Photo: SC Martinez
Published in Ghost Parachute, January 1, 2025
We’d discussed getting a dog for a while. I needed someone who would greet me with warmth and approval. My stepson, Kevin, couldn’t. He’d wake angry, and sleep angry since his mom put him on a plane at the LA Airport in August and called us to meet him in NYC. He’d slept on the couch for weeks until we built him a bedroom in the loft.
When Kevin descended the escalator to Baggage Claim, I recognized him instantly, though I hadn’t seen him in four years. At thirteen, he was five feet tall with big hands and feet, like a puppy foretelling his future height. Kevin was scared. His eyes darted everywhere and were open so wide it must’ve hurt. His jaw was clenched. He walked reluctantly toward us – his dad, Ben, who’d moved East eight years earlier, and me, his step-mom. He glanced around as if toying with bolting, but we quashed his plans with hugs he didn’t return.
Four months later, Ben spotted the scruffy dog loitering in front of our building in DUMBO, Brooklyn. A blizzard was forecast for that New Year’s Eve afternoon. After a few ear scratches, she followed Ben inside like she was coming home. We offered her canned tuna in water, undrained, and she inhaled it in seconds.
The dog was filthy and had no ID tag. I bought her a collar, leash, and food and drove her to the vet. The doctor guessed she was eight months old, lived with a family who deserted her or got lost, and lived on the street for about a week. The vet gave her puppy shots while she looked on as if some other animal was getting stuck. It was snowing hard as I drove to her home. Kevin stayed in his room.
We bathed her. She was 35 lb. and a redhead, assembled from random dog parts – the long nose of a Collie, a Weimaraner’s brown snout, ears from a German Shepherd, and a tail that wagged constantly. Despite posting flyers, no one claimed her, and she became our dog, our Paloma. Timing walkies was tricky. We observed her for signs she needed to go out. Once outside, she’d follow behind, tapping Ben’s or my leg with her nose, keeping an eye on us so we wouldn’t run away.
Suzanne C Martinez 