Dog Crazy by Meg Donohue Read Free Book Online

who would bother breaking into a house and stealing a dog and nothing else? It doesn’t make any sense. I decide to put this part of her story aside for the moment.
    â€œDoes anyone go with you on these walks?” I ask. It seems like a lonely endeavor. I wonder if she really thinks there’s a chance she’ll find her dog, or if searching for him is a way to stay busy, to keep her mind off the reality that she’ll likely never see him again. People do all sorts of things when they’re grieving—just when I think I’ve heard every coping mechanism in the book, a new one comes to light.
    â€œHenry came a few times at the beginning, but lately he’s been refusing. My brother Terrence says he’s too busy. And Clive thinks it’s a waste of time. He doesn’t even like dogs.”
    â€œThere’s no accounting for taste.”
    Anya’s lip twitches into that tight, surprised smile again. “Everyone thinks I need to stop looking and accept Billy is gone,” she says. “Like I can just decide to forget about him.” She shrugs. “I don’t care. If I need to do it alone, I’ll do it alone. I’m going to find him.”
    I realize now that Henry Ravenhurst set up this appointment with the hope that I would convince his sister that her dog is dead. He wants me to help Anya move on. But who am I to say Anya won’t find Billy? Years ago, at a veterinarian’s recommendation, I had a microchip placed under Toby’s skin so that he could be identified if I ever lost him. The microchip company still sends me e-mails full of stories of families who have been reunited with their microchipped dogs years after the dogs had run away. In fact, I received one of those e-mails just this morning. These things—these improbable, Disney-esque reunions—actually happen.
    â€œYou’re not alone,” I tell Anya. “I’d like to help you.”
    She looks at me through her curtain of dark, oily hair, and forthe first time since she walked through my door I think she might be on the verge of tears. “Yeah?” she asks. Her voice emerges thin and tough, sinewy, threaded with the smallest shimmer of hope.
    My heart aches for her. “Of course. Send me that photo of him and I’ll e-mail it around to all of the rescue organizations I work with.”
    Anya looks so fragile then, twisting one thin leg around the other, one boot knocking against the other, picking at her nails. I realize that she hasn’t mentioned her parents, and I wonder where they are.
    â€œBut I mean, out there, too,” she mumbles, waving one pale hand toward the door without looking up. “Will you help me look for Billy out there ?”
    â€œOh.” My throat tightens, the beat of panic quickening in my chest. “I . . . I don’t think I can do that. But let’s set up another time for you to come see me. How about next week? Will you come back so we can talk again?”
    Anya’s face darkens, the smudges below her eyes somehow lengthening. She yanks her bag onto her lap and begins digging through it.
    An anxious feeling curdles inside of me when I realize she’s leaving. In all my years of counseling, I’ve never had a patient walk out before the end of a session. My mind races. Despite Anya’s dirty, bloody, surely bacteria-ridden nails, I have to fight the urge to lean forward and take her hand in mine. If I can’t help someone like Anya—someone clearly devastated by the loss of her dog—what right do I have to pretend any of those diplomas or certificates that hang on my wall mean anything?
    â€œI can’t do that exactly, ” I tell her quickly. “But I really wouldlike to keep talking with you about Billy. I hope you’ll come back to see me again. Or today . . .” I glance at the small clock on the table. “We still have more time. You don’t have to leave.”
    Anya