Authors: Jessica Brody
bring that dog in here,” she snarls.
“He’s here to help Mrs. Moody,” I explain, having no patience to deal with her right now.
“We have a strict no-animal policy at this facility.”
“I know,” I begin with an exasperated sigh but Brian is quick to cut me off.
“Dudley is a service dog,” he says smartly, nodding toward his eager companion who appears to be wondering why we’ve stopped in the
middle of this hal way when clearly there’s a job to be done.
She eyes both of us with skepticism. “He is?”
Brian nods. “Absolutely. Brooklyn cal ed me in a panic, and I was in such a hurry to get here I forgot to bring his service vest.”
Carol’s eyes narrow. She’s obviously deciding whether or not to believe us. “What kind of service dog?”
“A therapy dog,” Brian replies confidently without missing a beat. “Yeah, we do this kind of stuff al the time. In fact, Dudley loves coming to
nursing homes. It’s his specialty.”
We look down at the dog and, as if sensing something is being desired of him, he drops to his haunches and stares back at us expectantly,
as if to say “Okay, now what?”
Carol mul s over the situation for an awful y long time until the overhead PA system squawks to life, interrupting her thoughts. “Carol, please
come to the front desk. Carol to the front desk, please.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brian cringe at the awful sound of the corroded speaker, but he manages to keep smiling. Carol looks
down the hal toward the reception area, then back at us, and final y, seeming to tire of this argument, she mutters, “Fine. Just keep him away from
the other residents. Some are al ergic.” Then she spins on her heels and stomps away.
As soon as she’s gone, I whisper, “Is that true? Is he real y a service dog?”
But Brian just laughs and shakes his head. “Nah.” He nods his head down the hal and gives the dog’s leash a smal tug. “Come on. Dudley’s
getting antsy.”
Once we’ve reached the door to room 4A, I make Brian and Dudley wait outside so they can be formal y introduced, then I step hesitantly
into Mrs. Moody’s room. The place is stil in shambles, evidence of her aversion to unwanted visitors, and I immediately wonder if I should have
worn some type of protective headgear.
“Mrs. Moody,” I say delicately as I hover close to the far wal . Although judging by those items stil lying in the hal way, Mrs. Moody may be old
and fragile-looking, but she has an arm that could pitch game seven of the World Series.
She doesn’t answer and for a moment I think that she might be sleeping. But as I tiptoe closer to her bedside I see that her eyes are open
and her nostrils are flaring angrily with each in-flamed breath. Like a dragon ready to burn the place down with one fiery exhale.
“Mrs. Moody, it’s me, Brooklyn.” Then just in case she real y has lost it, I throw in, “You know, Baby Brooklyn.”
The room is silent apart from the sound of her ragged breaths.
“I brought someone who might cheer you up.”
The breathing quickens and I notice her knuckles start to blanche again, indicating that she has heard me and she’s reacting with her usual
tenseness.
I extend my arm and beckon toward the open doorway. “He’s been waiting in the hal way and he’s been absolutely dying to meet you.”
On cue, Dudley prances into the room, leash-free, and with a quick sniff of the air he veers left and heads straight for Mrs. Moody’s bed. His
snout plops down atop the covers as he waits to be noticed and fawned over.
I watch Mrs. Moody’s reaction very careful y, and as soon as she catches sight of Dudley’s large black nose and matted yel ow fur around his
snout, she hoists herself up to get a better look.
“Ruby!” she cries wistful y. “Ruby, you’ve come to see me.
Here, girl!” She pats the bed and Dudley eagerly obeys, hopping up and stepping around Mrs. Moody’s frail little legs until he’s able to
position himself next to her. It’s almost as though he can somehow sense her fragility. Maybe he real y should be a service dog.
He lies down against the wal and al ows Mrs. Moody to wrap her wrinkled and vein-covered arms around his neck like a teddy bear. “Am I
dead?” she asks the dog, having clearly forgotten that I’m even in the room. “Are you here to take me to Heaven? Oh, I just knew they’d send you,
Ruby. I just knew it!”
Dudley pants contentedly beside her, and although I’m quite enjoying this brand-new side of Mrs. Moody, I real y don’t think it’s healthy to
al ow her to continue to think that she’s dead, so I have to interrupt the tender moment between them and set the record straight. “No, Mrs. Moody.
You aren’t dead. You’re stil alive. This is Dudley. He belongs to my friend Brian.”
It’s then that I turn around and see Brian standing behind me, next to the bookshelf. I flash him a grateful smile and a quick thumbs-up to let
him know that it’s definitely working.
“Oh,” she replies, sounding eternal y disappointed. For a moment I worry that the new Mrs. Moody is going to vanish instantly and disappear
out the door like a ghost and the old Mrs. Moody is going to take over again and start barking out obscenities and throwing stuff, like she never left.
But she simply leans back to get a better look at the dog that’s lying next to her, with his head resting on his paws. She repeats the name
Dudley quietly to herself, trying it on for size, and begins to stroke his shoulders.
“That’s a good dog, Dudley. You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Yes, you are.”
I watch in complete astonishment as Mrs. Moody continues to purr quietly to herself, running her hands mindlessly across Dudley’s shaggy
coat, as though she were momentarily in a world al by herself. A world without anger, without hostility, and without an ounce of moodiness.
And then the most amazing thing happens. As she sits there, caressing the dog and murmuring to him in a soft, almost sing-songy voice, the
corners of her mouth start to curl, her lips begin to part, and before I can even comprehend what is going on, a joyful gurgle of laughter echoes
throughout the room.
I turn to Brian and beam. He beams back at me even though I’m certain he can’t possibly understand how huge this is. I mean, he doesn’t
even know Mrs. Moody. The only background he has on the woman is the thirty seconds’ worth of information I dumped on him while we were
walking from the parking lot to the building. There’s no way he can real y grasp how truly significant this breakthrough is.
But even so, I can’t help thinking that on some level he does get it. Or at least he gets how it makes me feel. And for that reason, there’s no
one else in the world I’d want to share this moment with.
As our eyes meet, I’m struck by an incredible warmness that soaks through my entire body. Like tomato soup when it’s too cold or rainy to
go outside. His smile is loose but knowing. His gaze delicate but penetrating. And his eyes are a truly remarkable shade of greenish hazel. They
seem to twinkle even without the help of dashboard lights.
Brian steps toward me and slowly reaches his hand to my face. I stand perfectly stil and close my eyes. For some reason, I want him to
touch me right now. I want him to be close to me. I want to share this warmth I feel with someone living, breathing, approaching. Someone who wil
appreciate it, absorb it, and return it back to me with the same intensity.
With my eyes closed, I can feel his proximity. I sense him moving closer to me. The heat from his body radiates off his skin and attaches to
mine. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My pulse quickens. My breathing fol ows suit.
And then, I feel it. The tip of his index finger making contact with my cheek. The cool prick of moisture. I open my eyes to see Brian dabbing
at a tear that has trickled down my face. Until then, I hadn’t even realized that I’d been crying. Embarrassed, I lower my head and wipe hastily at both
cheeks, feeling foolish and childlike. Then, like house lights il uminating a theater at the end of an enthral ing movie, I remember where I am. Who I
am. What I’m doing. Then I blink and turn back to Mrs. Moody.
Go Fish!
Colorado Springs is a beautiful town,
nestled right up against the Rocky Mountains with Pikes Peak as an exquisite backdrop. Izzie went to
tennis camp one summer at the nearby Air Force Academy but I’ve only ever been down here a handful of times. Unfortunately we won’t have much
time to see any of the city because our schedule for the debate tournament is jam-packed. Three back-to-back debate rounds today, an overnight
stay at the Holiday Inn near the hosting school, and then it’s back in the morning for more debating.
It takes about an hour to drive down to Colorado Springs. So just like last weekend, Brian picks me up super early on Saturday morning. I’m
stil half asleep when I toss my overnight bag on the floor of his truck cab and climb into the passenger seat.
Despite my fatigue, I’m actual y real y happy to see him this morning. After Harriet witnessed firsthand what a difference Dudley made on
Mrs. Moody’s notorious disposition, she agreed not to evict her as long as we could arrange to have a therapy dog visit her on a regular basis.
Brian immediately volunteered to bring Dudley in once a week. The gesture real y touched me. I mean, he total y didn’t have to do that. And now
every time I think about it, I find myself smiling.
The first day of competition doesn’t go as wel as our last meet. We win only one of our three rounds. That’s probably because, as Brian
explains, this is an advanced level meet that you have to qualify for to enter in so the competition is natural y going to be tougher.
Even though he assures me that I’m doing extremely wel , I’m starting to feel very discouraged by the results.
The first day ends at around eight and we stop for a fast-food dinner before retiring to the hotel. Because Katy “Huffy” Huffington and I are
the only girls on the team, we’re forced to share a room, which, trust me, I’m not thril ed about since Katy pretty much hates everything about me, but
as soon as we get to the room she dumps her stuff on the bed and disappears to an undisclosed location, so now I pretty much have the whole
place to myself.
I take off my stuffy debate suit, shower, and slip into a comfy pair of sweats and a tank top. With wet hair and a clean face, I lie back on my
double bed, grab the remote and flip on the TV, searching for something to distract me until I fal asleep.
I’m just settling in for a rerun episode of my favorite sitcom when there’s a knock on the door. I peer through the peephole to see Brian’s face
on the other side, distorted like in a fun house mirror.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, opening the door and leaning against the jamb.
“You busy?” He glances apprehensively over my shoulder, as if he expects to see me entertaining a group of foreign dignitaries or
something.
I look back at the TV. “Not real y, why? Did you want to go over the inherency issues again?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and kind of teeters back and forth from his heels to his toes. For a minute, he almost looks nervous about
something. “No. I’m tired of talking about debate.”
I laugh. “I didn’t think that was possible.”
He jerks his head in the direction of the hal way. “A couple of us are getting together to play a game. Do you want to join?”
“What kind of game?”
He shrugs, looking kind of sheepish. “Nothing fancy. Just, you know, the usual. Monopoly, Uno, maybe a little Go Fish if we’re feeling
especial y rebel ious.”
I touch at my wet hair and glance down at my sweatpants and tank top. “I’m not real y dressed.”
“Oh, you’re fine,” he assures me. “Total y casual. We’re just hanging out in Jake and Dave’s room.”
I shrug and grab my hotel key off the dresser. “Okay. Let me put on my shoes.”
I fol ow Brian a few doors down until we arrive at room 202. He pushes the slightly ajar door open and that’s when I come face-to-face with
something that is definitely not a game of Go Fish. Unless they total y changed the rules to include making out with someone when they fail to
produce the card you’re asking for.
Our entire debate team is scattered around the room and they’re al cheering and counting backward in a unified chant like they’re getting
ready to kick off the New Year or something. And smack-dab in the center of everything is Jake, a junior on the team, total y swapping spit with Katy
“Huffy” Huffington.
“What is this?” I yel to Brian over the noise.
“Twenty-one! Twenty! Nineteen!”
“Truth or Dare,” Brian yel s back, once again looking total y uncomfortable and embarrassed. “They were dared to make out for ninety
seconds.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Truth or Dare? I thought you said we’d be playing Uno!”
“Truth or Dare is a Colorado Springs Overnight tradition. We play it every year.”
“Ten! Nine! Eight!” the room chants.
“You lured me here under false pretenses,” I say, looking outraged, although I’m real y just in shock. The debate team playing Truth or Dare?
Who would have guessed?
“Sorry,” he offers, even though it’s clear from the coy smile on his face that he’s not.
“Three! Two! One!” The room erupts in loud cheers as Katy and Jake final y break apart and wipe their mouths before plopping back down
into their respective seats.
Jake catches my eye and grins. “Newcomer!” he shouts and suddenly every pair of eyes is on me.
I instinctively take a step back toward the door but Brian holds me in place. “Think of it as an initiation process,” he whispers into my ear as
he places his hand on the smal of my back and guides me farther into the room. He presses down on my shoulders until I’m sitting on one of the