Dog Medicine by Julie Barton Page A

step and onto the driveway. “Can you stand?” he asked. I couldn’t imagine letting go of him. I believed that there was no way I could actually stand up, especially outside. But I felt him letting my legs go, and I put one foot on the ground, then the other. He held me on our driveway, said to my mom who was watching, “It’s okay, honey. I’ve got it.” She wentinside and closed the door gently. This was a moment for only my father to witness. It was as if he dipped his arm down into the burning depths of hell and would let it burn if only I would please, please take hold of his hand.
    â€œWe’re just going to go for a little walk, okay?” he said, in a voice that was easy-going. Simple. A
you can do this
voice. He was still wearing his suit pants and a red tie. He’d loosened his collar a bit and rolled up his sleeves. “Just a little stroll,” he whispered, like a meditation. “Just down our driveway, to the next driveway, then we’ll turn around. You talk if you’re ready. You tell me what you need. Tell me anything.”
    I leaned on him heavily and he held me with his strong arms. I focused on his strawberry-blond arm hair as we walked. He’d been a redhead as a child; I’d been born with red hair. We were kindred spirits. I wanted to be more of a priority in his life. I didn’t feel worthy. I felt terrible at this very moment for making him miss work to tend to stupid, worthless me.
    We made it to the end of our driveway, my feet moving mindlessly beneath me. I used to sprint down these roads, my legs so strong and my future so full of promise. Now here I was, feeling lucky that I’d walked 300 feet.
    The air outside lifted me just an ounce, made me remember I could move again. It felt miraculous that just walking down our long driveway took some of the blackness away. As we reached our neighbor’s driveway and turned around, I finally opened my eyes and squinted in the sunlight.
    â€œI don’t know what’s wrong with me, Dad,” I said.
    â€œIt’s okay,” he said. “You’ll be okay.”
    â€œI don’t know if I will,” I said, weeping now. “I really don’t.”
    â€œYou’re still you,” he said. “You’re still beautiful and smart and strong.”
    I couldn’t talk anymore, just nodded and wiped the tears streaming down my cheeks. He granted me a merciful silence,just held my waist tightly as we walked, like I’d been in a car accident and these were my first steps since the bones had healed. I closed my eyes and let him guide me back up the driveway. He asked if I wanted some dinner. I said I was too tired. He took me to my bedroom, put me in my bed, slipped off my shoes, and pulled up the sheets. “I’m proud of you, princess,” he said. “You did good. I love you.”
    I closed my eyes, exhausted by the walk, ready for a solid night of sleep. But I felt a bit different, like the blanket of sorrow had transformed from lead to wood.
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    They say that people don’t choose their dogs—dogs choose their people. I like to imagine that at this point, Bunker knew to wait for me. Other families had come to the farm and taken away his three sisters and one brother. Each time new people arrived, he gave them a thorough sniff, concluding that they were not the one he was waiting for. Then he proceeded to ignore them or run away when they bent down to pet him, maybe even lift his leg to pee on one man’s nice leather shoe. I like to think that when I was at the bottom, Bunker was fighting to make sure he found me.

T ELLING B ROTHER
    S
UMMER 1994
    The summer before my senior year in college, before New York, I worked as a hostess at a restaurant near Ohio State. For a month or two, I lived in my own apartment, but I moved back home the morning after someone was shot on the sidewalk in front of my one-story