(a short story)

TOO LATE

Jackie and Beth, my dogs, stared at me, nervous as they get when my constant muttering under breath and in the woods and high on the mountains suddenly stops. Whose fault was it this time? I could see them worrying. The girls looked at each other and then at me, the big, tall human with a soft voice and gentle hands, the clothes that smelled of love and the Doc Marten’s boots that struck out at times. The dogs hovered. They watched. I did too.

The neighbor drove off as usual, and he was probably heading to the Post Office south of Golden and then to the Triangle Market. Jeremy did love his daily errands; I don’t know why.

His dogs barked barked barked. It drove me crazy. Only the week before, I’d been up all night online, researching how to do this. To fix the dogs and Jeremy. Jeremy was the neighbor and on again-off again lover of mine from when we were kids, well, from in our twenties which is the same thing to me. Six weeks had passed since the last time I’d been over there – we weren’t talking again – and so, Mom was right, some things never change. All because I’d refused to have any kids with the man, or any man. After years dating women, it had never been an issue but then Jerry came along and dammit I had to decide what to do. So, I’d got my tubes tied at a clinic, 98% safe from childbearing, and when I’d told him, Jeremy had kicked me out. For not talking to him about it first. Why would I? It’s my body. He couldn’t forgive me, that’s what he said after the news about the no-kid rule of mine. And you know why it pissed me off so much? Because the man constantly bred his dogs, two litters a year, all from one sire named Red, a big red mastiff, and now the offspring were the mothers, grandmothers, and daughters. Poor girls.

I hated it. The constant new litters of crying and barking pups, all born out of the pressure to bear new generations for the ego of sperm-makers.

I had to do something. I couldn’t wait any longer. Despite us getting back together last month, just the once, for old time’s sake, we’d said, but it irked me, this whole pressure for baby making/puppy breeding to prove female worth to the world. No. I had to do something. I took care of my own breeding and then thought about his dogs. I had read how the BLM planned to sterilize wild horse hers to stop overpopulation and not by starvation. Did you know that there are contraceptive vaccines for mustangs? And did you know that there’s a biscuit sprayed with a contraceptive for dogs? Yep. I bought some online with my credit card. It’ll cost me in the long run and when the FedEx dropped off a box at my gate, I sighed, wondering if it was too late.

I left my dogs at the entrance to Jerry’s place. A metal gate crossed the track but all I had to do was push on the lock for it to fall away. The cottonwoods had begun to bud out, a fresh light green tipped the branches after a long chilly winter. My own two dogs cocked their heads, uncertain. On Guard, I told them. They turned their backs to me and stared down the dirt road. Good dogs. Girls. Fixed like me. The surgical method. Nice and tidy. Done.

I walked up the track with the ruts from that heavy rain the week before. I headed towards his new double wide, sidestepping the rat nests at the base of the trees and the broken-down vehicles on the right in the open land, one of them my old Volvo. I must pick that up sometime. The backpack was heavy over my shoulders, but the Google search said it’d work. It’d fix them all. From puppies to Old Red himself. Boys and girls alike. Come to Mama, I hummed with a sad chuckle.

I entered the shed with their food, ignoring the dogs’ thunderous barking at seeing me. I was both a stranger and friend, but I knew better than to be afraid. The dogs, even the youngsters, were all massive, from thirty to a hundred plus pounds, the same as me in a few cases, a hundred and forty-ish. I’m not a small woman. Just stubborn.

My backpack on the table spilled out the bags of dosed treats. I handed out the biscuits to all eighteen dogs and puppies. They were good critters; all sat at my feet and politely nibbled the biscuits from ZeusNeut. The dogs then wandered off, some of them, the hungrier ones stuck around, hoping for real food or petting or something, needy buggers, love’ em. I scratched as many ears as possible while we sat in that small feeding shed before shuffling them out.

One, a female, hid under the table and mock-growled at me. I laughed and gave her another biscuit. Tail wagged, ears up, she licked my boots. I called her Doc for mending my mood. I scratched her ears until she fell asleep, sprawled and vulnerable, belly up, with me standing right there. I didn’t move, watching the slight flicker of her tail as she dreamed.

The research into sterilization had also talked about calcium chloride as a safe chemical agent. I’d even bought a pound of that just to be sure, and tipping it out, I split the powder into piles. It was like cooking. I like cooking. Following new recipes. I’d already messed up though, one way or another, and this time it was by forgetting the exact concentration and solutions needed for neutralizing testosterone. I might as well play with what I had. From what I remembered, and the details had gotten a bit fuzzy by the end of the six pack and five hours on the computer, it shouldn’t hurt anyone or kill any of them, just stop the swimmers in the boys. I’d give some to Jerry if I could but let’s see what happens with these guys. Think of it as a test run, I told myself.

I hummed as I worked.

The morning woke up around us. Finches, blue jays, mourning doves fought over Jerry’s feeders out back, and the antics of his pups as they waited for more snacks from me, were all quite delightful if blurry. Where were my glasses? At home? Sheesh. Not helpful.

I pulled out the buckets of kibble and the bowls for the boys. Hmm. Do I give everyone a second breakfast? Yes. I’m usually open to a second breakfast myself, although not so much recently and I put it down to my troubles with gallbladders and acid reflux. Well, I doled out the dried kibble, scattered the powder over each bowl and organized the dogs around me, all sitting. Jerry did do that part right, quite paternal he was, and he’d trained them all, took care of them, better than I’d expected once he’d told me about this breeding program. To make money, he’d claimed but I didn’t see him selling any of them. They were all here still. Sleeping in the house with him. On my side of the bed. Walking the hills. And now sitting patiently at my feet, waiting. I fed them. And left.

On the hike home, my traitorous dogs, Jackie and Beth, ran up to the Ford F250 that stopped at the crossing by my place. Jeremy. I approached him slowly. A tall fella in soft worn jeans and a thick wool shirt, he ran broad hands over my pups’ heads, checking them out as he does. A gentle man. Not my usual type, being full on male, hefty and solid, but he’d worn away at my radical separatist rhetoric and charmed me, softened me.

I stood close by.

He nodded at me once he was done with the girls, quiet like, and handed over my mail.

– Max insisted I take it for you. Said it was something you’d been waiting for?

The return address was the local clinic with my results. Cancer. See, they can’t call me like regular folk as I don’t talk on phones. I barely talk to anyone unless they had three to four legs, slept on the couch, and licked their plates clean. I took the letter and set down the empty backpack on the hood, ticking away in the mid-day sun and breeze. I shivered. I opened the letter and read. Jeremy waited.

I looked up in surprise and blurted, – It’s too late. It’s spread.

Jeremy shook his head, – You’ll be fine. Trust me. We’ll be fine.

My dogs jumped into the truck bed and waited for me to climb up front. Jeremy took us home for lunch. The dogs asked for more and so did I.

What’s more fascinating than reading about other lifestyles and landscapes? Learning about other cultures, peoples, and places through travel opens our minds and empathy. Travel demonstrates how we as humans are so similar in so many ways. So whether you’re lucky enough to get out there yourself, or you’re looking for inspiration and connection, then think of us, share this website…and WRITE FOR US at Wanderlust Journal.

We’re scheduling monthly publications for the upcoming year and we want to hear from YOU! Ideally your work should be 750-1500 words with 3-5 good resolution photos or sketches.

Although there are no reading or submission fees, donations are greatly appreciated.

If you are looking for a developmental editor, check out how I can help your writing become what you aim for, building upon your skills and showing you patterns that might or might not like to continue using…

Let me know if you have any questions, cheers.

Donations really help. Wanderlust Journal is a free online resource for publishing and reading travel essays and photo-stories. Same for Substack. Pretty much for everything I do…! Anyway, even if you can only give a little, it helps me do what I’m committed to doing, ever since a teenager, and that is documenting other lifestyles, cultures, experiences. Think of these projects next time you are able to give a little, thank you.

Wild Dog Press publishes a travel book once or twice a year. Please check out our authors, all have come from our writers on http://www.Wanderlust-Journal.com.

If you’d like to hear more travel stories, listen in to the podcast. We had an episode that had a range of excerpts today with a kayak from California to Hawaii, a solo biker in Iran, a couple of fellas in boxers, and more! Yes, a fun selection. We only do podcasts when we have something to share so don’t worry if you subscribe that you’ll be overwhelmed. It’s a rare treat to hear a conversation, excpert or anecdote from my travels or yours.

Sarah Leamy (me) has over ten books published including Van Life, an award-winning travel memoir from months on the road with two dogs and a cat in a small and old Dodge half-ton van. You’ll find artwork, books, essays, cartoons, travel stories, short fiction and more on the website.

Thanks again,