Today I went to see horses. I touched a horse through the stall bars, scratched him between his eyes, the bony velvet part of him. I moved his forelock and studied his eyelashes while he studied me. I patted his neck, said good-bye. Then I went to see the goats — two were on top of their houses, and they were serious and suspicious. I went back to my car, where I had to herd seven ducks out from under it. Six geese flew across the sky. This small riding stable is two blocks from my house.
I am here. Eddie is not. He was a good friend of mine. First he loved my writing. Then he loved me. I didn’t love him back. Not in the way he wanted. How did we get old enough to die? I remembered when he was on a drunken walk across miles of midnight Houston, heading to my house. He called me from pay phone after pay phone, getting closer and closer. I told him he couldn’t come over. I said I wouldn’t open the door. I always open my door. He didn’t know that yet.
After talking to the horse, I went home. I’d moved to the Berkshires from Houston the year before. I’d been recently diagnosed with MS and had to flee the Houston heat. I saw a black and white cat that had been on the edges of my property for months, never letting me get near, but that day he cried out and came toward me. He was surely a Tom; he had a big ole head and big ole feet. I put out a dish of food for him. This could be an essay about strays. But that would be too easy.
When I first moved here, the cat I brought with me was diagnosed with diabetes. I gave him a shot each morning—between his shoulder blades. His name was Mr. O’Malley. I had him cremated. When the receptionist at the clinic called to tell me his ashes were “ready for pick-up,” she asked me, “Are you Mrs. O’Malley?” Eddie loved this story.
My handyman, TJ, was in the front garden when I got home.. He’d come the week before with a crew of window washers. I’d gone out to tip them before they left. They were milling around the driveway, smoking, talking. TJ looked like a wizened old man. I thought he was 80. He asked if I ever needed any help. I needed so much help that I laughed at his question. I hired him. He was only forty. He had been down on his luck. He was often hungry.
He said, “I have a new friend.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, this chipmunk came out from around the side of your studio, and followed me all the way up the hill. I'd look at him, then he'd look at me.”
“TJ, I lost a friend this week. He died.”
“So you want me to keep out of your hair then, right?” he asked.
“No. I'm just sayin.”
I showed him what I found at the dump where I’d gone before I went to see horses. I’d found some wonders: a metal tool box; a vintage metal Maxwell coffee container; three books on gardening in the Berkshires. TJ said, “People will throw away anything."
