After three years of pleas, promises and prodding, on my thirteenth birthday, my parents gifted me with a twelve-week old, Yorkshire Terrier puppy I had found through an advertisement in the newspaper.
Clutching a buttery soft, sky-blue chenille blanket tucked safely under my pre-teen arm, we departed our Long Island home on a gray and drizzling October evening. The pup was the last of the litter. The “Runt” was the name they called him much to my dismay and we were to pick him up in a fourth floor walk-up apartment, somewhere in Brooklyn, the one borough of New York City unfamiliar to both me and my father. And because he was the last one unclaimed of the four puppies for sale, they cut $25 off the price, much to my father’s delight.
Exiting the Gowanus Parkway we proceeded onward, navigating the dark and winding cobblestone lanes of an unfamiliar and slightly unsettling Brooklyn neighborhood. I glanced at my father’s hands clutching the steering wheel, his knuckles white and strained. It was before the time of GPS and all navigation was done via map or through the talent of a keen sense of direction. My father’s face, which generally bore a carefree and amiable expression, tonight was different, displaying just a hint of uncertainty to which I was unfamiliar.
And as we continued on in the steady rain, which competed with the rhythmic sounds of the windshield wipers, I made a silent pact with myself; I would not forget that my father did this for me. This voyage into unknown territory for a birthday present which brought unbridled and forever joy to his daughter. And just four hours later, back in the comfort of my Long Island home, all was right again as I cuddled the tiny treasure in my arms I named Rascal.
But this story is not about Rascal or my father. It is about a random woman I met one day in the “big field,” a name our family christened the patch of ground on the outskirts of our neighborhood where dogs, young and old, large and small, frolicked in abandon and where I took Rascal each week after school.
I first noticed her standing alone in the big field, deep in thought. She told me her name was May and her manner was brusque, direct and all knowing. An unlikely friendship you might say. A thirteen year old teen and a woman of a certain age, but each bearing a common denominator – owner of a Yorkshire Terrier, the wee but courageous and sometimes fearsome warriors of the dog world.
May knew all things Yorkshire Terrier and enjoyed ticking off a laundry list of dos and don’ts, the breeds likes and dislikes, the pros and cons of owning the tiny tinkers (a word my Irish mother coined for Rascal). May spoke little of her home life other than she lived nearby and for some reason, I chose not to pry further. There was something I sensed that was to remain unsaid. Our dog connection was all I ever needed to know about May.
One visit to the field, May told me of the importance of constant teeth brushing as the breed was notorious for dental problems and offered to show me the correct way. Since my house was only a stone’s throw from the big field, we drove there. Placing Rascal on the kitchen counter, atop a small towel, toothbrush in hand, May then proceeded to demonstrate the best technique for optimal results. At that exact moment my mother who was out shopping, returned. I will never forget the look she gave me when I introduced my new friend; a stranger, standing in her kitchen brushing our dog’s teeth…
Our friendship continued over the course of a year and then as suddenly as she had appeared, May came no longer. We had never exchanged phone numbers as our weekly visits were a constant so I had no way to contact her. I continued visiting the big field with Rascal for several months after May’s unexplained absence, each time with the hope of once again encountering my Yorki-whisperer friend. And each visit, left in disappointment with a nagging curiosity as to where in the world my friend went.
And then one day, as I approached the field, I glanced up to see May’s dog, high on a hill, but it was not May he was with, rather an elderly man. I watched as Rascal raced to greet his canine friend and I gingerly approached the gentleman. He stared at me for a moment or two then said simply, “You must be the girl who met my wife here each week. I am sorry to tell you she died six months ago. She was very sick with cancer.
Then turning to leave he added, “she spoke of you often.”
I still think of May, memories of the big field, my long gone Yorkshire Terrier, Rascal and that rainy night my father drove me to Brooklyn.
It is said that people come into your life for a reason, or a season. And you truly never know what another person is going through. May never uttered a word to me of her illness. And although she had no control over her own life struggle, I like to believe that our short time together gave her purpose and meaning … as a friend and mentor to a young girl and two Yorkshire terriers.
