studioâs many mirrors. I never told my parents how I felt about that view, how I didnât like seeing my world look so large, how it made me feel lost and alone. I must have sensed that the news would worry them.
Lourdesâs house is tucked into one of the steep hills that rise out of Cole Valley, a neighborhood in the geographic center of San Francisco, and an expansive view of the city threatens me from every direction. I didnât mind this so much when I first moved in and my fear of heights was relatively easy to ignore, but now I canât help feeling that living here, of all places, is akin to someone deathly allergic to bee stings setting up a picnic under a swarming hive.
Nonetheless, I force myself through the gate and down the street, past the curb that ended my first walk of the day. The steep hill makes me feel woozy. When I catch sight of a nearby café, its sidewalk tables filled with people, my heart races into overdrive, each beat a painful squeeze. If I must deal with the humiliating symptoms of panic, Iâd rather face them alone on a quiet street than on a bustling city block. I try to focus myattention on Giselle, but Iâm distracted by the sounds of the café and my imaginary blinders arenât working anymore. I slow my pace, debating whether I can continue in this direction. Giselle stops short and I nearly fall over her. Her nose is buried in a food-stained paper bag on the sidewalk.
âNo,â I say, my voice barely a whisper. âLeave it.â I give a little tug on the leash and we keep walking . . . haltingly, because within a few steps she finds a gum wrapper and then a soiled napkin, and I have to keep a close eye on her and repeat myself. When she spots a plastic coffee lid on the ground, I swear she looks up at me and winks before scooping it into her mouth. I grab the lid from her and she releases it easily, tail wagging, her nonchalant strut like a shrug.
Canât blame a girl for trying! her expression says.
Giselle finally stops scouring the sidewalk long enough for me to look up and get my bearings, and I realize weâve passed the café without my even noticing. I turn the corner and weâre on our way home.
When Lourdesâs fence comes into view again, relief cracks open inside of me, and I allow myself to jog toward the gate. My legs are creaky, sand-filled, after so many inactive months, but itâs good to move, to feel my body working with me instead of against me. I push myself into a sprint. Giselle bounds beside me, her funny bouffant bouncing on top of her head.
Back in my apartment, I scrub my hands and gulp down water. I give Giselle another biscuit and make myself a sandwich for lunch. When she finishes the biscuit, Giselle curls into a ball on the rug and within moments sheâs snoring.
Thereâs another e-mail from Sybil Gainsbury of SuperMuttRescue at the top of my in-box. This time, sheâs writing to tell me that we need to find a new foster-care family for a dog named Seymour. I sigh. Itâs not the first time Seymour has needed to be moved.
I thought he only had that troublesome leash issue, Sybil writes, but it seems he has problems with trains, too! His current foster family lives on the N-Judah line and apparently he wedges himself behind the couch and pees a little each time a train passes the buildingâevery fifteen minutes or so. Poor guy!
She has attached a photograph. Of all the dogs that have moved in and out of SuperMutt since I began volunteering with the organization, Seymour is the one who gets to me the most. Heâs one of those dogs that are so clearly forged from two vastly different breeds that the result is comical; he has the dense, creamy-yellow coat of a golden retriever but his thick torso is stretched improbably long and balancedâbarely, it seemsâon the stubby legs of a basset hound. His face, too, is a distinct mix; he has the wide muzzle and blocky
Lourdesâs house is tucked into one of the steep hills that rise out of Cole Valley, a neighborhood in the geographic center of San Francisco, and an expansive view of the city threatens me from every direction. I didnât mind this so much when I first moved in and my fear of heights was relatively easy to ignore, but now I canât help feeling that living here, of all places, is akin to someone deathly allergic to bee stings setting up a picnic under a swarming hive.
Nonetheless, I force myself through the gate and down the street, past the curb that ended my first walk of the day. The steep hill makes me feel woozy. When I catch sight of a nearby café, its sidewalk tables filled with people, my heart races into overdrive, each beat a painful squeeze. If I must deal with the humiliating symptoms of panic, Iâd rather face them alone on a quiet street than on a bustling city block. I try to focus myattention on Giselle, but Iâm distracted by the sounds of the café and my imaginary blinders arenât working anymore. I slow my pace, debating whether I can continue in this direction. Giselle stops short and I nearly fall over her. Her nose is buried in a food-stained paper bag on the sidewalk.
âNo,â I say, my voice barely a whisper. âLeave it.â I give a little tug on the leash and we keep walking . . . haltingly, because within a few steps she finds a gum wrapper and then a soiled napkin, and I have to keep a close eye on her and repeat myself. When she spots a plastic coffee lid on the ground, I swear she looks up at me and winks before scooping it into her mouth. I grab the lid from her and she releases it easily, tail wagging, her nonchalant strut like a shrug.
Canât blame a girl for trying! her expression says.
Giselle finally stops scouring the sidewalk long enough for me to look up and get my bearings, and I realize weâve passed the café without my even noticing. I turn the corner and weâre on our way home.
When Lourdesâs fence comes into view again, relief cracks open inside of me, and I allow myself to jog toward the gate. My legs are creaky, sand-filled, after so many inactive months, but itâs good to move, to feel my body working with me instead of against me. I push myself into a sprint. Giselle bounds beside me, her funny bouffant bouncing on top of her head.
Back in my apartment, I scrub my hands and gulp down water. I give Giselle another biscuit and make myself a sandwich for lunch. When she finishes the biscuit, Giselle curls into a ball on the rug and within moments sheâs snoring.
Thereâs another e-mail from Sybil Gainsbury of SuperMuttRescue at the top of my in-box. This time, sheâs writing to tell me that we need to find a new foster-care family for a dog named Seymour. I sigh. Itâs not the first time Seymour has needed to be moved.
I thought he only had that troublesome leash issue, Sybil writes, but it seems he has problems with trains, too! His current foster family lives on the N-Judah line and apparently he wedges himself behind the couch and pees a little each time a train passes the buildingâevery fifteen minutes or so. Poor guy!
She has attached a photograph. Of all the dogs that have moved in and out of SuperMutt since I began volunteering with the organization, Seymour is the one who gets to me the most. Heâs one of those dogs that are so clearly forged from two vastly different breeds that the result is comical; he has the dense, creamy-yellow coat of a golden retriever but his thick torso is stretched improbably long and balancedâbarely, it seemsâon the stubby legs of a basset hound. His face, too, is a distinct mix; he has the wide muzzle and blocky
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