Baxter didn’t know he was born for a job, had a job, and lost the job. Here are some things that Baxter knew: the couch, the bed, the preferred bed (rugs piled together), chicken skin, the mailman (good), the FedEx man (bad), the awful winter sweater. He didn’t know he had broken limbs and records and fortunes. He didn’t know why he ran over and over toward a rabbit that didn’t exist.
Baxter had three legs but even on a bad day moved twice as fast as me. “I just don’t understand why you’d want to take care of something so large,” said my mom, once again pointing out the size of my apartment, that I knew no one. Once again pointing out the distance between us. “He’ll break everything in his way.” “Mom, he can HEAR you.” I looked at Baxter in the rearview mirror. He was far calmer than the voice coming out of my speaker. I had braced for barking. Howling, even. The drive home from the Bucks County Home for Retired Greyhounds was quiet, uneventful.
“Mom, it’s not running away when you’re 37.”
“You’ll be back. Everyone comes home.”
Baxter, do you miss Florida? Do you miss your competition? Were you and your competitors running together or racing alone? Me, I miss designated parking, I miss not spending a half hour looking for something I can parallel this bad boy into. And yes, I guess sometimes I miss my family but do not tell them that, you hear me? Baxter sat silent.
That first winter was bad. We both hated our sweaters, and three legs don’t mix with four inches of snow. Once around the block and it was “you’ve got this buddy,” but we looked at each other knowing we definitely don’t got this. As the snow melted we began to make inroads, loops widening. Maybe Baxter was still chasing the rabbit, but the rabbit started to look like other things: a pee-soaked tree stump, a discarded chicken wing, golden retriever puppies all inexplicably named Finn.
It’s hard to be the new kid when you’re already several lifetimes old. I sat in the corner of the dog park and watched young couples unleash drooling balls of energy into the fold. Baxter towered above these other dogs, unsure how to engage but happy to be there. He bobbed in haphazard circles, avoiding dust ups while taking in each fence link and overgrown bush. The people dotting the perimeter spoke to him and he spoke back:
“Hello,” said Baxter, “I am surprisingly smooth and easy to the touch.”
“Hello,” said Baxter, “Are you prepared for this much eye contact?”
“Hello,” said Baxter, “Can you remove my sweater so that I may feel everything?”
“Hello,” said Baxter, “I am being instructed to keep the sweater on but do not listen, instructions will not take us very far in this world, we must do what we feel is right and just.”
Homing instincts hold fast, no matter how many finish lines or state lines we cross. It’s summer now and the heat reminds me of lazy afternoons in a slow town. It’s the same sun, I tell myself, I brought it with me. Baxter sits on the patio, taking in his home, wind blowing warm from the gulf. Baxter holds his head toward it and sighs deeply. Tomorrow morning the world will be soft and bright and new.
Jill Spradley is a writer and creative director living in Philadelphia. When not awkwardly composing her bio, she can be found on twitter @sprads.