June was there, along with her brother Silas, who’s become something of an honorary Loveless brother. She helped me bandage up the ugly gash in the dog’s paw, and next thing I knew, I was taking her home — the dog, not June — and letting her sleep at the foot of my bed.
I took her to the vet, got her paw properly looked at. No microchip. I hung flyers all over Sprucevale, posted on all the relevant internet forums. No one was missing a black and white medium-sized female mutt who might be part lab, part shepherd, and part something else.
The fact remains, however, that she was indisputably once someone’s dog. Even though she was dirty and hungry, she had clearly been well-cared-for at one point. She’s friendly, familiar with people.
Most telling of all, she’s housebroken. She sits patiently by the back door when she’d like to be let outside. She doesn’t go on the couch or the bed. She’s never chewed anything that wasn’t a dog toy.
She’s a good dog. Possibly the best dog.
And it’s painfully clear that she is not my dog.
I put her paw back down and scratch her behind the ears, glancing one more time at the bathroom door before I go to the closet and get out the emergency candles and lanterns, set them out on the coffee table and the countertop in case the power doesn’t come back on before it’s full dark.
There’s a splashing sound from the bathroom. I take a deep breath and concentrate on the wood grain of the wall on the far side of the living room, the dark lines graceful and flowing like water—
“Let’s have hot chocolate,” I tell the dog, cutting off my own train of thought and standing.
She stands as well, tongue lolling out of her mouth in pleasant agreement, and I raise my eyebrows.
“Not you,” I tell her, walking into my kitchen. “You’re a dog. If I gave you chocolate I’d have to take you back to the vet, and you haven’t enjoyed your visits thus far.”
Her enthusiasm does not wane. I quickly gather the necessary items for hot cocoa: ultra-pasteurized shelf stable milk, sugar, cocoa, salt, a saucepan, my propane camping stove, and the dog and I head onto the front porch.
It’s nearly stopped raining by now, though the air is still so damp it feels like you could wring it out. I quickly set everything up on a small wooden table between two Adirondack chairs, then settle into one and wait for it to reach the right temperature.
And I do not think about June’s current state of dress or undress. I don’t imagine the look that would be on Silas’s face if he knew what I was thinking. I don’t remember the brief weight of her on my shoulder, I don’t remember the way her running shorts rode up her thighs when she sat in my truck cab, and I certainly don’t contemplate the fact that every time I lay eyes on her, my mind goes blank.
I get out of the chair and start pacing back and forth on the front porch instead. I watch two squirrels chase each other around a white pine. I watch some small birds flutter around an oak tree. My mom is always after me to set up some bird feeders whenever she visits, but so far I’ve resisted. They’re wild animals. If I feed them, they’ll come to need it.
“Oh good, there you are,” June’s voice suddenly says, and I turn.
She’s standing in the doorway, her dark hair knotted on top of her head, wearing dark green sweatpants that say GO COLONIALS in green down one leg, and a blue sweatshirt that’s got two crossed billiard cues on it and says Cumberland Billiard League in yellow. Everything is too large for her.
“Thanks for the outfit,” she says.
“Sorry I didn’t have anything smaller.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she says, shrugging, walking out onto the porch in bare feet. She stands atop the steps, looks out at the forest. I watch her, lost for words, even though I understand the rules of human communication and know that now it’s my turn.
I should say something witty, charming, something that would make her eyes light up with a smile, maybe even a laugh.
My mind goes utterly, completely blank.
“Who’s Joe?” she asks suddenly.
“Joe?” I echo dumbly, trying to think of a Joe. Not a single one comes to mind.
“Joe,” June says again, and points at her breasts.
Impossibly, I maintain eye contact. I do not breathe.
I have the insane, wild thought that I’m being tested. Maybe June’s last breakup sent Silas, always an overprotective older brother, completely around the bend and now they’re somehow working together to test my loyalty to our friendship.
It is not the thought of a rational man, but it’s the thought I have.