Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(60)

I have to throw together a couple of lasagnas for a funeral and bake a few dozen cookies, but all day, I’m itching to get home to my dog. It’s the awful plight of a pet owner: knowing something is wrong with your loyal companion, unable to figure out what. Could he have eaten something that’s made him sick? Did he get hurt somehow? Does he have cancer?

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—”