Free A Dog’s Journey by W. Bruce Cameron Page B

out of her sadness, but when she moaned I knew I was failing. I went to lick her face, smelling butter and toast and the same sweet, sugary tang that had coated the toy, but she rolled away from me. “Oh God,” she said softly.
    Clarity went into her bathroom and I heard her making a choking noise and I smelled the sweet toast. She was vomiting again. Her head was in the water bowl, which she refreshed a few times before standing up and looking at her teeth in the mirror. Then she stood on the small box. “A hundred six point five,” she moaned. “I hate myself.”
    I decided I despised that box for how it made her feel.
    “Let’s go to bed, Molly.”
    Clarity didn’t take me down to the basement—she let me sleep on her bed. I was so excited to be out of that space and back in bed with her that I of course had trouble sleeping, but she put her hand on me and petted me until I got drowsy. I turned around and curled up against her and, as I drifted off, her love flowed into me and my love flowed into her. This was more than just watching over someone out of loyalty—I loved Clarity, loved her as completely and totally as any dog could love a person. Ethan had been my boy, but Clarity was my girl.
    I woke up later because I heard Gloria and a man talking outside the house. The man laughed and then I heard a car start and drive away and the front door of the house opened and closed. Clarity was still asleep. I heard someone coming down the hall—my time under the stairs, listening to footsteps, told me it was Gloria.
    The door to the hallway was open and Gloria stopped in it, staring in at me on the bed. Her complex scents drifted into the room. I wagged a little.
    That’s all she did: just stared at me from the darkened hallway.

 
    NINE
    Clarity had lots of friends who would come over to play with me and gradually I came to understand that her name was now CJ. People can do that, change the names of things, though I was still Molly. Gloria’s name was Gloria and also Mo- ther. Only Gloria called CJ Clarity anymore.
    It worked the other way, too—sometimes the names would stay the same, but the people would change. That’s how the Vet, which was another name for Doctor Deb, was now what CJ called Doctor Marty. He was as nice as Doctor Deb, with hair between his nose and his lip, and strong hands that touched me very gently.
    My favorite of all of CJ’s friends was Trent, the boy who took care of Rocky. Trent was taller than CJ and his hair was dark and he always smelled like Rocky. When Trent came to visit he usually brought my brother, and the two of us would tear around in the backyard, wrestling with each other. We would play until we collapsed with exhaustion, sprawled out on the lawn. Often I would lie panting on top of my brother, holding his leg in my mouth out of sheer affection.
    Rocky was stockier than I was and taller, too, but he usually let me pin him when I wanted. When I had him down I always noticed that the darker brown of his muzzle matched the color of my legs—he was otherwise a lighter brown color. I found that as the days became warmer I could measure my growth by assessing Rocky’s—my brother was no longer a gawky puppy, and neither was I.
    Rocky was completely devoted to Trent. In the middle of play he would suddenly break off and run over to Trent to be petted. I’d follow him, and CJ would pet me, too.
    “You think he’s maybe schnauzer-poodle?” CJ asked Trent. “A schnoodle?”
    “I don’t think so. Maybe a Doberman-poodle,” Trent said.
    “A Doodle?”
    I wagged at my favorite name and gave CJ a friendly nudge with my nose. Ethan had called me a doodle dog; it was a special name that carried with it all the love a boy could have for a dog. Hearing CJ say it reminded me of the connection between my boy and CJ, my girl.
    “Or a spaniel of some kind,” Trent speculated.
    “Molly, you could be a schnoodle, a spoodle, or a Doodle, but you’re not a poodle,” CJ told me,