Chapter 1 : Part 3

Five Things I Can't Live Without
by Holly Shumas

(Page 3 of 4)

"I came in at six." She absentmindedly scratched at her bare leg. She's a runner, and wore athletic shorts practically every day. "I've been worried about Norman. I wanted to get in some quality time with him." Norman yanked on the leash and she calmed him with a head tilt. She has a gift.

I, on the other hand, have no gift. Growing up we never had any pets, and I'm not all that comfortable with animals. That hadn't changed much by working at the animal rescue, since I tended to keep my distance. One Saturday a month, I had to get closer because every staff person took a turn at mobile outreach. Every weekend, our van parked in front of PetSmart and staff tried to entice people into taking home an animal in addition to the one they came to buy food for. So once a month, I was out there smiling at strangers and trying to talk up the charms of some dog whose mange we had just cured.

When I first got my coordinator job through a friend, I thought it would be just a few months before an opportunity materialized in publishing or journalism or advertising or some other writerly industry (i.e., someplace I might actually belong). Sometimes it was hard being at the shelter among the true believers. I worked with wonderful people who loved animals in that selfless way that we all wish another human would love us. They managed to love the ugliest, snarliest of mutts, and they didn't seem to mind being underpaid and overworked in the name of the cause in which they so fervently believed. They saw the good in every animal and so, incredibly enough, their sales pitch from that van came straight from the heart. About half the time I was around them, I felt like the worst person alive.

As Denise and I chatted, Estella sashayed by, looking far too hot for nonprofit work. She graced me with a smile. I said hi. She must be a dancer, I thought enviously for the tenth time since I'd met her.

Tricia was racing around, as usual. She got her smile at me out of the way, then said, "Maggie's looking for you."

"Do you know what she needs?" I asked.

"She just said to come by when you get a minute. By the way, do you have those flyers done?"

"Oh, yeah. They're on my desk. Let me just check in with Maggie, and then I'll get them for you." I excused myself and headed for Maggie's office.

Maggie was the director and cofounder of the rescue. She's about fifty and has the kind of soft, lineless face that makes you wonder why you know immediately that she's fifty. She's soft all over, and I don't think I've ever seen her in anything but a tunic and broomstick skirt.

"Hi, Maggie." I poked my head in her office. "Tricia said you wanted to talk to me."

"I do. Come in, and shut the door." Maggie generally radiates acceptance, and that made her facial expression confusing to me. On another person, it would clearly telegraph disapproval, but since it was Maggie, that seemed so impossible that I was suffering cognitive dissonance.

"Nora, I have something to ask you. It's not easy for me." And I could see that it wasn't. She wasn't used to having to do anything but praise her hardworking, committed staff.

I didn't feel worried; I just felt sorry that I had put her in that position. I nodded encouragingly.

"I have to ask you this. Nora, are you happy here?"

I paused. "Sometimes." I briefly gazed into the middle distance, then reiterated, "Yes, that would be the best answer. Sometimes."

Maggie nodded slowly. "That's comforting for me. Because I have to say that when I read one of the dog bios, I thought otherwise." She picked up a paper from her desk. "That dog bio is 'One-Eyed Frank.'" She locked her eyes with mine. "Do you remember writing this?"

"I think so. I just wrote it last week." I racked my brain, trying to think if there had been anything unusual about it. I couldn't come up with anything.

"So you remember it clearly?"

"Well, I wrote it pretty quickly. I was under deadline, I had other bios to finish - " I stopped. "I guess I don't remember it that clearly."

She began to read. "'One-Eyed Frank, age eight, is not a treat for the eyes (no pun intended), but for the soul. He can be prickly, he can be ornery, he should not be in a home with children. But he has grit, he has fortitude, and he has a will to live that has taken him from the mean streets of Oakland to our very own hallowed halls, and I, for one, am glad we have him. You will be, too.'" She carefully replaced the paper on her desk. "Were you mocking One-Eyed Frank, Nora?"

I had been under deadline, that was true. It was late, I wanted to get home, I was scheduled to work the van that weekend, and somehow I just dashed off the sentences, uploaded to the Web site, and left. But Maggie was right. The bio dripped with contempt.

"No, no," I protested, stricken. "I wouldn't do that!" But I had.

Copyright © 2007 by Holly Shumas

About the Author

I grew up dreaming of being a writer. I woke up after two semesters at an MFA program in creative writing. There are people who are born writers, I decided, people for whom it's write or die. And for me, it just wasn't like that. I could live without it.