Page 41 of The Plus-One List

“Can I ask you a question?” I say, putting some sliced shrimp in the bowl and grabbing a few more from the bag to lay them on my cutting board.

She stiffens. “Um … sure.”

“When did you start adopting old dogs?”

Her shoulders relax, and I feel like I’ve asked the right thing—something safe, something she enjoys talking about.

“Right after college,” she says. A small smile lights on her lips as she slices the cucumber into half-moons. “I’d been living here by myself for a while—it was a couple of years after my uncle died—and Rachel had been bugging me to get a pet. She wanted me to get a cat, since they’re so easy to take care of.” The smile widens a fraction. Slice-slice-slice. “Rachel’s always looked out for me, and she was worrying about me being alone all the time. I like being alone. But I can’t ever say no to Rachel.”

Her eyes dart to me. “Case in point,” she says, gesturing up and down with her knife. “Once Diego sent her that list, it was game over. Do you know about the curse?”

“Curse?” I ask, frowning.

“The wedding curse? Tío Abuelo Alberto?”

“I am unfamiliar with Tío Abuelo Alberto.”

She tells me the story, and I can’t help but laugh. “We Mexicans can be very superstitious,” I say. “I bet Tío Abuelo Alberto was just, like, gay or something.”

Eloise gasps. “Oh my god, yes! And didn’t want his family butting into his business.”

“Just let Tío Abuelo Alberto live his life,” I add.

“For real,” she agrees.

Our eyes meet, our smiles mirroring each other. Then she blinks and blushes, turning back to the cucumber. She accidentally-on-purpose drops a slice on the floor and Charleston happily gobbles it up.

“Anyway, Rachel took me down to Safe Haven Animal Shelter,” Eloise continues. “It’s one of the only shelters in the city that has animals on site. All the others have networks of people who foster the dogs in their homes, so you have to make appointments to meet them. Well, Rachel knows me well enough to know that was not going to work. Emailing strangers? Coordinating meet and greets? Going to their homes? Nope. No way.”

She chuckles softly, sliding the cucumber into the bowl and picking up the onion. “We walked in, and Rachel was doing all the talking of course, really selling them on how I was the perfect candidate to adopt a pet—I lived alone, worked from home, all of that. And then, from under the reception desk, this little gray face peeked out.” She pauses peeling the onion, and swallows, her eyes growing distant with the memory. “And I locked eyes with the tiniest, ugliest dog I’d ever seen. He had a wispy mohawk and one snaggletooth. His eyes were clouded with cataracts, and he had patches of fur missing. And I just melted right then and there.”

Her voice goes so soft, I pause in my own slicing to listen. I can feel her memories bubbling to the surface, feel something private and tender that she never shares with anyone fighting its way toward the light.

“It was like I saw myself in him,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “This small, unwanted, broken thing.” I stop breathing, certain if I make a sound, I’ll shatter this moment. She blinks, and a crystalline tear lands on her cheek. The silence swells and billows around us. Is this really how she sees herself? My heart throbs a painful beat.

Eloise clears her throat and the noise seems to startle her back to the present. She sniffs and hurriedly wipes the tear away.

“I mean, he wasn’t cute or fun or playful, he wasn’t a puppy, and I didn’t realize at the time how hard it is for seniors to get adopted,” she says, suddenly very focused on slicing the onion, like she’s determined not to make eye contact with me. Following her lead, I pick up another shrimp. “And I knew right away he was coming home with me. Alexis—she works at Safe Haven—was so excited when I asked about him. He’d been there for eight months and not one single inquiry. Eight whole months. No one wanted him.” She shakes her head, making her curls quiver, her brow furrowing into a hard line. “That’s no way to live. His name at the shelter was George but I named him Lucky Lou. Because it was the luckiest day of my life when I met him.”

Her eyes turn glassy again, and she blinks quickly. “He lived for six more years. He was fourteen when I got him and twenty when he died. Chihuahuas can live for a long time.” She sighs and glances toward the doorway. “Pip is the first chihuahua I’ve had since Lucky.”

“How many dogs have you rescued?” I ask. I’m feeling a bit in awe of this woman. The pure energy of love inside her radiates out as she talks about this dog. I wonder how her small frame can contain it all.

Her face lights up. “Pip is my seventh senior rescue. First was Lucky Lou, and then Summer, she was a Maltese. She had the most beautiful silky white hair. And she was such a princess, she loved when I dressed her up in little outfits with bows on her ears. Not all dogs like to wear clothes, but Summer had a whole box of clothes just for her, and every morning she’d prance over to it—she definitely pranced, I can show you a video—and I would hold up different items, and she would sniff them and decide what she wanted to wear that day.” Eloise chuckles softly. “Then I got Ginger Doggers. She was a terrier mix. She was so funny—she loved to listen to music. Specifically, eighties hair bands. I don’t know why, but she just loved herself some Def Leppard. I can’t listen to ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ without thinking of Ginger, her little butt swaying back and forth, giving her signature Ginger howl.”

Then she does a full-on impression, making a little “Awooo” sound. Charleston instantly takes up the mantle with his own howl, then the Colonel joins in. Eloise makes these dogs come alive as she talks about them. Her face has become so animated. I think this might be the first time I’ve seen her truly relaxed.

I hear Hazel awooo from the living room, and I’m not about to be left out.

“Awoooo!” I howl and Charleston gives a happy bark.

Eloise laughs, and another tear trickles down her cheek, but she doesn’t seem embarrassed. She smiles at me and the force of it knocks me breathless for a moment. The light that shines from those clear green eyes is brighter than the summer sun and warmer than waters of Holbox.

“Then I got Charleston—nobody wanted him because he’s incontinent.” I glance down at Charleston, in his diaper, happily licking the kitchen floor. “Then Walton Doggins. He was a Yorkie. He died in January.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“It’s part of the deal. The pact I make with them. To love them for as long as they have left.”