Page 72 of If All Else Sails
Despite needing a flea dip (shudder) and a full round of vaccinations, the vet says she’s in pretty good shape. And that based on the scarring on her belly, she thinks the dog has likely been spayed but never microchipped.
“Do you want to take her to the shelter or are you planning to adopt her?” Dr. Stephens asks.
“Adopt,” I say, just as Wyatt says, “Shelter.”
We glare at each other.
“It’s a high-kill shelter,” Dr. Stephens says, looking between us. “And in summer, they usually get pretty full.”
I give Wyatt my best pleading eyes, the dog curled against my chest. I’m not sure whether she looks better or worse bald. She definitely is not going to win any doggy beauty pageants. She looks at Wyatt, too, then starts to shake again.
“Fine. But we’ll have to figure out what to do with her while we’re on the trip. A dog is not going with us,” he says.
We’ll see, I think.
By the time we get home after we’ve stopped for pet supplies, I’ve picked a name that makes Wyatt roll his eyes. Which tells me it’s perfect.
“I’ve decided on her name. Meet Jib-Jabberwocky—PrincessJib-Jabberwocky.”
“It’s too long,” Wyatt complains. “You must have been reading too manyAlice in Wonderlandretellings along with your sailing books.”
“It’s her name. It can’t be changed.”
“You just decided this, what—five minutes ago?”
“Ten.”
“Fine. But we’ll call her Jib for short,” Wyatt says when I reject his suggestions of Spot (she has no spots), Belle (ironic, he says, because she’s so ugly—which makes me smack his arm), and Garbage (since I found her when taking out the trash).
And though he acts like the little dog is ridiculous and keeps grumbling about it, when I leave Jib alone with him so I can make dinner, I come back to find her curled up in his lap with one of his big hands lightly stroking her back, the tiniest of smiles on his face.
Because of Jib, we don’t get on the boat for the first time until the next morning. And despite what Wyatt said about her not coming with us, the little dog is apparently used to boats because she hops right up with no hesitation, sniffing everything before she scampers below deck like she owns the place.
“Looks like I’m the only real newbie here,” I say.
“Not for long. Also, I prefer the termrookie.”
Wyatt turns out to be an excellent tour guide. I mean, I wouldn’t tell him to quit his day job for the pay, but even with the boot, he moves effortlessly around the deck, pointing out various boat things I’ve only read about or seen in videos so far.
When I interrupt with questions, which mostly consist of me pointing to things and saying, “What’s that?” he is shockingly patient.
“There are so many ropes,” I say.
Wyatt coughs behind his hand. I’m pretty sure to hide a laugh. “Yes, Josie. Ropes—rigging—are a really important part of most boats. Especially sailboats.”
“Thanks, smart guy. When do we go inside?”
“Right now,” he says. Then, faster than seems wise given his boot, he disappears through the opening leading down below. I don’t hear a crash or grunt, only a dull thud.
Still, I lean down quickly. “Are you okay?”
It takes me a moment to adjust to the dim light down there, but Wyatt’s face is shockingly close to mine. The smile he’s wearing is even more shocking. Apparently, all I needed to make him smile was get the man on a boat.
“I’m fine. Now, get down here, Rookie.”
Did Wyatt just give me a nickname?
I like it. Maybe too much.
