Natalie and I sit in North Charleston's emergency vet, twiddling our fingers. Well, I'm twiddling; Natalie's reading Where the Crawdads Sing.
My eyes roam around the medium-sized, square-shaped lobby decorated with pictures of animals on the walls, and I listen to the whimpers and hisses of cats and dogs. I'm sure Teddy's fine, but I want to hear it from the vet myself. I also want to know if Teddy has a family. There is just as much good in the world as evil. I want to be part of the good crowd—not the crowd who deliberately runs over a dog and drives off. Ted and I did not grow up in the U.S. we have today.
The vet soon exits from a door at the lobby's back and stops beside the reception counter. He carries a clipboard and searches the room, calling, "Mr. and Ms. Beckington?"
I nudge Natalie and raise my hand. "Here."
She and I stand and approach the vet, who smiles. He first tells me, "Thank you for your service."
"Thanks," I say before jumping to Teddy. "How's the dog? Will he live?"
The vet nods—"Oh, he will"—and flips through his clipboard. "His leg's not seriously broken. We're not considering surgery right now."
I sigh with relief.
"However," the vet continues, "he's not chipped, so I believe he's a stray."
I had a feeling he was. I nod and tighten my grip on my cane.
"He needs a foster family until he recovers," the vet explains. "We believe it'd be better than sending him to the Humane Society. And since you guys saved the dog..."
Oh, my gosh, he said it! I glance at Natalie and grin. Even older folks get excited about a possible new dog for the family.
"No, no, Daddy." Natalie steps back and tucks her book under her arm. "We already have the cat."
"She had an owner before we adopted her," I argue, "and they said she gets along great with dogs." I turn on a puppy face and tilt my head. "Just until he recovers? We'll then take him to the Humane Society."
"But—!" Natalie counters.
"It's settled, then." I face the vet. "We'll care for the dog until he recovers."
"Okay, I guess we have a dog now," Natalie mumbles.
"We sure do," I say, reaching for the vet's clipboard. "Is this the paperwork?"
"Yes, sir." The vet hands me the clipboard. "We'll get the dog ready while you fill it out." He glances at Natalie. "Would you like to help, ma'am?"
"No!" Natalie instantly protests. She retreats and holds up her hands. "Sorry, I'm not a dog person, sir. My dad loves them, though."
"Oh, okay," the vet says, studying me. "Would you like to get the dog with me, sir? Your daughter can fill out the paperwork."
My heart pounds, and I offer Natalie the clipboard. "Please, Natalie? I'll care for him until he recovers. You don't have to do anything."
She crosses her arms, sighs, and accepts the clipboard. "Oh, all right."
Yes, I convinced her! I suddenly don't feel as old and haunted anymore. I've got Ted back—in the form of a dog—and my cheeky grin overtakes my face. I don't need another veteran anymore, yet I still want to return to Patriots Point and see that Corsair.
Don't let it get to your head, Bill.
I follow the vet into the back of the office, and we slip into a third treatment room on the right.
Teddy sits on the table in the small room, a bandage wrapped around his leg and a cone over his head. Seeing me, his tail wags, and he almost falls off the table, but I catch him and slip him back onto it.
"Don't strain yourself, buddy."
Before long, a vet technician enters the room. She carries a box and approaches me. "Hey, Mr. Beckington." The technician reaches into the box. "We gathered a few things to get y'all started, food and toys, and have also scheduled a follow-up appointment in two weeks to see how his leg's doing and remove the cone."
Excitement bubbles inside me like lava. "Thank you." Am I even an old geezer anymore? I want this dog so much. The first thing I'll do when I get home is bathe him (he's a little scruffy). Dirt and loose fur cling to his muscular body.
***
When we enter the lobby again, Natalie has just finished the paperwork. She hands the clipboard to the vet and takes the box from the technician.
In the meantime, Teddy hops to the vet's exit and waits for me. His deep brown eyes are full of hope and joy, even though he is still in pain.
I join him, and the door to the parking lot opens. Natalie and I are in handicapped parking directly before the building. The Animal Hospital is just off Dorchester Rd., so it is close to Park Circle and Natalie and I's (and now Teddy's) new home.
I can't lift Teddy into the car, so we wait for Natalie.
Once she exits the building, looking slightly nervous, she opens the back door and sets the box down. "I can't believe you talked me into this, Daddy," she grumbles, scooping up Teddy and slipping him into the back seat with his surprises.
"Eventually, you have to overcome your fear of dogs, dear," I say.
"Just like you need to overcome that memory," Natalie counters. I freeze, and Natalie adds, "Sorry."
"Let's just get home," I whisper. I pull a tennis ball out of the box and set it between Teddy's front legs.
We climb into the car, and Natalie starts it. She backs out of the parking space and turns toward the main road, her hands tightly clutching the steering wheel.
"I'm sorry, too," I say as we merge onto Dorchester and begin our journey home. "I haven't been a very good father, have I?"
"No, don't say that," Natalie argues, caressing my hand like before. "You're a great father; I just don't want you to leave this world still haunted by that memory."
Just like Temple said.
"I love you, Daddy," Natalie includes, "and I'm just doing what I think is best for you."
Just like Temple said.
I remain quiet during the half-hour drive home (thanks to Charleston traffic). Natalie and I's house in Park Circle is across from a church and just off Downtown North Charleston, a small town compared to Downtown Charleston. It's only one story but a perfect size for us.
Natalie and I, exhausted, pull into the long driveway (we just had it paved) and stop beside the front yard. Most of the driveway is narrow, thanks to the house and the neighbor's, so Natalie avoids parking too far forward. I don't blame her. I'm not the best at backing up, either.
"We're here, Teddy," I say to the dog when Natalie shuts off the car. "Your new home until you recover." A small lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it. Can I convince Natalie to adopt Teddy full-time? I don't want him to wind up back on the street—an open target for reckless drivers. We have a great house and neighborhood here—perfect for a dog. I won't give up Teddy again, not when I finally save him.
Natalie carries him up the front steps—I follow—and we dip into the front living room. A unique, musty-like smell engulfs my nostrils. The living room only has two chairs, a couch, and a DVD/VHS player (Natalie and I are old-school). The screen-in porch branches off it.
"Sophie!" Natalie calls, setting Ted down. "We're home!"
I hear the pitter-patter of feet, and Sophie, Natalie's Maine Coon, enters the living room. She's fluffy and has enormous, fuzzy, white paws but is relatively weightless for a Maine Coon.
Sophie sees Teddy and freezes. She lifts her tail, then lowers it and glances at Natalie.
"This is Teddy," Natalie gently explains. "We're fostering him for a bit."
Teddy and Sophie meet eyes and seem to stare.
I gulp.
Eventually, the two animals break eye contact. Teddy's tail wags, and Sophie prances to him and sniffs him. She stops at his broken leg and sits tall, noble as ever.
I release the breath I'm holding. "How about I give you a bath?" I ask Teddy. "I'll then show you around the house." I ensure that my cane doesn't accidentally hit him when I pass him and head toward the front bathroom. It's beside my bedroom and small, but it has a bathtub.
While Natalie and I gently remove the bandage from Teddy's leg, Sophie examines us.
Natalie places Teddy in the bathtub and helps me onto my knees.
I pull shampoo out of Teddy's box and run the water.
"Will you be okay, Daddy?" Natalie inquires, grasping my shoulder.
I nod. "I'll be fine, dear. I'll let you know when I'm finished." After all, I can't stand alone anymore, especially if I'm entirely on the ground. The chairs are okay, but the floors… No.
It's been ages since I've bathed a dog, but I have never bathed a well-behaved one.
Teddy winces but remains collected while I scrub behind his ears and watch the bath water turn brown due to all the dirt on him.
"How long have you been a stray?" I find myself asking.
Teddy answers by shaking water onto me. He sticks his front paw over the bathtub and rests it on my hand, sadness in his eyes.
"That long, huh?" I inquire. "Don't worry, buddy, you're safe here. I'll find a way to convince Natalie to adopt you fully, okay? Hey, do you want to see something?" I turn off the bathtub and remove the locket from my pocket. I show it to Teddy and open it. "This is my best friend, Ted, and I when the Navy first recruited us. We were so excited to be free and serve the country." I shiver and pat Teddy's head. "However, I shot him down over the Korean mountains. Never saw him again."
Even though he's a dog, Teddy watches me and tilts his head.
I grab a towel and begin drying him. "I named you Teddy after my friend. I hope you don't mind. I feel like I finally have him back in the form of you. It took seventy years, but here we are. I wonder if there is such a thing as coincidences."
Teddy pants and wags his tail while I lift him out of the tub and set him beside me.
I tie a fresh bandage around his leg and call, "Natalie? I'm ready now."
"Coming!" she instantly calls from the kitchen. She's in the bathroom within thirty seconds and lugs me to my feet, handing me my cane. "Oh, buddy." For once, Natalie smiles at the dog. "You look much better now that you're clean."
Is that a sparkle in her eyes?
Natalie focuses on me. "Why don't you and the dog rest briefly, Daddy? Take a nap? I'll work in the backyard for a while."
"Thank you, dear," I say. "I'll take you up on that." Besides, I want to look through Willed again.
Ted and I pass Natalie and enter my bedroom on the right side of the bathroom. I sit on my queen-size bed, and Teddy plops down at my feet on the rug. I move them so he can have more space.
Once I'm sure Ted's comfortable, I open the top drawer of the old nightstand beside my bed and pull out a leather-bound photo album. I remove my Valley Forge cap and place Willed on my lap, flipping to the first generation of Ted and I's history—when we were children. As another cheeky smile crosses my weary face, I swing my legs over the bed and rest my back on my pillows.
"This is a new start for us, Ted," I say, glancing at the dog and then at the photo album, yawning. "Who needs Yorktown when I have you?" I fall asleep on that thought.