It was the first summer I’d spent at Granda’s cottage, well, the first time I’d stayed longer than an hour, or two. The star-studded red velvet armchair, the loping thick curtains that pooled on the floor where one of Granda’s cats sat curled up happily. Heat from the fireplace warmed my cheeks as it crackled and snapped in golden spurts and spirals. Animals were dotted everywhere, cats atop the sticky-noted fridge, a dog somehow comfortably sleeping across three wooden winding stairs, a horse poking her nose into the living room through a hatch that led to Granda’s stables. The horse was called Cù and the dog was called Horse, which Granda found terribly funny. I’d only gotten the joke many years later as my own Gaelic improved. Cù would steadily huff out her nostrils every minute, or so, when she caught a whiff of Mum’s strong perfume. A decorative plate sits on a coffee table that’s seen better days, another cat hides beneath its carved, ornate legs. It is laden with biscuits of different kinds yet, my eyes zoned in on one in particular. Two layers of buttery shortbread welded together with sticky strawberry jam. A circle is cut from the top layer of shortbread so that I can view, and dream about, the jam slathered in between. Granda chuckled softly as I stared intensely at the biscuits, swinging my legs back, and forth, impatiently,
“Go on, wee one, the biscuits are for eating, not staring at,” he said, nodding at the plate. With confirmation secured, I dove for the tray of biscuits, shovelling as many of the jammy delights into my tiny hands as I could. As I munched and crunched on my treasure trove of treats, I heard one of the dogs, Toothpaste, whine at my feet. Well, Toothpaste was more of a puppy, than a dog, at the time. I’d asked Granda what kind of puppy she was and he shrugged, saying that she’d showed up on his doorstep, swallowed all his toothpaste, cost him a fortune at the vets, and never left. She was a scruffy wee thing, with perked ears and a bouncy demeanour. I felt that if I compared her to a pile of hay, I might not be able to tell which was which.
…
An elderly pile of hay flops at my ankles and a waft of peppermint hits my nose. The first thing I say to Jamie, this thorn from my past, is, “why does this dog smell like toothpaste?”
Jamie scratches at his beard, sheepishly, and I hear his even-toned voice pipe up in response. The nostalgia of it staggering me, ever-so-slightly. “Yeah, about that. I had her staying with me for a few nights and she got ahold of my toothpaste whilst I was brushing my teeth. Thought she was gonna swallow the whole bloody thing!” He says.
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The dog curls further into me, winding round my feet like a slinky. “Toothpaste sure does love Toothpaste.” I awkwardly note, barely looking at him.
“Oh, that’s why she’s called that. I just thought your Granda was running out of pet names,” Andrew chuckles, oblivious, from the door. He’s managed to hoist himself back up as Noodle has now taken interest with the new dog in the house. She sniffs at Toothpaste, snout extended, and Toothpaste puts minimum effort into a half-baked growl. Despite the lack of effort, Noodle still dramatically scrambles away and whirs into the kitchen like a looney tunes character.
Jamie explains to everyone that, no, he hadn’t meant to intrude and, no, there was no emergency with the animals after Innis burst in from the kitchen, spatula in hand (reason unknown), and asks what the emergency is. We all sit on the couch and listen intently to Jamie, like schoolchildren learning the alphabet for the first time. Jamie thinks that Innis and the boys would be able to take in Toothpaste as they’re already outnumbered by animals so, really, what’s the harm in having another one? Someone needs to take care of Toothpaste, he notes, as she doesn’t have an owner any longer. His voice trails off at this part, eyes drifting in my direction before snapping back to Innis as his booming voice interrupts the almost moment. Toothpaste hasn’t left my side, being quite content in this moment to lie perched on my bony lap and blows sores out of her nose. I steadily let her, half for her comfort, half for mine.
“I’ll take her,” I say in the silence. “Technically, she should go to me, anyways.” Innis asks if I’m sure, and I shrug, pointing out that I’m used to caring for animals much more needy, and expensive, than her.
“What about Canada?” Innis asks, and I pause, dumbfounded, for a second.
“I didn’t think about that,” I respond, quietly. He waves it off, he’ll take Toothpaste in once I make my trip back.
“When is your flight back?” Jamie asks. I frown, quite dramatically, it seems as everyone recoils worriedly.
“I haven’t booked it, yet.” Innis decides to take this moment to proclaim that Noodle has had extra crusty eyes lately and, could Jamie take a look.
Why didn’t I book a return flight? This isn’t an indefinite trip back home, I have a life to get back to in Canada. A job, a house, friends. Sure, I’d always felt a wee bit like an odd duckling there, humour never quite hitting the same, puzzled looks at my ’odd’ words and phrases, my persisting confusion at the sheer number of backwards baseball caps. No foundations, or safety nets. Just plain old me. It is a home, though. One I have been used to for the past few years, with friends that will pick me up from the airport with an easy grin and a lovingly drawn sign and animals of my own to cuddle. A car that sputters and shakes every time I switch on the ignition and a job where I’m valued and wanted. So, why didn’t I book the return flight? The decision should’ve been easy, it shouldn’t have even been something to ponder.
Toothpaste sighs from my lap, wiggling around on my tensed legs that must feel like planks of wood to sit on.
When am I going back?