Читать книгу A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas - Lynn Hulsman Marie - Страница 8

By the time we’re up and out the door bright and early the next morning, Henry Wentworth and his pompous insults are a distant memory. Hudson woke me up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so I promised him a real walk this morning. He’s been extra-restless, and the tree lighting didn’t seem to quell his appetite for adventure.

I’m just glad to be in my deliciously comfortable, if not exactly trendy, Uggs this morning. Last night, after half an hour of enduring a freezing cold tushy on a hard plank bench, I decided I couldn’t spend one more moment inhaling eau de farm, so I stumbled off to try to find Aunt Miranda on my own. Here’s an insider tip: when the president of the United States is on the premises, one is not at liberty to wander around a venue. I was denied at every exit.

In the end, I gave up and managed to make it to the edge of the Plaza just as the ceremony peaked. Hudson and I may not have been up close and personal as originally promised, as we finally waded through the throngs to reach 51st Street and find a cab, the sky caught fire. Not only did great bursts of fireworks tear through the blackness of the night sky, we were bathed in blanket of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ as everyone within sight of the spectacle joined in a shared moment of awe. We could smell the gunpowder’s tang as it cut through the scent of evergreen and hot chocolate.

Huddie and I stopped in our tracks and looked upward, mouths hanging open when the statuesque spruce was set ablaze, lighting up the New York City skyline, and everyone joined in to sing Joy to the World. Honestly, it stole my breath.

As much as I appreciate having experienced it, I am nothing if not a creature of habit. I won’t lie to you. Once I was home in my cozy apartment, swathed in flannel and curled up on the sofa, I was a very, very happy girl. Hudson was my star, as usual. He crawled up into my arms, burrowing into my bathrobe, and lay on my chest. His heart beat fast against mine, as it beat slowly. Still, except for the comforting in-out of his breathing, Hudson lay on me without falling asleep. It’s like he knew I needed the soothing after being so exposed out in the chaos of the city.

I thought it was odd that Aunt Miranda hadn’t gotten in touch, but I’d chalked it up to her perpetual business duties and frankly, her self-centeredness. Well, maybe that’s not entirely fair. She did want me there. It’s just that she’s always on the job.

AT&T doesn’t do well in that part of midtown, and when I checked my phone, ten texts that never reached me last night flooded in from Aunt Miranda all at once. They ran the gamut from Beavering away, can’t catch my breath, to R U here yet? to Don't miss the mini marble cheesecakes in craft services. They’re a triumph. And lastly, About to hit “go” on the tree! Find me! In a cherry picker 20 floors up on the west side of the plaza!

In a flash of anger born of wounded pride, I dashed back a quick text selling Henry Wentworth up the river and ratted to Aunt Miranda about how abysmally he’d treated me.

Didn’t bail on you last night! Was there, but held hostage in a pig pen by security, no thanks to that plummy ASS of an assistant of yours. But glad I saw lighting. Congrats. You nailed it, naturally! Will call later today x C

I hit send, but immediately regret being so hotheaded. I know Aunt Miranda all too well, unfortunately. On a good day she fires three people before her first cup of tea. I don’t want that kind of blood on my hands. Left alone, I’m sure in short order that pompous poser would have dug his own grave. I push it out of my mind, and take a deep breath of the frosted air, laced with the promise of snow to come. The less I think about him, the happier I am.

This morning I decide to detour to Broadway to my favorite coffee place, Zabar’s, to pick up a latte and a bagel before we hit the park. The sky is a clear, bright blue, and the air is crisp and cold. Walking briskly feels good; my muscles warm as my blood pumps. Hudson’s short legs are moving a mile a minute. The chill seems to make him even friskier than usual.

Several passers-by call out “Cute dog!” and “What a sweetie!” I beam with pride. I have to admit he looks extra-dapper today in his quilted red tartan coat.

I tie Hudson’s leash to a bike rack outside the big front windows of the cafe so I can keep a careful eye on him. Pushing open the door, I am enveloped in the smell of warm, yeasty bagels, and strong, black coffee. My mouth literally starts to water. When it’s my turn to order, I get an oversized everything bagel with lox so I can give Hudson a few treats. He goes wild for salmon.

We stand on the corner, basking in the warm sunlight, and taking bites of the fresh-from-the-oven bagel and creamy Nova lox while I drink my coffee. The breakfast gives me a pep, or maybe it’s the sun, so I feel like stretching my legs and start walking south, toward 57th Street, where we’ll enter Central Park. Work can wait just a little while longer today.

“It’s still early, Huddie. Let’s take a long walk down to Columbus Circle, and we can cut into the park and walk home on the paths.” He’s not even listening to me. He’s too busy greeting every dog that passes, and trying to hoover up food scraps from the sidewalk. He looks so happy; it melts my heart. Just then, a burly man, staring at his cell phone, smashes into my shoulder.

“Watch where you’re going!” he growls, and keeps on walking.

Spun around in the opposite direction, I wind up jerking Hudson’s leash, and halting from the shock of it. Hudson lunges out after the guy to protect me.

I open my mouth to yell after him, willing the people around me to brace themselves for hair-curling profanity, but what’s the point, really? I breathe in a cleansing breath, scratch my dog’s head, and plod on. People are going to act how they act. Nothing I do or say can change that, and trying is a fool’s errand. Better to keep to myself. I learned that a long time ago.

I look at Hudson’s little half tail, spiked up in the air on high-alert, as he trots ahead and I feel a smile rise from my heart to my lips. I love him so much. So what if people can be jerks? Dogs never are.

All along Broadway, the shops are displaying the holiday spirit. Wreaths and garlands adorn the windows, and snippets of festive holiday music push out onto the street with every determined customer. Even New York City itself has started to deck the halls, so to speak. Arches of lights in snowflake patterns cross the wide avenue, and greenery flows down the poles of the gas lamps and the signs declaring the names of streets and avenues.

We pass Fairway Market, with its outdoor stalls featuring brightly colored cranberries, pumpkins, cabbages, red potatoes, and myriad other fruits and vegetables shining like jewels on the sidewalk. Live trees of all heights and shapes are being unloaded from a huge double-parked truck and piled into a much-coveted parking spot. The balsam scent gives me itchy fingers. I can’t wait to get home to dig into a mixing bowl full of pie-crust dough. Some make their crusts with a stand mixer or a food processor. Not me. I like to feel the texture of the pastry between my fingers. It’s how I know it’ll turn out perfect from the oven.

The smell of Christmas trees makes me think of Spiced Apple Tart with plenty of clove. I’ll make one of those when I get home, I think to myself, shivering with excitement, and since I have apples, I’ll do a platter of Apple-Stuffed Pork Chops with Rosemary too. The thought of spending the afternoon in my oven-warmed kitchen with my Pandora radio to the Vintage Christmas Carols station gives me a lift till I’m practically skipping.

The blocks melt away as I enjoy the feeling of sunlight on my chilled cheeks, and watch Hudson delight in the sounds and aromas of a New York pre-holiday morning. As we near Columbus Circle, we veer toward the park. The crowds thicken as we approach the Trump International Tower Hotel, and holiday tourists are gathered around the impressive Globe Sculpture snapping shots. There’s the entrance to one of Manhattan’s most famous upscale restaurants, the sublime Jean-Georges, and I remember ducking in there out of the rain one summer afternoon. James and I had planned to rent bikes and ride around the park, maybe grab a hot dog from a cart. The shower hit fast and hard, and we ran for the awning. Before I could protest about the state of my elderly sundress and wet hair, we were standing at a desk with two models in white blouses and black suits in front of very discreet three-inch letters lit by a subtle golden spotlight, spelling out Jean-Georges. Every seat in the place was reserved, but we didn’t mind eating at the bar. We shared Charred Corn Ravioli, and Line-Caught Hake in Lemongrass Consommé. It was early on, and I felt flirty with James. I remember telling him I could cook better, and he threatened to call for the chef. The bartender comped us several rounds of Cucumber-Mint Martinis, and when we emerged sated and buzzy into the sunshine, I had felt loose-limbed and hopeful. It’s funny how things don’t always turn out how you expect them to at first. James, summer, and living spontaneously feel like long-ago daydreams as the chilly air tickles my nose and freezes the tips of my earlobes.

Across the way, I see The Shops at Columbus Circle. It’s hard not to lose track of time when shopping in the uber-luxurious glass-fronted building with panoramic views of Central Park. If heaven had a trademark scent, it would be the comingled aromas of the merchants there. Shampoos from Aveda, bath salts from Crabtree & Evelyn, the rich leather smells from Coach and Etienne Aigner, the rich cocoa notes floating out from Godiva and La Maison du Chocolat, the tangy fresh fruit smell from Jamba Juice, the wonderful cooking smells like curry and sautéed onion rising from Whole Foods Market in the basement… even the sweat and freshly showered man-smell from Equinox intrigues.

Visually pleasing at any time of the year, the shops have been amped up to the Nth degree, decorated with 14-foot three-dimensional hanging stars that hang from the 150-foot Great Room. Lit during the day with blue and purple lights, they’re easy to see from the park. Like an ice palace, the whole Time Warner Center, with its Shops on Columbus Circle, acts as an ornament to Central Park’s festive greenness.

“Look, Hudson,” I say, pointing. “See the stars? I heard that they do the world’s biggest projected light show there, from the time the sun goes down to midnight, and that they play Christmas music and everything.” He cocks his head, body poised to pounce. He’s on high alert. “Oh, not now, Huddie. In the evening. Probably not tonight,” I tell him, “but maybe sometime. We’ll see.”

And there’s Per Se… How long has it been since I’ve eaten at Thomas Keller’s sublime restaurant, I wonder. A long time, I think, as my mouth waters. I sigh, remembering passing through the simple, classic, blue painted doors and entering the serene, intimate restaurant. On paper, it would seem to be everything I hate, with its artfully arranged dishes, infusions, foams, and sugar cages over exquisitely shaped meringues. But the food won me over. In spite of the upscale presentation and cheffy techniques, the emphasis was on the simplicity and goodness of the food. The Butter-Poached Nova Lobster, humbly prepared with leeks, carrots, watercress and the most eye-wateringly brilliant sauce — a sauce bordelaise — remains to this day one of the top dishes I’ve ever tasted in my life.

My shoulders stiffen as I recall, Oh, right. That was with James, too. I walk on, doing my best to concentrate on cut-diamond brilliance of the meal and tease it away from the memory of James scheming and plotting, and eventually wangling his way back into the kitchen to shake hands with Keller himself. Even though James had been with me, I’d dined alone that night.

At the light, Hudson and I turn and drift with the herd across the street to Merchant’s Gate, the entrance to the park at 59th and Central Park South. As we wade into the crowd, I notice the array of food trucks selling delicacies ranging from warm roasted chestnuts, to sugared Dutch stroopwafels, to fragrant Indian samosas, to your basic New York hot dog with that world-famous onion sauce. Even though it’s freezing, there’s still a Mr. Softee truck out, and there’s even a line for the creamy cones.

“C’mon Hudson, let’s go into the park and start home,” I say, tugging his leash toward the path. “Time to head back.” He sits down, panting and taking in the crowd. “You are a stubborn thing, aren’t you? You’re going to freeze your little tail off sitting on the concrete in this weather. I have work to do. Recipes to test. You can have a quick sip of water, and then it’s go-time.”

I pull a collapsible water bowl and small metal bottle out of my coat pocket, and pour him a drink. He perks up, and helps himself with gusto.

“That salmon was salty, huh boy?” While he drinks, I people-watch. Sitting in a chair by the base of the fountain, an elderly man with a wispy gray beard plays a warbling, Asian-inspired Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on an erhu, pulling the bow back and forth with the grace of a ballet dancer. He’s competing with a group of Madrigal singers in full Renaissance garb, standing behind a sign proudly declaring Skidmore College Glee Club.

Further out, I hear hip-hop strains coming from an oversized boom-box. Glancing over, I see that five fit youths in futuristic tracksuits and Kabuki masks are breakdancing. People dressed as cows are handing out individual Greek yogurts from refrigerators attached to oversized tricycles.

“Elfies! Come take a free holiday Elfie, compliments of Takasaki Worldwide. Takasaki: On the cutting edge of global technology! Free Elfies! No money to pay!”

Hudson, chin dripping from his drink of water, lasers in on the high-pitched voice piercing through the din from a crowd of Japanese youngsters, dressed as Manga-style elves. They’re so hip it hurts, with the red and green streaks in their hair, black-and-white striped tights, off-kilter ponytails, and pointed high-heeled elf boots. That’s girls and boys, mind you. I feel tragically frumpy in my brown puffer coat.

Hudson strains toward the Elfie tent, standing on his back legs, paws bicycling in the air, chest supported by his harness.

“Wait, Hudson! Stop.” I shake out his dish, fold it up, and pocket it. Once I’m upright, he’s scraping his claws on the pavement, pulling me toward the tent.

“Huddie, I’m not getting my picture taken,” I explain as I walk him over to the teeming gaggle of elves. One by one, revelers and tourists sit on the brightly colored sleigh situated in the center of the staging area, allowing Santa’s Helpers to drape them in festive scarves and to plop pointy hats with jingle bells atop their heads. There’s a mirror, so all newly ordained Christmas Troopers are able to see themselves. To a person, they all laugh when they catch sight of themselves transformed into elves. Upon exiting, they’re given a lapel button declaring, “I can’t ELF myself — I jingle for Takasaki!”

“You want photo?” one of the elves demands, pointing straight at me. “Step up here. Take a seat on the sleigh! Sit now! Free, from Takasaki.”

Hudson climbs the first step to the dais where the sleigh sits empty.

“No thanks,” I call. “We were just looking.”

“Come on! You take photo now. No one else waiting. Your turn. Come!” He picks up a scarf and a hat, and gestures toward the sleigh.

“Not today. Thanks anyway. Come on, Hudson, time to go home.”

“Oh, hello, little dog! Oh, cuuuuuuuute.” The elf comes toward me, arms outstretched, and Hudson starts dancing like a loon. “Mai, Sparkles, come! Come and see this little dog.” Before I know it, we’re surrounded by elves. “Let’s take an Elfie of this doggie!”

Another elf picks Hudson up, and holds him high in the air à la Simba in the Lion King, and there’s a cacophony of Japanese phrases spoken in excited, high-pitched baby voices surrounding us.

Like a flock of birds, the elves drift toward the sleigh, and I’m swept along, still holding the end of the leash. I can’t even see Hudson above all of the pointed hats, and I trip on the step leading up to the sleigh. I couldn’t fall down if I wanted to, though, because I’m shoulder-to-shoulder in a herd of Santa’s Finest.

“Hudson!” I call, as I find my footing. The leash goes slack in my hand. I can’t see my dog anywhere. As if on cue, the crowd parts like the red sea to reveal my dog up on the sleigh being fussed over like Dorothy just before she meets The Wizard. They’ve stripped him of his harness and collar, and two elfin stylists are brushing back the wispy hair around his face. Is that hairspray? From the look on his face, he’s enjoying the fuss. An elf takes out a baby-sized green-and-red scarf and winds it around his neck, and another sets about fitting his little head with a tiny elf hat with jingle bells on top. A girl pulls an elastic headband from her own hairdo, and from what I can see, fashions a chin strap out of it and… what is that? Maybe safety pins?

A crowd of impossibly tall and impossibly blonde tourists presses in front of me.

“Look Astrid! Gus! See the elf dog?” They’re all wearing huge, thick sweatshirts that say, ‘Lincoln Nebraska Future Business Leaders of America.’

“Excuse me,” I say to a tree of a farm boy, “I just need to get to the front to pick up my dog.” I can see the elves, phones out, taking turns leaning in to get in shots with Hudson. He has a smear of lipstick on the white part of his muzzle from all the elf kisses.

“That’s your dog?” The towering teen asks me. “He’s hilarious. He oughta be on TV or something.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying to muscle past. The crowd is closing in, and I just get a glimpse of the chair Hudson was sitting on. It’s empty.

“Excuse me,” I holler. I’m eye level with the shoulders of all the Midwestern giants. I stand on my tippy-toes to see if I can spot Hudson. I can’t. “Move!” I yell, garnering lots of affronted looks.

“You don’t have to scream, Ma’am,” one of the boys admonishes. “It takes more energy to be rude than to be nice. Here, I’ll help you through.” He uses his body like a barge in an icy river in order to part the crowd, and I walk in his wake until I hit the step up to the dais.

“Hudson!” I call. I don’t see him. My chest starts to feel tight. “Hey, where’s my dog? Where’s Hudson?”

The elves all begin to look around their feet. Smiles melt from their faces as it’s clear he’s not there.

“Where is my dog?” I demand, starting to feel dizzy.

Their voices rise in a cacophony of panicked Japanese sentences, and a tall boy- elf holding Hudson’s collar and harness points. “There! There is the dog!”

I swing around only to glimpse Hudson’s tail disappear between the tall Uggs of a teenaged girl and out toward 57th Street.

“Hudson!” I scream. “Someone, grab my dog! Help!” I start to push my way into the crowd, but I’m like a salmon swimming upstream. “He doesn’t know what to do in traffic!”

“Wait lady,” the boy-elf shrieks. “You forgot your selfie!” I don’t stop, but he manages to catch up with me. He lurches into my back, propelled by the sea of bodies, and says, panting, “All this yours! Take!” and shoves Hudson’s leash and harness, along with a piece of cardboard, into my hand. I think I spy some fur, down by a man’s expensive leather brogues, but I can’t be sure.

I see a hole in the crowd, and take off into a run, but I lose sight of him. I keep calling, and launch my body like a bottle-rocket in the direction I last saw him. He must have crossed the street. My lungs constrict. What if he gets hit by a car? Out of nowhere, a horse and buggy speeds into my path, and almost runs me over. By the time it’s gone, I can’t see Hudson anywhere.

“Hudson, here Huddie!” I cry over and over again. “Someone help me!” My blood is icy. I’m running in wide circles, paying no attention to cars and bumping into bodies everywhere. I’m too terrified to cry. I hear myself screaming Hudson’s name, and feel rawness in my throat. I stumble at the entrance to the subway, and almost go headfirst down the stairs. Shaking, I lower myself to the top step and sit down, even though there is a sea of humanity ascending from underground. If he went down these stairs, anyone could have snatched him and hopped the A, C, B, D, or 1 train in the blink of an eye. He could already be in another borough. It hits me. It’s possible I could never see him again.

I hang my head between my legs and sob.

*****

“Miss?”

Through a fog I hear a husky, male voice. It sounds impatient.

“Hey, Miss. Are you listening to me? You can’t sit on the stairs. You need to move, now, or I’m gonna have to move you.”

I take my face out of my hands, and look up to see a muscular, dark-skinned New York City cop, clad in traditional deep blue. The gun on his hip is inches from my face. Scrambling to me feet, I wipe my running nose. “Sorry, officer. I’m moving. There. I’m up.”

Hands in his belt loops, he gives me a stern once-over.

I try to tell him I’ve just lost my dog, but my face crumples, and I know that if I talk, nothing will come out but a wail. I clamp my lips shut.

His stern demeanor turns to concern. He leans in. “Did someone hurt you?

“No, it’s just…” I swallow the lump in my throat, and manage to say, “My dog was stolen.”

He pulls a pad from his utility belt. “What did the perpetrator look like?”

“OK, I don’t know if he was stolen stolen, but he wouldn’t run away. I know that.” A shiver skates through my body. He wouldn’t, would he?

“Miss, in New York City, there are leash laws. Your pet should have been properly restrained.” He slides the pad back into his belt, and stands in front of me with his hands on his hips. He’s solid. His silver badge reads simply ‘Curtis.' I can only assume no one messes with this guy. Still, he does sport a tiny candy cane pin on the collar of his turtleneck sweater. Maybe he has a soft side.

“Yes, I know.” Weakly, I hold up the leash in my hand. “I live here. It’s just that he was taking a selfie…”

“Your dog was taking a selfie?”

“They dressed him in a hat and scarf… I need to get his collar from the elves… the giants kept me away from him…”

“Miss, are you on drugs?” Officer Curtis whips out his flashlight, shines it in my face, and peers deep in to my eyes.

“Of course not! Wait, you’re a police officer, right? Can you help me find my dog?”

“Miss, this is New York City,” he barks. “I’m not exactly Fireman Joe from Podunk, Nowhere who spends all day getting cats down from trees. We have serious crimes to deal with.”

Another cop, this one skinny as a whip, with an angular face and pink cheeks, sidles up to us. “Everything alright here, Curtis?” he asks, checking me out sideways.

“I lost my dog. I need help,” I interrupt.

“That’s right up your alley, Curtis,” the other cop says. “What kind of dogs do you and your mother have up there in the Bronx? Sporks? Porkies?”

“Morkies,” Curtis mumbles.

“That’s it! What are those little fellas a mix of?”

“Maltese and Yorkshire Terriers.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Curtis and his mom rescue little mixed-breed dogs. Tiny things. Pretty cute. Curtis loves dogs, don’t cha’ Curtis?”

“Well, yes. I do. But we are on duty, Scrivello.” He pulls his partner to the side. I hear him whisper-hissing, “How’s it gonna look if at the end of the day all we have to show for ourselves is a citation for public urination and a found puppy?”

“It’s gonna look like we made people keep it in their pants, and like we helped the distraught citizens of our fair city. You worry too much, Curtis. Probably why you don’t have a girlfriend. Help the young lady! We’ll crack the Columbian drug ring after Christmas. Come on, show the girl a picture of your dogs. You know you want to.”

Without having to be asked twice, Officer Curtis pulls out his wallet, and flips it open. “The big bruiser there is Apollo. Don’t let his size fool you, though. He’s a teddy bear.”

From what I could tell, Apollo could fit in a loaf pan and probably didn’t weigh 10 pounds soaking wet.

“And here’s a picture of the girls, Aretha and Tina, from last Christmas.”

“Lemme see,” Scrivello said, craning his neck. “Ah yeah, that’s when we took ‘em to see Santa Claus and hang out at the senior center.”

I feel a surge of adrenaline. These men love dogs. Maybe there’s hope I could find Huddie today. “Please, Officer Curtis? Help me find Hudson.”

“Oh, all right. You’re in this, too, Scrivello.” He puts his phone away, and takes his pad out again, letting out a big sigh.

“Name and description of the missing person?” he asks me, pen poised.

“Atta boy, Curtis,” Scrivello says. “Never fear, lady. You have the finest of New York’s finest on the job.”

My heart lifts, and I begin to tell the story. “Hudson Bell. He weighs about 22 pounds, his hair is smooth and wiry…”

“What color?”

“Pretty much every color a dog can be… he has a pointy face, and bright eyes…”

“Do you have a photograph?”

“I do on my phone… wait!” I root in my backpack where I’d shoved the leash and cardboard the elf had given me. It was a picture frame, and inside was a fabulous photo of Hudson all decked out in his elfwear. “Here he is. That’s my Hudson,” I say, with a little crack in my voice.

“Aww…” Scrivello says. “He’s a cutie. Looks like he’s smiling for the camera.”

Curtis takes a long hard look at the photo, as if he’s memorizing every detail. Meeting my eyes, he says, sincerely, “I’m going to do everything in my power to find your dog, Miss.”

In no time, we are combing the south side of the park, the way the police officers had been trained to do for a missing person. I look at my watch. It’s still morning. The sun is shining. I feel a smile spread across my face. Hudson and I would be safe and warm at home by lunchtime. Dinnertime at the latest.

*****

“Sit down there,” Officer Curtis, or Craig as I now knew him, said to me, motioning to a park bench around Central Park West. “You need some water. You’re going to make yourself sick if you don’t slow down. That won’t do you or Hudson any good at all.”

New York starts getting dark in the winter at about four thirty in the afternoon. We’re sitting in the ever-increasing blackness, and I have no clue what time it was. The only real light is coming from the twinkling snowflake decorations on the west side of the Natural History Museum. My feet are throbbing, and I am so frozen through I can’t feel my limbs anymore. Still, Hudson’s out there alone somewhere in the city. I can’t just give up. He needs me.

“You want a hot dog?” Craig calls from the steaming cart half a block from where I sat. I shake my head no. We’d been all over the south side of the park, east and west. The officers had radioed all their friends on beats on the north side with Hudson’s description, and they sent a report in to the station. There’s was nothing left to do.

“Drink this,” Craig said, handing me a bottle of water. He munches hungrily into his hot dog. “Listen, Charlotte, you need to go home and get some rest. Hudson has an identity chip. Someone will probably find him and bring him into a vet, or he could wind up at the pound. The first thing they do is scan. Plus, we have all kinds of people out there looking for him now. I’d keep on going, but my Moms has Bingo night at her church, and I promised I’d go home and take care of our dogs. There’s a houseful. We have three fosters right now, on top of our own three.” He chuckled. “This one, I call her Fang, is a puppy and she can’t stop gnawing on me with those little needly teeth.”

I think about how little and frail Hudson was when I brought him home, and tears pool in my eyes. I will myself not to cry.

“No, of course you need to go. You aren’t even on the clock.” I turn my back and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m fine. Thank you for everything. You’ve been amazing.”

He stands up. “Well, I’m not done. I’ll make some calls, and tomorrow Scrivello and I will keep looking and asking around. Plus, we scanned that photo of yours, and my crew at the station’s been passing it around to the other precincts. I have your card, and you have mine.” He wads up the paper from his hot dog, and takes a step toward the 86th Street subway station. “Don’t worry. As a cop, I see things like this work out lots of times.”

And the other times? I think to myself. I need to be alone. I can’t feel all of this in front of someone I’d just met. To be honest, I can’t feel this much in front of anyone. I’m more comfortable being alone when things are going badly. It’s what I’m used to. “Go!” I tell him, forcing a smile. “It’s all going to work out.”

“Sure it is,” he said, smiling back. “You go home, now, and call all your friends and family. The more people you got working, the sooner you’ll find that dog of yours.”

“Right!” I said brightly. My gut feels hollow as I take mental inventory of my friends and family. Apart from my online friends, Charlotte’s chefs, there was… Aunt Miranda. And, of course, Hudson.

“Will do. I’m fine. Go home and take care of your pups.” I make myself start crossing the street toward the west side, so he could feel free to go.

“Alright then. You have a good night, Charlotte, and keep the faith.”

“I will!”

I watch him disappear up the block before I let my body sag. I know I have to get home and take some kind of action, but every step feels like dragging a bag of lead weights without my furry little friend by my side. I plod on. There’s a little dog out there who needs help, and I’m the one to help him. Just like before, just like when he came to me. He’s mine and I’m his.

When I finally reach my building and start up the stairs of my brownstone, I feel the loneliness right down to my bones. It’s like climbing Everest. I know why. When I open my apartment door, I know there will be nothing there to greet me but darkness and silence.