Page 68 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
He nods. “I wanted a dog my whole life, and she thought, at nine, I was finally responsible enough. Or that’s what she told me. Now that I’m old, I can’t imagine a nine-year-old being responsible for anything. But I sure loved Waldo. We did everything together. He slept on the foot of my bed.” He pauses, his eyes distant and nostalgic, and then laughs fondly. “His favorite toy was this great big stick he found in the woods one day. He insisted on bringing it home, carried it around everywhere.”
“How long did you have him for? How… how old was he?”
“Eh.” Gramps waves a hand and looks away, like it’s unimportant. “About a year later, Waldo chewed up one of my dad’s shoes.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. “And?”
“And”—he raises both hands as though it’s obvious—“my dad got rid of him. Gave him away.”
I feel my mouth drop open in horror. “Gave him away just for chewing up a shoe?”
“Back then, a shoe wasn’t just a shoe. It was your only pair of shoes until the soles fell off. And besides, that was my dad’s nature. He was the paterfamilias, it was his house. No one ever dared to argue with him.”
It’s so sad, I can barely believe it.
“Did you ever get another dog?”
Wordlessly, he shakes his head.
“Why not?”
“Lottie never wanted a pet. She preferred a clean house.”
Lottie! You never let the man have a dog?
“Well, you could get one now!”
Gramps laughs. “I think those days are behind me, Mallory.”
“The days of what? Loving another creature? Having someone around to keep you company?”
“And giving that creature baths, lugging him or her to the vet?”
“We could get you a small one. One that doesn’t need much grooming.”
“Waldo was small. That was one of the reasons my mom chose him.” He pauses. “And what about exercise? Dogs need that. I’m too old.”
“Gramps. You know perfectly well that you’re supposed to be taking a walk every day. A dog would make sure you don’t forget.”
He brings our empty bowls to the dishwasher. “Look. Forget what I said. Just get me a tie for my birthday.”
But it doesn’t escape my notice that, instead of putting the photo of Waldo back in its album, he carefully hangs it on the fridge with a seashell magnet.
I spend Saturday preparing the backyard for the party. The first thing I notice is that some of the flower bushes are overgrown, with branches sticking out into walkways. And then I see that the walkways themselves are being overtaken by little spiky green plants—weeds, I assume. I know nothing about plant life. I crouch down and tug out one of the weeds.Look at me! I’m gardening!
I pull out a few more, wishing I had gardening gloves, and then wonder how I’m going to trim the flower bushes.
Back to the hardware store I go.
I return with some promising-looking shears, gloves, and a little pronged tool that was labeledWEED PULLER, so I bought it. With the shears, I clip at a branch experimentally. It falls easily to the ground.Okay! I’m doing it!I make a few more snips, and then a few more, until the bushes look like they’ve had their hair cut by an overenthusiastic barber. But at least no one will get their eye poked by a rogue branch.
After digging up a few more weeds with the weed puller tool, I’m at a loss. I don’t know enough to identify any other weeds that need removing. What else does one do in a garden? How on earth did Lottie make the garden look so lush and magical? I suppose I could water the plants.
I find the hose, turn it on, and spray all the flower bushes and trees.
There. I gardened.
Next, I drape string lights across the bushes and scatter solar-powered lanterns around the patio, near the pool, and along the pebbled paths.
