paintings by local artists and people bought some of them. But the most important thing of all was the dog.
It had begun with a letter on a website. It was the end of August. We hadn’t gone to the lake that summer and were restless. Simon had read the letter aloud to me as I had been watering the plants in the front windows.
“ ‘Hi, everybody! I’m Olive! I’m three years old. I’m a big strong girl, but not too big, about sixty pounds with lots of love to give! I had a family a long time ago, but they weren’t very nice to me. The Guardian Angels came to my rescue and have been very kind to me, but I’ve been living here at the shelter for almost a year, and I’m starting to get sad. Just look at my picture, and you’ll see! Every time a car drives up I think maybe it’s someone who will take me to my forever home. Maybe you’ll be that person. If you think you might be that person, please call the shelter and leave a message for me. Okay?—Olive.’ ”
“Simon,” I’d said. “You sound as if you think the dog wrote that letter.”
Simon had taken off his glasses and was reading from the computer screen. “Well,” he said. “It’s a good letter. You want to hear another one?”
“No,” I’d said. “It’s shameless.”
“That’s all right,” Simon had said. “Olive’s is the best. Come and look at her picture. She’s beautiful.”
“I do not want a dog.”
Olive—sixty pounds, a black lab mix, glossy black—was wearing a blue-and-yellow bandanna.
“If she’s been at the shelter for a year,” I’d said, standing behind Simon and looking at the picture on the computerscreen, “there must be something wrong with her or someone would have taken her to her ‘forever home.’ ”
“I suppose that means till she dies.”
“What else could it mean?”
Well , I thought later, maybe a dog would be good for Simon. We picked up Olive for a trial run. She’d already had a litter, but the puppies had been adopted early on. “Sometimes a dog gets picked up and then has to come back,” the woman at the Guardian Angels shelter said. “I guess it’s just the way things are. People don’t think it through. One lady brought her dog back because it barked at the neighbor’s dog. What was she thinking when she got a dog? It’s a terrible moment when the dog realizes it’s going to be abandoned a second time.” I took this as a warning.
The first night at the funeral home Olive checked everything out, but she wouldn’t get into the crate we’d bought at the pet store. The crate was in the laundry room.
Olive barked and barked and kept on barking till Simon let her out of the laundry room, and then she slept on a quilt on the floor at the foot of our bed.
She didn’t poop for a couple of days. But she peed a lot and ran around the enclosed parking lot. Simon got several books on dog training—books by monks and dog whisperers, books that recommended using treats as rewards for good behavior, books that recommended clicks, and books that said your dog wouldn’t be happy until you completely dominated it. Simon spent some time working on the basic commands—though Olive already knew what she needed to know about “Sit,” “Stay,” “Stand,” “Down,” “Come,” and so on—but he didn’t bother with therapy-dog certification. He wasn’t worried about her knocking people over or banging into their walkers,and after a couple of months she started working at the funeral home. She enjoyed her “work” and wore a smart forest green uniform with a yellow bandanna around her neck. Gilbert fretted about insurance—What if she bit someone? What if she jumped up on the casket?—but Olive always paid attention and took care of the people who were grieving hardest, and after a while he stopped fretting, because even Gilbert could see that the love Olive was offering was simple and profound, kind and compassionate.
Olive liked to empty every wastebasket in the house
It had begun with a letter on a website. It was the end of August. We hadn’t gone to the lake that summer and were restless. Simon had read the letter aloud to me as I had been watering the plants in the front windows.
“ ‘Hi, everybody! I’m Olive! I’m three years old. I’m a big strong girl, but not too big, about sixty pounds with lots of love to give! I had a family a long time ago, but they weren’t very nice to me. The Guardian Angels came to my rescue and have been very kind to me, but I’ve been living here at the shelter for almost a year, and I’m starting to get sad. Just look at my picture, and you’ll see! Every time a car drives up I think maybe it’s someone who will take me to my forever home. Maybe you’ll be that person. If you think you might be that person, please call the shelter and leave a message for me. Okay?—Olive.’ ”
“Simon,” I’d said. “You sound as if you think the dog wrote that letter.”
Simon had taken off his glasses and was reading from the computer screen. “Well,” he said. “It’s a good letter. You want to hear another one?”
“No,” I’d said. “It’s shameless.”
“That’s all right,” Simon had said. “Olive’s is the best. Come and look at her picture. She’s beautiful.”
“I do not want a dog.”
Olive—sixty pounds, a black lab mix, glossy black—was wearing a blue-and-yellow bandanna.
“If she’s been at the shelter for a year,” I’d said, standing behind Simon and looking at the picture on the computerscreen, “there must be something wrong with her or someone would have taken her to her ‘forever home.’ ”
“I suppose that means till she dies.”
“What else could it mean?”
Well , I thought later, maybe a dog would be good for Simon. We picked up Olive for a trial run. She’d already had a litter, but the puppies had been adopted early on. “Sometimes a dog gets picked up and then has to come back,” the woman at the Guardian Angels shelter said. “I guess it’s just the way things are. People don’t think it through. One lady brought her dog back because it barked at the neighbor’s dog. What was she thinking when she got a dog? It’s a terrible moment when the dog realizes it’s going to be abandoned a second time.” I took this as a warning.
The first night at the funeral home Olive checked everything out, but she wouldn’t get into the crate we’d bought at the pet store. The crate was in the laundry room.
Olive barked and barked and kept on barking till Simon let her out of the laundry room, and then she slept on a quilt on the floor at the foot of our bed.
She didn’t poop for a couple of days. But she peed a lot and ran around the enclosed parking lot. Simon got several books on dog training—books by monks and dog whisperers, books that recommended using treats as rewards for good behavior, books that recommended clicks, and books that said your dog wouldn’t be happy until you completely dominated it. Simon spent some time working on the basic commands—though Olive already knew what she needed to know about “Sit,” “Stay,” “Stand,” “Down,” “Come,” and so on—but he didn’t bother with therapy-dog certification. He wasn’t worried about her knocking people over or banging into their walkers,and after a couple of months she started working at the funeral home. She enjoyed her “work” and wore a smart forest green uniform with a yellow bandanna around her neck. Gilbert fretted about insurance—What if she bit someone? What if she jumped up on the casket?—but Olive always paid attention and took care of the people who were grieving hardest, and after a while he stopped fretting, because even Gilbert could see that the love Olive was offering was simple and profound, kind and compassionate.
Olive liked to empty every wastebasket in the house
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