse qualities than a shortage of emotional sensitivity. Monica knows how to get things done. But the yelling couldn’t be good for a headache. Before I said goodbye, I’d recommend she drink cinnamon tea instead of wasting money at Urgent Care. There’s nothing better for headaches—and nothing truly wrong with Monica, I was sure of it.
Too bad I didn’t have a remedy for Grace’s problems. She wasn’t exactly shy, but she was uncomfortable around new people. It took weeks for her to open up to me and Monica. Now, there she was, stuck having dinner with a complete stranger. Headache or not, Monica should have had a little more consideration.
Poor Grace. What was she doing right now? Whatever it was, I was sure she was absolutely miserable.