Page 6 of Left-Hand Larceny

I send the message in English, anything to help her practice, watching as the three dots blink at the bottom of my screen.

Kitty Kat

…

No, he is not.

Photo please?

I wonder if she knows what “menace” means or if I should call her on it as I open the photos app on my phone. I debate sending her an old one, but she’ll know—she always knows—and instead I follow my canine roommate into the living room. He glances up long enough for me to snap a picture and send it to Katrín.

Kitty Kat

He needs a bigger bed.

I roll my eyes

Me

He does not.

Kitty Kat:

Yes! He doesn’t fit. See?

His feet stick off of the edges.

I bite my lip to keep from smiling as she sends the photo back, bright pink arrows pointing to Howl’s floating paws.

Me

He is fine.

Not only did the kid at the pet store tell me this bed could fit a small horse—something Howl is not, no matter how much food he packs away at dinner time—he doesn’t even sleep in the damn thing. He takes over mine, drools on my pillows, and snores in my ear.

Kitty Kat:

He’s my dog. That is what you said to me when you got him.

I say he needs a bigger bed.

She’s such a damn brat. I did tell her Howl could be hers when I brought him home. I love her so much.

Ragnar:

I’ll get one this week.

I may have to custom order one, but I can make something work.

Kitty Kat:

Ég elska þig

I love her too. It doesn’t matter that I had already spent a decade in the United States by the time she was born. It doesn’t matter that I was four years into my first NHL contract—Columbus—when our parents passed and Amma took over raising her. I offered to move home. To take care of both of them. I was immediately rebuffed.

Another decade later and I know it was the right choice. I have little to offer in the way of job prospects, other than my skill between the pipes, and the NHL undoubtedly pays the best if I’m going to stick to playing hockey. Contrary to what many believe, it isn’t a popular sport back home. It’s half the reason I was sent away and fostered in the USA. Opportunities for a kid showing real promise on the ice? They were slim to non-existent.

Knowing that I was nowhere near equipped to raise a baby, and that I had no job prospects should I return home with the equivalent of an American high school diploma, well it didn’t make me feel any better about the role I took in my sister’s life. And it did nothing to ease the guilt of living over twenty-five hundred miles away.

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