I get home for good around four, finally done for the day, then call Christy to see if she might come over and keep me company while I watch Colonel. But she’s still under the weather, and after hearing a description of her all-nighter with the toilet, I feel uncomfortable telling her about my dog’s listlessness. I’m lonely enough that I find myself calling Father Tim.
“Maggie, I’m terribly sorry, I’ve got to run,” he says. “I’m having dinner with the Guarinos tonight. Thanks for the lasagnas, by the way. They were wonderful.”
I manage a smile?Father Tim is the only man I know who can eat lasagna at four and go out to dinner at six. “Well, that’s okay,” I say. “I’m just a little worried about Colonel. He’s kind of quiet today. Not himself.”
“Don’t you worry,” he answers. “I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Tell you what, I’ll ring you later, shall I?”
“Sure.” I hang up and stretch out on the bed next to my dog. I stroke his ears and run my fingers through his silky ruff. He nestles closer and groans in contentment.
My father gave me Colonel just after Skip dumped me. I was staring out the window a week or two after Skip’s triumphant return to Gideon’s Cove, and my father walked in with Colonel, a blue ribbon tied around his neck. Rescued from one of those breeding mills down south, Colonel was then an overly large, rambunctious two-year old. It was love at first sight. That first night, he climbed, paw by paw, cautious as a jewel thief, onto my bed. Perhaps he thought if he went slowly, I wouldn’t notice the extra eighty pounds wedged into my twin bed. I was still living at home, and my mom had had a fit when she saw us the next morning, Colonel’s head on my pillow, my arm around his shaggy tummy.
“For heaven’s sake, Maggie! It’s an animal! Get it off! It might have fleas or lice or something.”
The next week, I moved out, into the very apartment I still live in, and Colonel and I began the next phase of our life together. When the humiliation and grief over Skip threatened to overwhelm me, Colonel would come over and nudge my hand with his nose until I petted him. Or he’d drop a ratty tennis ball at my feet, and if I ignored him, he’d repeat this ten or twelve times until I got the hint. He slept on my bed each night, his big head resting on my stomach as I fought off loneliness and tried to come up with a plan for my adult life.
Colonel only needed a little training, and I soon became known as “the one with the dog” to distinguish me from Christy. I never used a leash; Colonel just followed me cheerfully, always able to keep pace with my bike or walking beside me, his plumey tail waving like a flag. I’d go into a store, and he’d lie down on the sidewalk outside, patiently waiting for me to emerge. He took to the diner like a veteran waitress, never bothering the customers, just lying behind the register, watching people come and go until it was our turn to leave. Sure, it was against the health code, but no one ever found a dog hair in the food, and no one ever complained.
When my mother mused out loud that I’d never meet anyone, or when another date went wrong, when I came home from babysitting Violet, filled with yearning for a baby of my own, all I had to do was turn to his golden face and ask for a kiss. He never told me I was wasting my life?he thought my life was the best thing that ever happened to him. He never thought I talked too much; instead, his eyes would follow my every move, his ears pricked and alert when I spoke. He accepted every tummy scratch, every head pat, every evening on the couch as if it were a gift from God Himself, when really, it was just a drop in the bucket compared to the devotion he gave me.
“You’re my best bud,” I tell him. His tail thumps reassuringly. Cuddled together, we fall asleep.
I WAKE UP around three in the morning, knowing immediately that Colonel has died.
His body is still warm under my hand, but there’s just something missing. Tears flood my eyes, but I keep petting him, his beautiful soft golden fur. I stroke his white cheeks, feeling the wiry whiskers, the soft jowls of his throat. I don’t turn on the light?it would be sacrilegious somehow, because then I’d have to see that my dog of the past eleven years is dead. Instead, I just move closer to him, wrap both arms around his neck, bury my face in his fur and cry.
“I’m sorry, Colonel,” I choke out. Sorry that I didn’t rush him to the vet to see if there was anything wrong, sorry that I didn’t take the day off to be with him. “I’m so sorry, boy.”
I cry until the sheet beneath my face is soaked, until the sky goes from black to blue velvet to pink. When I can’t avoid it any longer, I sit up and look at him, his noble, gentle white face, the silky feathers of his belly and legs.
“Thanks for everything,” I whisper, my words pitifully inadequate.
The phone rings, and I know it’s Christy before I hear her voice. We know when the other is hurting.
“Is everything okay?” she whispers. It’s only five in the morning.
“Colonel died,” I tell her.
“Oh, no! Oh, Maggie!” she cries, and I start crying again, too. “Maggie, I’m so sorry, honey. Did he?did you have to?”
“He just died in his sleep, right on my bed,” I whisper.
“Oh, Colonel,” she murmurs, sniffing. I hear Will’s voice in the background, and Christy tells him my sad news.
“Can we do anything?” she asks.
“No, no,” I say. “I’m calling Jonah. He’ll give me a hand. How are you guys doing? Still sick?”
Christy sighs. “I’m still pretty whipped, and Violet’s got it now. She threw up all night, after she ate three helpings of ground-up spaghetti and meatballs for supper. We’ve barely slept.”
I notice that I’m still petting Colonel’s soft fur. “I hope you feel better,” I tell her.
I call my brother and ask if he’ll help me bring my dog to the vet for cremation when they open. Then I call Octavio and ask him to cover for me.
When Jonah comes over at quarter to eight, he thumps up my stairs and hugs me tight, tears in his eyes.
“Shit, Maggie. This just sucks,” he says, looking at the floor. “Maybe he’s with Dicky now or something. They were both awesome dogs.”
We go into the bedroom, and I kiss Colonel’s head once more as Jonah wipes his eyes on his sleeve. Then we wrap him in a blanket and carry him down to Jonah’s truck. Mrs. K. comes out to see what’s going on.
“Colonel died last night, Mrs. K.,” I tell her, and the old woman, who has buried a husband, three sisters and two of her four children, bursts into tears.
“Oh, Maggie,” she weeps, and I hug her frail shoulders, crying again myself.
Jonah and I slide Colonel into the back of his pickup, and I climb in beside my dog. “It’s gonna be cold back there, Mags,” my brother says.
“That’s okay,” I tell him. I hunker down and put my arm over the blanket so it won’t blow off, because that would just be too sad to see.
The people at the vet’s are so kind. They help us carry Colonel in through the back entrance and give me a moment to say goodbye.
“I’ll wait in the truck,” Jonah offers, closing the door softly behind him.
I pull the blanket off Colonel’s head and take one long, last look. He seems cozy, wrapped in the red plaid blanket that we used together on chilly nights. “I’ll miss you so much, buddy,” I whisper, my throat barely able to force the words out. “You were such a good dog. The best.”
I kiss his cheek, my tears wetting his fur. And then I leave.
Jonah drives me home so I can shower and strip the bed. I can barely look at my apartment, so lonely and empty, so I trudge to the diner, where Judy and Octavio cry over the news.
“Won’t be the same without him,” Judy sobs. “Shit. Shit, shit, f**k. I’m going out for a cigarette.”
Octavio makes a little sign that says “We regret to tell you of the passing of our great friend, Colonel” and tapes it to the cash register. Rolly shakes his head sadly, Bob Castellano gives me a whiskery kiss. Apparently Jonah or Christy calls my parents, because they come in around ten with Christy, who still looks pale and a bit shaky. She and my dad, who is crying openly, sandwich me in a hug.
“Thanks for coming,” I whisper. My own eyes are dry for the moment.
Dad blows his nose, then hugs me tightly. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he whispers.
“He was the best,” Christy says, her mouth wobbling.
“I know. Thank you.”
“Well, Maggie,” my mother says, and I brace myself for what comes next. “I’m sorry.”
I blink in surprise. She never tried to hide her disapproval, not being a dog lover herself. She barely tolerated Dicky, another of my father’s saves.
Judy takes care of the two remaining breakfast patrons, shooting us little glances and pretending not to listen.
“At least you won’t have to vacuum up its fur every day,” Mom says idly. “And the diner here will certainly be more sanitary without it.”
Ah, here she is, my real mother. My swollen eyes narrow.
“Mom!” Christy squeaks. “Jeezum!”
“What?” she says innocently. “It’s true. And look at you, Maggie, you’re a wreck. You look awful. All over a dog.”
“Mom,” I say, my voice is pleasingly calm. “Get the hell out of my diner.”
“Excuse me?” she asks. Dad steps back in alarm, and Christy puts her hand on his arm protectively.
“Get out, Mom. I loved that dog. He saw me through some of the worst times of my life. I’m sick of you disapproving of me, sick of you telling me that my life is a dead end, sick of you comparing me to Christy and her perfect life. Get out. Come back when you can act like a mother who loves all her children.”
My mother’s mouth is hanging open, and it’s odd, because at that moment, I love her more than I have in a long time. But enough is enough.
“Dad,” I say, “you really should stick up for me more.”
“I know,” he whispers.
“Christy, sorry. Love you.” I give her a stiff hug. “Hope you feel better. I’m going in the kitchen. Please be gone when I come out.”
Octavio, diplomatic as Switzerland, says nothing as I come in. I open the supply closet and sit down on the floor among the vinegar and canned tomatoes. My breath is ragged, and my hands, I note, are shaking. Tavy gives me five minutes, then opens the door.
“You okay, boss?” he asks.
“Peachy,” I say.
“About time you told that woman off,” he says, smiling his nice gap-toothed smile.
I give a grim laugh. “Thanks.”
I SEND JUDY HOME EARLY, preferring to stay as busy as possible. Word has spread, apparently. Chantal comes in for lunch, hugs me with uncharacteristic sweetness and hands me a bunch of tulips.
“Sorry, pal,” she says, sliding into a booth.
“Thanks. What can I get you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just some coffee today. I’m not feeling great.”
“Right. There’s a stomach bug going around,” I tell her. “Christy and the baby both have it.”
“Yuck. Well, if I don’t have it, I’d be happy to come over tonight, okay? If you want some company?”
“That’s okay. I think I just want to be alone.”
Chantal nods. “Hey, has Father Tim been in today?” she asks, checking her lipstick in the chrome of the little jukebox.
“Actually, no. I have to drop by and tell him about Colonel.” Suddenly, the idea of seeing Father Tim, being comforted by him, maybe having a cup of tea in the rectory living room, overwhelms me with longing. That’s where I’ll finally be able to find some comfort.
I call Beth Seymour and ask her to handle my meals on wheels tonight. When she hears about Colonel, she offers to tell my clients, many of whom loved my dog.
