Practice the Goodbye

I’ve always had an inside-self and an outside-self. Sometimes, I think one thing on the inside but then do something different on the outside. Other times, it’s like my inside-self isn’t thinking at all, leaving my outside-self completely on its own. Either way, the results are rarely good.

My mom and I were in Stop and Shop, in the pet supply aisle. Eli was with us, of course, because he’s supposed to get used to public places. He’s allowed pretty much anywhere as long as he’s wearing his harness and the bright-purple vest that says “Service Puppy in Training.”

I didn’t expect to see Sabine and her mom coming down the aisle. At first, Sabine looked confused, like when you see someone in a place you’ve never seen them before—say your gym teacher at a restaurant—and forget who they are. But then Sabine’s face rearranged itself as if she’d obviously figured out the whole story. Neither of us spoke. 

“Dara, I didn’t know you got a dog,” Sabine’s mom said to mine.

I immediately felt guilty.

“He’s so cute.” She bent down. “Can I pet him?”

My mom looked at me. “I’m not sure,” she said. “The trainer told us not to let people pet Eli when we’re out. Remember, Naomi?”

I remembered. We’d only had Eli for two weeks, but the trainer had visited five times already. There weren’t many rules at home: No playing chase or tug of war. No feeding Eli from the table. In fact, we weren’t supposed to even look at Eli when we were eating. Other than that, Eli was just like any other pet. (Except, of course, that he wasn’t our dog at all, which the trainer told us to always remember so that we would be prepared when it was time to give him back.) But when we were out, Eli was supposed to learn not to be distracted by anything or anyone.

“Remember, in public, Eli is a professional,” the trainer had said. “It’s hard work. For both of you. But it’ll be even harder for Eli if you aren’t consistent.” 

The containers of litter, boxes of birdseed, and shelves full of canned pet food all seemed to be closing in on me. The silence stretched. I’m sure my mom had started to figure out that something was wrong. But she kept right on talking.

“Remember what the trainer said, sweetie?” Mom asked again.

I shrugged, trying to avoid Sabine’s eyes. But she was staring at me so hard that it was impossible. If she could, I think she might have shot actual daggers from her eyes, not just metaphoric ones.

But to explain how we ended up in that Stop and Shop face-off, I have to rewind another three weeks. 

And that’s what happened.

What I didn’t expect was my parents’ reaction when I told them about Exceptional Sidekicks at dinner that night. They looked at each other for a long time but didn’t say anything. Not at first, anyway.

“What?” I turned my head back and forth between them.

“You know that Uncle Bruce is a veteran, right?” my mom said.

“He has something called PTSD,” my dad added. “He had a lot of nightmares when he returned from his first tour of duty. Trouble with crowds. At times it was hard for him to just leave his house.”

“He’s fine now, though, right?” I asked. “He visits us all the time.”

“Yes,” my mom agreed. “But a service dog could have helped. I bet he could have gotten better sooner.”

That simple statement turned into a dinner-long discussion that lasted way past dessert, into the next day, and then into the next week. 

There aren’t enough people fostering dogs. 

Why not us? In fact, who better than us?

It will be hard. We’ll get attached. 

But we’ll be helping others, and that’s what really matters.   

I can’t say I wasn’t excited, because of course I was. But looking back, I should have told Sabine about it before my parents decided to fill out the application. Before things moved really quickly and a few weeks later, we had a 4-month-old chocolate lab.

OK, so now you’re all caught up.

Sabine hasn’t said a word to me all day, not since our fight at the bus stop. Honestly, I don’t know how she does it. Eyes straight ahead when she passes me in the hall, as if I’m invisible. My inside-self knows she is hurt and maybe jealous, and that makes perfect sense. But my outside-self decides two can play this game. I pretend not to notice when Sabine walks into the cafeteria, then right past the table where we eat lunch.

As she walks by, she gives a little nod to Claudio and Regina, who always sit with us, and totally ignores me. 

I don’t know where she’s heading, but I know for certain that we have never—never ever—not sat together for lunch. It’s been that way since third grade, when Sabine first moved here. These most unpleasant girls were picking on her in the cafeteria, for some stupid thing or the other. Sabine looked like she was about to cry. I didn’t know her, but I jumped right in, and with one “Knock it off,” put an end to it. That was the day Sabine and I became best friends.

Now there she is, eating lunch with the very same most unpleasant girls. 

“Why is Sabine over there?” Claudio points with his chin, his hand occupied with a turkey club.

Regina turns to look. “Hey, yeah. What’s with that?”

Everyone at our table looks at me. 

“She’s mad at me,” I start, “because I didn’t tell her I was fostering a service puppy in training.” I tell them what that means. 

Regina leans forward. “But why is she so mad at you?”

“She wanted to foster a puppy first, but her mom wouldn’t let her.”

Everyone at the table is quiet. Then Regina says, “So you got a puppy without telling her. And now she hates you.”

It’s a statement—not a question. 

“That’s not true.” I hear my voice squeak. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Claudio suddenly hunches over and ducks his head between his shoulders. “Well, I guess you can tell her that yourself,” he says. “Because she’s heading over here.”

Like a flock of geese, those most unpleasant girls—plus my one time best friend—strut up to us, then take a sharp turn and flutter out of the cafeteria without a second glance.

Neither my inside- nor my outside-self has any idea what to do. 

Other than panic.

In a single instant every terrible thing that could happen happens in my mind, along with every single consequence of those terrible things. I will spare you the details. Enough to say, I’m a total wreck. 

For once my outside-self and my inside-self are in total agreement. 

Sweating and out of breath, I run as fast as I can. I still don’t see Eli. My legs hurt. My heart pounds. Then I hear it. 

Sabine is shouting my name. 

“Naomi!”

When I turn the third corner of my 400-meter sprint, she’s kneeling near Eli, who’s licking her face. I drop down next to them, sobbing from relief, but also from sheer terror. My arms are around Sabine, and her arms are around Eli.

“It’s OK, Naomi,” she says softly. “He’s fine. He came right to me. What’s his name?” 

“Eli,” I say. “Like Eli Manning, the football player. We didn’t get to name him. They did at the breeder. All dogs from his litter got an E name.” I’m talking too fast, like that might make Sabine forget how mad she is. “Remember how the dogs in the documentary got M names?” 

Sabine nods. “I remember.”

As she pets Eli, he closes his eyes and drops his head right into her lap.

“I think your dog likes me,” Sabine says. We’re both quiet, just staring at the cutest dog in the world.

“You know he’s not my dog,” I say. 

“I know.”

“And you know we have to give him back.”

“I know,” she says. And in almost a whisper, “That’s going to be hard.”

I feel a sharp pain in my throat and my chest. “I don’t think I can do it. Maybe this was a really bad idea.”

Sabine reaches for my hand. “It’s not,” she says. “You’re doing something really important. It’s brave and I’m proud of you. If you want, I can help.”

The words burst out of my mouth. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you first.”

Sabine nods. “I know,” she says. “It’s OK. Eli’s here now.” 

Sabine doesn’t need to say anything else. Knowing she’s not mad at me anymore is a huge relief. Like the world has returned to normal.

“We can share time with him,” I tell her. “If your mom says it’s OK, he can stay at your house. He’s supposed to get used to new places.”

“That would be really cool.” Sabine gently rubs the top of Eli’s head. He’s snoring loudly now, like a little motor.

“There was something the trainer said when we first got Eli,” I start.

“What’s that?” Sabine has her face buried in Eli’s furry neck. 

“She told us we have to practice the goodbye,” I say. “Before we say the hello.”

“Practice the goodbye,” Sabine says softly. She bends down, pressing her face into Eli’s fur. “Goodbye, Eli.” Then she lifts her head and turns to me. “Hello, best friend.”

“Hello, best friend,” I say.