“She’s very friendly. Very well behaved,” the girl behind the counter assured him.
“No growling? No biting?” Michael asked, wondering if she’d even tell him if the dog was aggressive, or if she’d just send him home with a dog who could turn on him at any moment.
“Why don’t you go meet her,” said the girl. She’d handed him a dehydrated scrap of chicken breast. “Here, give her a treat!” Michael had walked to the window, and Lady had approached the barrier, nose twitching.
“Good girl,” Michael said, extending the chicken gingerly. Lady sat on her haunches, her dark eyes watchful. Michael tossed the treat into the enclosure, and Lady jumped up to catch it in the air. When he extended his hand she’d sniffed it gravely and then allowed him to scratch her head, nudging at his hand when he stopped. Michael paid her adoption fees, stuck a red ribbon on her collar, and brought her home.
“Oh, aren’t you precious!” Tina had cooed. She patted her lap and Lady hopped up and started to lick at her face. “Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest, sweetest thing!”
“Be careful,” Michael said, seeing the flash of Lady’s teeth.
“Oh, don’t be silly. She’s fine!”
Lady had black fur with white socks and a bit of white at the very tip of her short, stiff tail. Her eyes were dark and perceptive, her large, pointed ears would swivel in the direction of any noise, and she had a tiny, heart-shaped patch of pink above her nose.
“She has a very solemn demeanor,” Tina said, and Michael had agreed, even though he hadn’t noticed anything about the dog’s demeanor at all.
Lady’s belly was still swollen and saggy—the vet had told them that she’d probably had a litter not too long ago. She weighed fifteen pounds, and the vet’s best guess was that she was two or three years old. “A teen mom,” the vet had said.
“Oh, Lady,” Tina had said. “I bet you’ve got a story you could tell us.” And then, in the low, gruff tone that eventually became the voice she used for Lady, Tina said, “No comment. Sad memories. Hard times. This interview’s over. Lady.” (That was one of the quirks Tina assigned the dog—whenever Lady finished speaking, in her cigarettes-and-whiskey voice, she’d say her name.)
Michael brought home plastic bowls for food and water, a harness and a leash, a bag of kibble and a dog bed, but, the first night, Lady had stood in the bedroom door, watching Michael and Tina settle back against their pillows. She gave them a considering look and then lightly hopped up to join them.
“No,” Michael said, trying to sound stern. “No, Lady. Your bed is down there.”
He’d looked at her. Lady had looked right back. While he wondered if she was going to growl, or even bite him, she’d strolled to the end of the bed, curled up at his feet, and rested her muzzle on his ankle. Not only did Michael not move her, but he barely moved himself, not wanting to disrupt the dog’s slumber.
“Oh, that’s it,” Tina had said. “Game, set, and match to Lady.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Michael said… but, as the days went on, it became clear that Lady liked his wife well enough, but she was Michael’s girl. When both of them were in the house, Lady would stay with him, curling up underneath his desk when he was playing solitaire on his computer, following him around the kitchen when he cooked (he’d toss her little bits of cheese or deli turkey when Tina wasn’t looking). At night, when they watched TV, Lady would curl up between Tina and Michael, but, as the night progressed, she’d relocate to Michael’s lap, a warm, comforting weight against his legs. He’d found all of her favorite places to be scratched; he’d discovered the especially silky patch of fur, right at the base of her ears.
“She’s got you wrapped around her little paw,” Tina would say, and Michael couldn’t deny it.
Lady was smart, with a repertoire of tricks. Sometimes at night, Lady would hop off the bed and stand by Michael’s side and give herself a shake, repeating the move until he was awake.
“Do you need to go out?” he’d ask. Yawning, he’d get himself out of bed and grope around on the floor for his slippers… at which point Lady would hop into the warm spot he’d vacated and curl up, looking almost smug.
“That’s sneaky,” he’d say, although he couldn’t help but admire the little dog’s resourcefulness. “Scooch over, you bed-hog,” he’d tell her, and she’d obligingly make room. He’d put his arm around her, and she’d rest her head on his shoulder, and they’d fall asleep like that, usually waking up in the morning with Lady’s muzzle on his chest and Tina asking, “Hot date, you two?”
“Do you ever wonder where Lady came from?” Tina asked. “She’s so well-behaved. I bet she had a family before us.” Looking at the dog, she said, “Hey, Lady, did you have a family?”
Normally, Michael let Tina take charge of Lady’s made-up life. That day, he spoke up, and found that there was something exciting and subversive about inventing Lady’s story. “I bet she ran away from home and joined the circus.” Which, of course, was the thing he’d dreamed of doing when he’d been a boy.
Over the next months and then years, they came up with a history, about how Lady had run away from a cruel father to join the circus, how she’d done a high-wire act with another dog named Levon, and how they’d fallen in love, and Levon had left once Lady discovered she was pregnant. (“Seduced and abandoned!” Tina would say in her Lady voice. “Heartbroken and betrayed! Lady.”) Lady had left the circus, and given birth, and seen each of her pups off to a good home, only no one had wanted her (“Women of a certain age! Invisible! Disposable! Not right! Lady,” Tina would say). She’d been living rough when a dog catcher had scooped her up (“Police overreach!”) and taken her first to a shelter, then to the dog store, from which she had finally made her way to them.
“Like it here. Good situation. Nice man. Lady,” Tina-as-Lady would say. Lady’s ears would swivel as she followed the conversation, her wise dark eyes seeming to take it all in.
Michael had promised himself that he wasn’t going to be one of those people: the ones who pushed their dogs in carriages and called them their fur babies. The ones who posted eulogies on Facebook when their pets crossed the “Rainbow Bridge,” and spent too much money on food or treats or—ugh—pet clothing. “You have your fur, and that’s enough, right?” he’d ask Lady. Tina had just laughed. By the time Lady had been with them for six months, she was eating a premium salmon-and-whole-grain-blend kibble that cost fifty dollars per bag. She had little rubber snow boots for wintry days and a fleece jacket with faux-fur trim. She had a jaunty yellow rain slicker and a small Eagles jersey to match the one Michael wore on game days. She had beds in every room of the house and a basket full of rawhide chews and Nylabones. She had friends: Larry, the elderly basset hound; Lincoln, a rescued West Highland terrier; Moochie, a rat terrier, who lived in the building and had an especially jaunty walk. On the weekends, Michael would Google pet-friendly places to take her. They walked along Forbidden Drive in Fairmount Park and drove out to the Pine Barrens, where Lady could go for an off-leash romp.