Danish was a miniature poodle. He had apricot fur and weighed thirteen pounds, and he acted more like a human than a dog. He also had expensive taste. One time, for my cousin's bar mitzvah, we had to stay at a motel in Toronto. It was an okay place, but Danish hated it there. He barked the whole time. We had to take him to the bar mitzvah party because the other hotel guests were so sick of his barking! At the party, he sat at the table with us and even won the limbo competition.
Then, a few months later, we traveled to Washington, DC, for my mom's friend's wedding, and we stayed at a real hotel with a pool and a ballroom and everything. It was way fancier, and Danish loved it. They gave him special dog treats and had a dog sitter come and walk him while we were at the wedding. He didn't even care that we left and didn't bark once. We were treated like celebrities there, and Danish knew it.
Danish liked going for walks, but he preferred to sit with us on the couch while we watched TV. He ate his meals when we ate our meals. His food bowl and water bowl sat on a mat beside our kitchen table. When he was done eating, he'd hop up onto his bench near the kitchen window and wait for us to finish.
After Grandma died, my mom bought that bench just for Danish. It's antique, with a gold velvet cushion and brass finishes, and it was the perfect width for Danish. Most people don't buy human furniture specifically for their dogs. But Danish had human tastes, and we did what made him happy.
Danish adjusted to life in Manhattan, but he was happiest on Seagate, just like all of us. He could roam free there, like I could, and he didn't really need a leash anyway-he always stayed right by my side.
This is going to sound crazy and it doesn't make any sense, but I always believed Danish would live forever. We read that book Tuck Everlasting last year in school, and so I'd tell myself that Danish drank the magic potion, just like Jesse. And that Danish and I would always be together.
I guess most of me knew that was totally made up and that no one lives forever-but a tiny part of me believed it anyway.
I wait a moment, wipe my tears, and take a deep breath before I go into Amber Seasons's house. It's my first day of work, and I don't want to look like a complete basket case. Her son'll be napping, but I still need to seem professional. At least that's what my mom said.
I'll be okay eventually. I know that. I asked the vet, Dr. Laterno, how long people usually feel sad after their dog dies, and she said it depends. That everyone is different. I just wanted a set answer. Like, six weeks and you'll feel much better. Or even six months. Just so I knew what I'd be dealing with. But I guess it doesn't work that way.
"Remy, I can't thank you enough," Amber says as she opens the door to let me in. "You're a lifesaver. Hudson is upstairs sleeping, and he'll probably nap the whole time I'm out. I was lucky to get a good sleeper." She says the last part under her breath.
I nod. Don't people say that "they slept like a baby" when they've had a good night's sleep? I thought that meant that all babies slept well.
"My girl is the difficult one," she continues.
"You have two kids?" I ask. "My mom only mentioned one."
"Oh, no." She laughs. "I have one kid and one dog. I refer to her as my girl." Right then a little Yorkie comes running in. "This is my darling, Marilyn Monroe. But ever since Hudson was born, she's become ultra-feisty and jealous and, let's face it, pretty demanding."
I nod, slowly, trying to see what she's talking about. But all I observe is an adorable little Yorkie with a hot pink bow on her head. She jumps up as high as my knee and wags her tail, and when I pet her, I swear she smiles. A smiling dog! Danish was a smiler too, though I think I was the only one who could really see it.
"So Hudson will be asleep, but if you can give Mari a little attention, that would be amazing." She smiles and gives me a hug. "You're the best, Remy."
A few minutes later, Amber is out the door carrying an easel and a coffee can of paintbrushes. I quickly tiptoe upstairs and put my ear to the door of Hudson's room. Nothing. Good.
I tiptoe back downstairs and make myself comfortable on Amber's gray burlap couch. I take a copy of Ocean Living magazine off the coffee table, but before I even pull back the front cover, I hear the jingling of Marilyn Monroe's tags and she jumps up onto the couch and starts licking my face like I'm her new favorite person in the world.
"I'm happy to see you too, Marilyn Monroe."
She licks me even more and then settles down, sitting so close to me that one of her paws rests on my leg.
I try to go back to reading, but it's difficult because Marilyn Monroe is just sitting there, staring at me, as if she's asking me, "What's next?" or "What are we going to do now?" So I put down the magazine and look back at her.
"I used to have a dog," I start. And I tell her all about Danish. She barks at just the right spots, like she understands me and gets what I'm saying. And when I tell her that Danish died this past winter, she lets out a little whimper.
"You're sweet, Marilyn Monroe," I say. "Thanks for listening." She licks my hand, as if to say she's always here to listen. For some reason, she's the easiest person to talk to. Okay, I know she's not a person. Easiest creature to talk to?
I wonder why that is. I never had trouble talking to Micayla before, but I haven't told her all this stuff about Danish and how I'm feeling. Maybe it's gotten harder for some reason.
"If I had known you'd be here, I wouldn't have been so grumbly about taking this job." She looks at me, head tilted. "Don't tell Amber I said that. Or Hudson."
She lets out a little yelp, and I'm pretty sure my secret is safe with her.
I'm surprised when Amber shows up just a little bit later. It feels like she's only been gone ten minutes, but I look at the clock, and it's noon. Hudson's still asleep, and Marilyn Monroe is sipping some water out of her bowl, dainty and delicate, not getting any on the floor and very little on her face.
Amber thanks me again and again, and I tell her it was no trouble, but in my head, I'm wondering if I'm the one who should be thanking her.