By Phillip Sanderson
Let’s not give Pepper more credit than she deserves. All I had to do first thing in the morning was walk to the front hallway and reach for her harness, and Pepper went berserk—scratching at the front door, jumping all over me, and doing zoomies up and down the stairs. She wasn’t a genius, but she did love her walks.
Once the front door was open, Pepper was eager to find the best sniffs, pulling me to the boxwoods, along the cement sidewalk, and into the paved parking lot. If she was lucky, she’d find trash on the ground. Pepper considered discarded napkins and straw paper a particularly delicacy; she would chew until she swallowed the wet, pulpy mess. If I tried to coax it from her, she’s clamp her jaws shut and feign ignorance.
Pepper was a rescue we had adopted. By the time her gigantic ears and full-body wiggles had won us over on our visits to the local shelter, Pepper had already been returned twice by previous owners. I had resolved that wouldn’t happen again, and we’d be her forever home. Solid as a rock and full of boundless energy, we like to say that “Pepper loves real hard.” She was sweet, but with her neurotic tendencies (for example, wristwatches were a trigger), Pepper was a bit of an acquired taste.
When we stepped out that morning, Pepper yanking me here and there in her morning routine, I was surprised to see a young girl walking in the grass towards us. Her hair hadn’t seen a comb that morning and maybe much longer. Despite the cool air, she was barefoot and wearing a thin, yellow cotton dress with little blue flowers. It was all she was wearing. In the crook of her right arm, she cradled a large, white guinea pig with tan markings. With her left hand, she absently stroked the top of its head. I’d guess she was about seven years old.
With neither fear nor preamble, the little girl approached and asked, “Miss, can I pet your dog?” In her voice, I heard a child’s natural curiosity that you might expect from someone her age, but with an innocent boldness and naiveté that caught me by surprise.
I didn’t want to disappoint the girl, so instead of answering, I asked, “What’s your name?”
“Lilah.”
“And what’s his?” I asked, pointing with my free hand to her furry little bundle.
“I call him Tuck.” She looked down and stroked one of his velvet ears. “He’s my best friend.” Pepper strained at her leash, desperate to paw at a patch of ground just out of reach. “Can I pet your dog?”
Pepper quickly forgot her digging and became distracted by a discarded Burger King cup lid caught in the bushes. Probably best that she hadn’t noticed Lilah or Tuck just yet. I’d recently given Pepper a stuffed toy squirrel to play with. It had lasted for all of about 15 minutes before she had pulled out every bit of the white stuffing and happily scattered it across the living room floor. There was no way I would let her near either the girl or her guinea pig.
As kindly as I could, I told her, “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
Her eyebrows scrunched together in confusion as she continued stroking the guinea pig’s head. “Why not?”
“I don’t think Pepper would understand your pet isn’t a toy. And she’s really, really rough on her toys.” Looking the girl over, a lot of red flags were going up. “Where do you live?”
She pointed vaguely to another section in our development, a subdivision of two-story townhouse clusters joined by a broad, winding river of asphalt. “Over there.”
Lilah tried again. “Can I pet your dog?” Give her points for persistence.
“Who takes care of you?”
“Granny. But she doesn’t get around too well. She likes me to do things for her, like fixing her coffee and bringing her cigarettes. Other times, she tells me she doesn’t want to look at me anymore, so I go for walks.”
Flags, flags. “Do you go to school?”
“Sometimes. When Granny remembers.” Lilah cocked her head to one side as if she heard something in the distance, a sound that worried her and made her clutch Tuck a little tighter. “I’ve got to go. Bye.” And suddenly, the little girl scampered across the grass and pavement to a building out of sight behind our unit. Perhaps she heard Granny call and was running home.
*
Two days later, Pepper was harnessed and leashed, ready for her morning walk. We had just stepped out the door when Lilah approached, walking across the grass and leaving a trail of footprints through the dewy wetness. In the crook of her arm was Tuck, along for the ride and gently being stroked on top of his head.
“Can I pet your dog?”
Again, Pepper managed to ignore both the girl and the guinea pig, anxious for our usual route along the neighborhood. I’m pretty sure she wanted to check out her territory by seeing what sniffs had changed overnight and if there was anything new to pee on. Or better yet, if there was any new paper trash she could eat. It was ridiculous how vigilant I had to be on these walks to keep Pepper safe from her own vices.
I shook my head, grateful that Pepper was oblivious. “We already talked about this. My dog isn’t good with furry little creatures that look like slippers with whiskers. I’m afraid not.”
Just like last time, Lilah was barefoot and wearing the same yellow dress with blue flowers. Her hair was wild, and she swiped at it with her left hand to keep it out of her face. Her face was the picture of innocence, trying to understand as she asked, “If I didn’t have Tuck, could I pet your dog?”
Knowing how Pepper liked to jump, a habit I’d never been able to break her of, this didn’t seem like a good idea. Lilah was small with a thin frame and Pepper easily outweighed her. Her pale skin had little smudges across her cheeks and arms, and her fingernails had dirt underneath the tips. My heart went out to her, and I couldn’t be one more disappointment in a world that probably had more than she deserved already. “I think that would be okay. If I held Pepper on a short leash and she had to sit for you, you could pet her.” Besides, it seemed a safe bet that nothing could separate Lilah and Tuck, and I would never have to make good on my promise.
Lilah’s face brightened, and it occurred to me that this was the first smile I had seen. Her front teeth were slightly crooked, but I realized that when she smiled, underneath her shabby appearance, Lilah was a beautiful little girl.
Pepper’s ears perked up, large and tall like ridiculous velvet satellite receivers, hearing something in the distance that made her strain at her lead again. She still hadn’t noticed Tuck sniffing into Lilah’s elbow, nose twitching and long whiskers brushing against her arm.
The red flags were hurting my head, and I felt like Lilah needed me to be an adult. “Can I walk you back home? I’d like to speak to your Granny.”
The smile disappeared, and Lilah looked panicked. She shook her head, “No, no thank you. I’m fine.” Lilah gave Pepper a final glance and said, “I need to go now.” Before I could say another word, Lilah took off again, sprinting like being chased by a wolf pack.
*
The next morning, Lilah was waiting for us on the sidewalk. She stood patiently, again barefoot, wearing the same dress, hair uncombed. Only this time, the little girl’s arms were empty.
As before, she approached and asked, “Can I pet your dog?” Though the air was calm and mild, my skin got goosebumps.
It shocked me to see her without Tuck, her constant companion. Instead of answering her question, I asked, “Where is your guinea pig?”
The girl’s brows furrowed together as she frowned and tilted her head to the side, her face clearly confused by the question. Without an ounce of guile or deception, she shrugged her thin, little shoulders in puzzlement. “What guinea pig?”
Pepper pulled at my leash, eager to be on her walk.
Suddenly, the girl’s expression changed, and she was bright and sunny again. “Can I pet your dog?”
* * *
Phillip is an emerging writer after having enjoyed a 30+ year career as a high school mathematics teacher. He and his wife reside in a rural community in southeastern Virginia bordering the Chesapeake Bay where they stay busy updating an old farmhouse and keeping up with their four adult children. He can be found at http://www.plsanderson.com.