From: Vincent H. <[email protected]>

To: Corey Larson <[email protected]>

Subject: Hi

Hey, how goes it? I miss you.

Today I graduated high school and Maggie died of a heart attack.

It would be nice to catch up. Give me a call.

Vinny

Maybe she'll call. Maybe she won't. She didn't reply to my last four emails.

But she is all I have.

The only other person I speak to on any sort of regular basis is Penny-the-obnoxious-neighbor. Even though she was with Maggie when she died, she hasn't stopped by all day. Probably expecting me to crawl over there, hysterical, needing her sympathy. She's that sort of person. Likes feeling needed and useful and all that. I wonder how useful and needed she'd feel if she finally came over and found me hanging from the rafters in the garage. Or passed out on the kitchen floor after downing a bottle of pills.

She probably wouldn't care.

Rather than check my email every three minutes to see if she replies, I find Maggie's keys on the counter, get into her van (still smells like her perfume) and drive. Other than my morning jogs, there is only one place I ever go by choice: the city animal shelter.

They've just opened when I show up. Volunteers in red shirts mingle around, talking with families about potential pet adoptions. I recognize faces here and there. If anyone ever remembers me, they never say anything despite that I've been coming here several times a month for the last two years.

It's been kind of therapeutic, actually. Seeing the animals. Sitting in silence with something as lonely as I am and knowing they understand on this base, instinctive level that no one else does.

I head straight for the dog kennels. Cats are just fine, but they're in their own rooms with glass walls so I can't reach in and pet them without asking an employee to let me in. Then they might think I actually plan on adopting something, taking it home with me, and I would have to explain to them that I can't even take care of myself and no one in their right mind would leave me in charge of a living creature.

The kennels are loud, filled with the steady stream of barking. I never go for the barking dogs. I seek out the quietest, saddest-looking dog I can find. One that probably won't be here when I come back, because no one wanting it is what got it to the shelter in the first place, and no one wanting it is what gets it brought into the back room and killed.

The dog of the day is a Rottweiler mix named Bella. The fur around her muzzle is starting to gray, and she has trouble standing because of her hips. No one will adopt her because she's old and imperfect. I sit in front of her kennel, curling my fingers through the chain link, until she's relaxed enough with my presence to hobble over and investigate.