Paws for Consideration

Paws for Consideration

by Amy Butcher

Published by Got G'nads Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Amy Butcher

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Cover and illustrations by Amy Butcher

Table of Contents

Dedication

Map of San Francisco, November 2008

Friday, November 7

Saturday, November 8

Sunday, November 9

Monday, November 10

Tuesday, November 11

Wednesday, November 12

Thursday, November 13

Friday, November 14

Saturday, November 15

Sunday, November 16

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Book Club Questions

Interview with Author

Dedication

For Frieda and Joe, old-school neighbors of the highest order.

Map of San Francisco, November 2008

Friday, November 7

Friday Morning

For the briefest of moments, a question hung in the air between two damp noses. Daisy-the-person joysticked her electric wheelchair a little closer to Daisy-the-dog. Daisy-the-dog danced one cautious step backwards in response, slid a long tongue across the tip of her nose and tasted the dampened air, trying to decide if this hulking combination of vehicle and person was to be trusted. Daisy-the-person snorted too, and wiped a sleeve across her own muzzle. Come on over here, you cutie, and give me some love! she said, beckoning low with an outstretched hand.

The voice of Daisy-the-person carried way beyond the dog in front of her. She was the morning wake-up call for her neighbors, as regular as the bells ringing out from the steeple of Mission Dolores, only higher pitched. She patted her generous lap again, encouraging Daisy-the-dog to come closer.

To the canine, it wasn’t clear where chair began and person ended. The way this creature moved, the wheels and the whir, were disconcerting. But she smelled good—of oily chicken scents and warm lint—and she wasn’t moving now. Daisy-the-dog decided to take a chance.

All the dogs love me. I know all their names, Daisy reassured the woman who stood tethered to Daisy-the-dog. While the woman might remain a stranger, the two Daisies—one scratching behind the furry ears of the other—were now bonded for life.

After a few minutes, the tethered woman found her voice, OK, now. We’ve got to get going. She smiled sheepishly as she urged her dog out of range.

See y’all later! Daisy yelled out, her southern twang rising above the traffic noise, not the least bit offended by the woman’s eager departure. Grasping the joystick of her Permobil Chairman HD electric wheelchair, she spun neatly on a dime and drove off down the sidewalk in search of her next dog friend.

This had been her morning routine ever since she had moved into the city housing high-rise on 15th Street near Dolores some twenty years ago. Back then, Daisy could still walk but it wasn’t long before the diabetes and fibromyalgia had made that nearly impossible.

The chair had been her savior. She could zip uphill to Muddy Waters on Church Street for a cup of their double-brewed coffee (strong enough to raise the dead) and be back down along Dolores in no time. Dolores was the dog highway. Dotted with palms, a strip of green grass ran down the middle of the street. It rose and fell over the Mission hills like a verdant stream. Most dogs, having both delicate sensibilities and definite habits, preferred this grass over the sidewalk cement for their morning business. Daisy-the-person, for her part, preferred most dogs over their people.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like people. She did. Rather it was that she liked dogs better. Their love was simple and true. A good scratch, abundant praise and pats, and most any dog would meet her halfway. That was more than she could say for most people. Seeing her large body and chair rolling towards them, most people tended to make an abrupt change of direction or suddenly stare intently at their phone. Most had the good manners not to make the aversion too obvious but some, especially the little kids, were more obvious.

Granted, she told herself, her appearance was a sight. Her short gray hair stuck out in tufts, still growing out from the self-inflicted buzz-cut she’d given herself one day last week in a fit of DIY barbery. And lack of exercise and repeated indulgence in her favorite garlic fries had only increased her girth. Sitting in the chair, everything about her just flowed from head to toe: jowls flowed evenly into the double chin that flowed with equal ease into the lumbering torso, the mass gathering momentum like a skier on a jump, sliding headlong through her lap, launching over the lip of her knees, only to land and finally come to rest in the thick ankles and feet on the foot rests of the wheelchair.

Dogs didn’t seem to care, though. They assessed the situation utilizing a completely different set of aesthetic standards. Sure they noticed the gray whiskers sprouting from her chin but took that as a good sign. And the pleats and folds of her housedress were a promise of secret treats from the crumbs that had fallen during Daisy’s last meal. And the thick ankles above the foot rests? Well those just clearly marked the entrance, the front steps, into the world of endless pats and scratches. Even her piercing voice was a comfort. A dog never had to wonder if he’d missed Daisy that morning. If she was around, her bark would penetrate even the noisiest of days.

Lisa stepped out of her apartment on 15th, her ancient shepherd Rocco so close behind that his forehead touched the back of her knees. It was a good strategy, she thought. His eyes were so clouded now with cataracts that it was hard for him to judge the stairs. Gluing himself to her legs at least provided some guidance, a kind of canine banister.

In his prime, Rocco had pulled eagerly on the leash to get down to the complex olfactory landscape of Dolores. Now, at age 14, he seemed more content to explore randomly. Often he would squat to pee just a few steps from the front door, the warm trail of urine snaking down the cement and steaming in the cool morning. Lisa remembered a time when he was a pup and they’d visited friends in New York. She’d taken Rocco out for a walk and he was positively beside himself, unable to find any grass to piss on. No self-respecting dog peed on the cement. It just wasn’t done. But in his dotage, all such vanity had fallen away. At a snail’s pace, they headed down towards Dolores. Pausing, Lisa smiled thinking of the sweetness of old dogs. There are some lessons for me there, she thought.

Down on Dolores, Daisy rolled across 15th, heading south.

Hey Lisa. Hi Rocco! she yelled. Lisa waved back. Rocco lifted his stiff neck slightly, curious but unable to locate the faint familiar sound of Daisy’s voice. Eventually, he gave up and returned to his random sniffing, lost in his own sensory world.

Normally, Daisy would stop and visit but today she just kept on rolling. She’d spied a particularly nervous Boston Terrier that she’d met only once before but was intent on befriending. This dog was young and unsure what to make of this wheeled human. He’d just turned onto Dolores farther down the block, and she sped off after him. Skittles! she called out as she hit full speed.

Allen, the owner of the dog, a youngish man in a tailored suit, gave a pained smile as she approached. He’d been hoping to slip by unnoticed as he was in a bit of a hurry this morning. No such luck, though. Skittles cowered behind him, waiting for a clue from his owner as to how to proceed.

Skittles, you remember me! Get over here and get up in my lap! Such a good dog. Daisy leaned forward in the chair, snapping her fingers low to the ground, hoping to entice Skittles to take a brave step forward.

Skittles twitched his black nose, scrunching his wrinkled flat face in confusion.

Go ahead, Allen said, stepping sideways to encourage Skittles, hoping to get the encounter over with as quickly as possible.

Come hear, sweetie! Daisy said at a volume that would scare even the bravest of dogs.

Skittles shook subtly but persistently. Although Daisy did smell interesting to him, he wondered where to begin, how to approach.

Come get some love! Daisy pleaded.

Skittles took one tentative step forward, just enough to make contact—wet nose to cool hand—then scurried back behind his owner.

He’s just a little shy, Allen said, hoping that would be enough explanation to end the experiment, at least for today.

Don’t be afraid of me, Daisy squealed. "You’re just a little scaredy cat! Just a little at first, and then more fully, Daisy started to chuckle at her own joke. The man and the dog just stared. Scaredy cat! Your little dog is a scaredy cat!" Nothing had been funnier to Daisy that morning and her body rolled with laughter.

OK, baby, maybe another day, she said, conceding that the dog wasn’t going to budge.

Scaredy cat! she said to herself again, turning and rolling off, still giggling.

It took Allen a moment to shake himself back to life from his stunned state. That woman was a piece of work! He looked down at Skittles who looked back, his wide eyes silently imploring What just happened there, man?

I’m not sure, he said aloud in response as they hurried in the opposite direction from the retreating Daisy.

The morning commute was winding down and with it the dog traffic. Lacking any more canine company, Daisy headed towards Joe’s garage halfway down the block on Dolores.

Joe had retired about a year back and now spent his free time on small projects in his garage. He’d worked for the San Francisco Municipal Railway as a bus driver for most of his career, the last few years driving MUNI’s infamous 22 Fillmore line, so the last thing he wanted to do now was anything requiring a schedule. Now he reveled in just puttering about in the garage repairing small items, re-organizing the already-neat tool bench, or simply washing his immaculate black Ford F150 truck. Although it was early, he’d already rolled the truck halfway out onto the wide sidewalk in preparation for her bath, which was why he could see the reflection of Daisy in the black fender as she rolled up behind him.

Good morning, Joe. Sure lookin’ shiny today, Daisy said with a grin.

Joe enjoyed Daisy. She was easy company and that was something he missed from his MUNI days. Just shooting the shit with someone, no real agenda or purpose to it all, just one human to another passing the time.

His wife was still adjusting to his presence at home during the day. Sometimes he came down to the garage not so much to get to a project as to get away from the sense that his wife didn’t really want him around. He couldn’t really blame her—she’d had years to establish her own routine—but it still made him feel lonely. Daisy, at least, was a bit of easy company and nothing about her would make his wife jealous.

Did I tell you about the toaster oven I got? $12.50 over at Walgreen’s on Castro, Daisy said.

Not yet, Joe smiled as he wandered back into the garage for the bucket and sponge. He had already hooked up the hose to the spigot just inside the garage door. Stopping just beside Daisy, he plunked the nozzle of the hose into the bucket and began to create a whirlpool of soapy water.

I was over there yesterday, said Daisy, and they were having this sale. I figured I could just put it on the counter in my kitchen next to the sink. We’re not supposed to have a lot of appliances or nothing but I figure a toaster oven is OK. Daisy tweaked the controls as she talked, making minor adjustments to the seat position, a sort of electronic twitch.

Figure it is too, Joe said as he eyed the water swirling, long after he’d shut down the flow.

I can use it to make me some Pop-Tarts. Or maybe even something healthier, like those little spinach pies they have over at Safeway.

Me? I’d make one of those mini pizzas. You know, the frozen kind. I like those. Joe dipped the sponge in the bucket and began to make wide circles across the hood, imagining those mini pizzas grown large.

Me too. My doctor says I really shouldn’t eat that many carbohydrates. With my heart and my blood sugar, I’m supposed to be eating more vegetables and grains and stuff. But it’s hard. Who wants to fire up the big oven and do all that cooking for just one person?

That image and its implications sat heavily between them for a moment: aloneness, loneliness, choice. Joe broke the moment, splashing another soapy sponge-full, this time attacking the front left fender. It’s amazing how dirty this truck gets, even though it’s just sitting in the garage. Joe squinted at the hood, eyeing a spot he’d missed.

Joe, I do believe you have more vanity about that car than you do about yourself. Why just take a look at those pants. Daisy pointed to a large oil spot on the right cuff of Joe’s khakis.

Well, shoot, Joe said as he bent over to see. Must’ve rubbed up against something in the garage.

Or maybe you’re just an oily old bastard! Daisy laughed and Joe did too.

She reengaged the motor of her chair and turned. I’ll see you later, she called as she wheeled off for home, her morning visits—dog and human—complete.

Robbie stepped out onto the sidewalk and paused; in part, to feel the temperature; in part, to settle back into her body. You would think that after years of this daily routine she’d be used to the sound of the iron gate slamming behind her, but it still startled her each and every time. If it didn’t slam it didn’t catch, and her apartment building had suffered enough break-ins to make that catch important. She sympathized with her neighbors in the street-facing apartments but there was so much noise and hubbub out here that the sound of the slamming gate was probably just one among many annoyances.

Robbie looked up at the high-rise looming across the street and watched as Daisy rolled along the exterior hallway on the third floor. In a squat city of three-story apartments and condos, a ten-story apartment tower seemed seriously out of place, dwarfing every building around. Like in a cheap motel, the doors to all the apartments opened onto exterior walkways. This may have been good for security but no architect familiar with San Francisco’s thick fog would have designed open hallways facing north. It was so L.A. But then again, Beck’s Motor Lodge up the Castro had made it work. Of course, privacy wasn’t the goal in that design. As one of the Castro’s notorious cruising spots, the goal at Beck’s was to see and be seen.

Robbie turned right and headed up 15th Street. This was an old habit from when she had her spaniel Molly. Every morning the two of them would head out: Molly to pee and Robbie for coffee. It seemed a win-win. They’d meander down the center strip of Dolores, Molly hunting the ripe smells of the well-pawed urban dog trail and Robbie stepping carefully to avoid dog poop and keeping an eye out for foxtails.

Foxtails had been an unfamiliar menace when they’d moved here from the east coast five years back. Benign-looking grasses, their sallow barbs were actually mini-spears intent on a one-way trip into a dog’s skin. They’d latch onto the coat and then slowly pull their way down through the fur until hitting their target. If Robbie didn’t find them and pull them off, in a few days they’d burrow beneath Molly’s skin, causing pain and risking infection.

Even though Molly’s life had ended three years ago, their morning ritual had not. Robbie still headed north for coffee each morning, rain or shine. She thought it wasn’t such a bad habit. At least it got her outside every day. Of course, as the dedicated morning runners passed her by she had her moments of doubt, but coffee and the paper still seemed a more appealing way to start her day. The imagined running could happen later.

A cool wind rose up from the street below carrying the sound of a slamming gate to her attention. Daisy knew without looking that it was from the brown brick apartment building across the street. Probably Robbie-without-Molly heading out per usual. Daisy’s apartment in the high-rise was the last one down this end of the exterior hallway. A few plants stood sentry around Daisy’s door, hand-me-downs from neighbors long since moved on.

The largest plant, the potted lavender, had been Jerry’s. He’d always stopped to chat with Daisy before his daily poker game down at the Vet Center. They’d been joking buddies, had even shared some pizza and TV on occasion, but once Jerry started dating Shirley it had all gotten a bit complicated. Shirley was the jealous type and didn’t cotton to Daisy. Absurd really, as there wasn’t one volt of erotic charge between them. They were just company, one lonely person to another, that’s all. But now they weren’t even that. Last month, Jerry’s body had been found slumped in his bathroom. His friends had become worried when he’d missed three poker games in a row and had come to check on him.

Daisy took the key from around her neck and opened the gunmetal gray door. She paused for just a moment to take stock of the silence of the place before flicking on the light and heading in.

Personal hygiene evidence to the contrary, she liked to keep her apartment neat. The kitchen alcove was over to the left, toaster oven now wedged on the counter beside the sink. The beige walls weren’t so hard to take except where they led towards the bathroom. Daisy always thought it might be nice to have the walls a bit more vibrant over there—perhaps yellow or teal—but city ordinance didn’t allow tenants to paint their own apartments. And with the rent she was paying, she couldn’t afford to cause any problems.

The bedroom was all the way to the right. There was just enough space between the dresser and her bed to be able to pull her wheelchair alongside the bed and transfer herself