“Maybe you should take Bark for a walk?” Nan called from the den. The other ladies were gone. Nan had her feather duster out and Bark watched warily as she fluttered it across the coffee table.
The words “maybe you should” gave me the same knee-jerk feelings of rebellion they always used to.
“He’s fine,” I muttered. Bark did the loud yawn thing dogs do when they’re feeling awkward about a situation. “The trainer I worked with in Rochester gave me obedience exercises. She said they’re enough mental stimulation to keep him happy while I build up his confidence.”
“Dogs need more than mental stimulation, Kay. They need to move their bodies. Everyone does.” Nan pumped her arms like a power walker. “He has too much pent-up energy. Althea said getting Jax into a regular exercise routine—”
“He can’t handle it!” I said too loudly. I looked away. The ugly clay chicken I made in pottery class in fifth grade was still on display on the bookshelf. It felt wrong to yell at the keeper of my artifacts.
“I think he can!” Nan said. “After Ruth and Marta left, Althea got him to sit and shake and walk next to her nicely down the hallway. He was fine.”
“It’s not—He’s different outside,” I said, frustrated. Bark had good manners when everything was quiet. I hated that Nan and Althea thought they understood him just because he sat for a treat in the house.
The day after Eric and I brought Bark home from the shelter, I tried taking him for a walk. An unleashed Schnauzer from two doors down ran at us and bit Bark on the nose. There was blood. Enough to scare me. I was shaking when I brought him back to the house. Eric insisted the scratch was small and it wasn’t a big deal, but it was a big deal to me. An even bigger deal to Bark. It was a struggle to get him to go for walks at all after that.
Once, I got him halfway around the block, only to have him freak out over a plastic grocery bag blowing down the sidewalk like a tumbleweed. He hooked his tail between his legs and refused to take another step, no matter how much I pleaded. I had to carry him home, stopping every few feet to catch my breath and adjust my grip on his trembling body. I thought we’d never make it. And that was midday when everyone was at work, and there wasn’t another dog in sight. When he did see a dog, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He’d growl and lunge, neighbors watching, horrified.
“Well, have you tried?” Nan asked, like she was offering a new and novel idea.
“Yes, I have,” I said, hearing the sharpness in my voice, unable to pull it back. I’d tried everything. The kind of collar that fits over his nose. Positive praise. Pretending to be the pack leader. Fearful Furry Friend classes. A trainer who came to the house. Prozac. An enzyme I bought from the touchy-feely natural foods store that was supposed to be “bioidentical” to calming proteins in breast milk. A contraption you plug into the wall that radiates relaxing scents. A special CD of music for dogs. But none of it fixed Bark. I may as well have taught him to breathe into a paper bag.
“I’m supposed to take him outside when there aren’t any dogs around and give him a treat when he looks at something scary,” I told Nan.
“What’s scary outside?”
“Everything.”
Nan shook her head like she thought the whole situation was ridiculous.
“He needs exercise, Kay,” Nan said.
“We do exercise.”
Nan looked at me like she wanted a bigger answer.
I caved. “We dance,” I mumbled.
“What?”
“We dance. I put on music and we kind of dance around.” Late at night, when Eric wasn’t home, when I’d had a glass or two of wine, Bark and I would have a dance party. I don’t remember how I discovered that if I jumped, Bark would too, but it became my favorite moment of the day. We’d play music videos on YouTube and bounce around the living room like our pants were on fire. Bark yelped and wagged his tail. He’d scramble to get Murray the Monster and toss him in the air. I danced until my asthma flared up, then I’d crash on the couch with Bark, both of us panting.
“Fine,” Nan said. “Let’s dance.” She opened the cabinet under the stereo and flipped through her records.
I’d spent so much time on the floor in front of that cabinet as a kid. I knew each record by the color of the spine. Nan had her parents’ modest collection of big band hits, my father’s classic rock, grandfather’s classical, her own Motown and jazz, and the random ’80s and ’90s albums she’d bought for me at yard sales.
Nan chose an album. She set the record needle, and the playful piccolo from “The Tears of a Clown” came through the speakers. “You always liked this one.”
“I can dance with him while you’re out,” I said. It wasn’t something I wanted to do in front of another human being.
“Don’t be silly. I want to see this dog dance.” Nan started doing small jumps from one side to the other, crossing her arms in front of her, falling into the beat. “Come on! Do the pony!”
I felt the prickle of awkwardness in my skin. Bark stared at me. I did the dumb step-touch thing that I called dancing in junior high, shaking my shoulders ever so slightly. Bark wagged his tail.
“He’s not dancing,” Nan said, grape-vining toward me, waving her arms. Her hands looked like the flapping wings of a dove. She had a grace I did not inherit. Bark shifted his attention to her. His tail wagged slower, but it was still wagging.
“He does get into it,” I said. “But—everything is new.”
“This isn’t enough exercise for him,” Nan said.
The carnival theme played again and the song opened up to the triumph of horns. I jumped straight in the air and spun around. Bark yelped. I jumped higher, kicking my legs. Bark jumped with me. I skipped from one side of the room to the other and he followed, prancing along. I forgot about Nan, and embarrassment, and everything else. It was me and Bark and Smokey Robinson.
As we leapt across the carpet again, Nan stopped dancing and put her hands on her knees, like maybe she was having some kind of heart episode.
I stopped mid-skip, almost sliding into the wall. “Are you okay?” I yelled, heart thumping, out of breath.
She looked up, tears streaming down her face.
“Oh my god! Oh my god!” I shouted. My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else.
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen!” Nan said, gasping for air, laughing.
I wanted to sneak behind the blue wing chair and press my cheek against the soft velour, like I did as a kid when I no longer wanted to be a part of the action.
Nan must have seen the horror on my face because she grabbed my arm. “It’s good,” she said, her laughter winding down. “It’s really good. I’ve never seen you like that.” She hugged me. I didn’t hug back. “Oh, sweetie. No, it’s good. He’s so joyful when you dance.”
I nodded. Still craving the shelter of the wing chair while my adult mind came to the realization that everyone must have known where I was hiding when I did that.
“How did this start?” Nan asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Home alone. Wine. Cyndi Lauper.”
Nan nodded, like it made perfect sense. She crouched. Bark ran over and licked her face. “You are a very good boy, aren’t you?” She scratched his ear. “And you take good care of my granddaughter.”
She went to the cabinet, to the section of records she’d bought for me, and started “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” “I always loved this one,” she said, slapping her hands to her thighs. “Come on, Bark!”
And we danced again.