We’d discussed getting a dog for a while. I needed someone who would greet me with warmth and approval. My stepson, Kevin, couldn’t. He’d wake angry, and sleep angry since his mom put him on a plane at the LA Airport in August and called us to meet him in NYC. He’d slept on the couch for weeks until we built him a bedroom in the loft.
When Kevin descended the escalator to Baggage Claim, I recognized him instantly, though I hadn’t seen him in four years. At thirteen, he was five feet tall with big hands and feet, like a puppy foretelling his future height. Kevin was scared. His eyes darted everywhere and were open so wide it must’ve hurt. His jaw was clenched. He walked reluctantly toward us – his dad, Ben, who’d moved East eight years earlier, and me, his step-mom. He glanced around as if toying with bolting, but we quashed his plans with hugs he didn’t return.
Four months later, Ben spotted the scruffy dog loitering in front of our building in DUMBO, Brooklyn. A blizzard was forecast for that New Year’s Eve afternoon. After a few ear scratches, she followed Ben inside like she was coming home. We offered her canned tuna in water, undrained, and she inhaled it in seconds.
The dog was filthy and had no ID tag. I bought her a collar, leash, and food and drove her to the vet. The doctor guessed she was eight months old, lived with a family who deserted her or got lost, and lived on the street for about a week. The vet gave her puppy shots while she looked on as if some other animal was getting stuck. It was snowing hard as I drove to her home. Kevin stayed in his room.
We bathed her. She was 35 lb. and a redhead, assembled from random dog parts – the long nose of a Collie, a Weimaraner’s brown snout, ears from a German Shepherd, and a tail that wagged constantly. Despite posting flyers, no one claimed her, and she became our dog, our Paloma. Timing walkies was tricky. We observed her for signs she needed to go out. Once outside, she’d follow behind, tapping Ben’s or my leg with her nose, keeping an eye on us so we wouldn’t run away.
*
Our home life was tense. Ben was paralyzed with guilt, haunted by the chaos Kevin must’ve endured with his mother as she moved him every year to a new town with a new boyfriend. Despite his efforts, the judge didn’t award custody to Ben. As Kevin’s stepmother, I was determined to swoop in and offer him a loving haven, but he was wary.
One day, Kevin and his friends took Paloma out. He tied her outside a bodega and went skateboarding, forgetting her. She found her way home on her own. Kevin was a confused teenager who was all angles and angst, banished from his California home abruptly, sent to live with a father he barely knew in gritty Brooklyn, and forced to repeat the seventh grade. The school suspended him often. We longed to make him feel part of our family. On his first Thanksgiving, he ran away angry over something minor, and we couldn’t find him for three days. We were terrified, thinking he was lost forever.
Nine-year-old Kevin was a bright, exuberant boy on his first Brooklyn visit. But he’d changed by the time he came to live with us. I searched for a way to help him feel safe and loved, but I was a first-time step-mom to a teenager without ever being a mom to a baby.
*
One afternoon, when Paloma and I were out for walkies, a tempting pigeon strolled down the center of our street. She lunged for the bird as a car reached us. Paloma must have seen the vehicle and dove underneath the bumper. The driver stopped and got out. He was pasty-faced, wringing his hands, a dog-lover. I fell to my knees screaming, afraid of what I’d see. She was awake, breathing heavily, laying on her side with her legs splayed, pressed against the pavement by the car’s undercarriage. She moaned in despair.
I became her, an animal trapped. Her pain and fear were mine. I wept. My mind raced. My heart ached. I felt I would break in two. Her front legs were between the car’s tires, so the vehicle couldn’t move without crushing her paws. Paloma’s brown eyes flashed in panic. She pleaded with me to be her savior.
Afraid of hurting her, I lay on my stomach on the street, grasped one paw in each hand, and pulled her toward me. Inch by inch, the gap between us shortened. I slowly eased her out until she was no longer under the car. She panted, her tongue limp against her teeth. I touched her head, her chest, her paws. She wagged her tail listlessly. When I felt her side, she cried. Kevin appeared on the street as I was carefully picking her up. He called to me and held his arms out to take her. We drove straight to the vet.
She had no broken bones, but the car’s muffler had burned her side. The doctor injected an anesthetic to numb the area so she could shave off the fur. Paloma lay on the table patiently waiting for the doctor to finish, licking Kevin’s hand and the tears on my face. We brought her home with a cone around her neck.
Kevin sat on the floor nursing Paloma. He petted her, fed her bits of food, and cooed to her for hours until she fell asleep. He was still the cynical, pissed-off kid we’d been living with for months, but as he comforted Paloma, I detected a tenderness he’d hidden from us and we’d been too blind to see.
I tousled Kevin’s hair. He didn’t pull away.
