I guess it was my romantic inner-self attempting to end it all where it all began. Before school had finished, and our square caps had all been flung through the air, the Marget house was where I first felt my good, sober years of high school slip away from me. That first night of summer, packed to the plaster of the walls with friends, conversation and drunken initiations, was where I first felt adult. And now with Louis gone, and his parents having gone with him to his birthplace of Boulder, Colorado, our mutual friend Josh was charged with watching over the house that I held in such fond memory.
I’m not sure how much he was paid, but by the end of the week it seemed I had spent more time at the house than Josh had. He allowed me to come and go as I pleased, and being the virtuous host that Josh has always been, he welcomed me every time with warm bravado, insisting that it was no problem I stayed over another night, which stretched into another, until five, wild nights had passed. I had grown used to the comfortable couch that sat center in their living room, the manicured grass in the backyard that opened up to a still pond, and the luxury in not having to be anywhere.
Unlike how summer began, it was insistently quiet. There was no bass bouncing off the floor, the way I remembered it being when I first slept there, using the kitchen rug as my blanket. Josh often left in the morning to play golf with his dad, or just to spend time in his own house, leaving me to myself, with the glaring exception of Niya.
It’s important to note that I, as a general rule, dislike dogs. It never makes any sense to me why anyone would get an animal that barks “Don’t come inside. You’re not welcome. Get the hell away from this house.” whenever the doorbell rings. They’ve always made me uncomfortable, especially the ones that think jumping on you is an acceptable way of saying hello. Niya was different. She kept her paws to herself, and walked silently, never drawing attention or demanding it from others. Her fur was long, golden and soft to the touch. She was beautiful, a word that I typically reserve for women and sunsets. She lounged around the house the way a cat would, perched on top of the couch, without making a noise. Many times I had no idea where she was. And though she sometimes watched me with her big, brown eyes while I ate, her easy nature put me at ease.
Most mornings followed the same routine. I woke up, often late enough to no longer call it morning, showered, and put on the only set of clothes I had prepared for my extended stay. It was, in a lot of ways, not too different than being at home. But being at home would have meant either packing or discussing logistics, which always put me in a bitter mood. “It happens when it happens,” I would tell my mother, and then shut the door. In Stillwater, none of the doors ever needed to be shut. Outside there were plane tickets, highways and green traffic lights— but when the world wanted me to go, it would let me know.
Niya was the most important reason Josh ever stopped by the house. He fed her on a flexible schedule, and let her out to do her yard business on a somewhat less flexible schedule.
There must have been an evening where Josh had forgotten to let her out. The next morning, she wouldn’t quit following me around. I flattered myself in thinking she had grown fond of me, before realizing that she desperately needed to relieve herself. I reached towards the shelf that her leash was kept on, and in that second, things changed.
She was no longer my easy-going companion I had grown used to. She seemed intimidated, anxious, and above all, she was acting like a dog. I made a meek attempt to clip the leash onto her collar, failing wildly as she made squealing sounds and backed up into the kitchen. Sensing that I was doing something wrong, I put the leash down. She calmed, though still visibly needing to go outside, a need that was growing worse with time. Every time I reached for the leash, everything happened again with the same results, as if we were a record with a nasty scratch in it, playing the same riff over and over again.
We went back and forth for minutes, unhinging my nerves from their bones entirely. Niya, growing as tired with the routine as I was, eventually jumped on me. This, ultimately, is what I had feared. I’m sure that it was only an expression of excitement. But at the time, I interpreted it as rebellion. I stepped back in surprise, tripping over her aluminum water bowl, which flipped upside-down. The floor of the mudroom was now partially soaked, the dog continued to beg for my help, and at that point, I couldn’t feel my hands.
There’s a moment of hesitation that always comes just before the big jump. Every muscle tightens at once, and for that very second only, your body is attempting to move backward through time.
That was me.
I have always prided myself on being open to change, but every brake in my body was wearing thin from holding myself back. Even before moving into Louis’ house, I was living in reverse. Yet here was a dog who, in desperate need of a leash, was putting a leash on me. It was as if she knew how much of a challenge this would end up being. College was crawling closer every day, and eventually I needed to let go of the brake, lean forward, and let it happen. That was what it was— I was resisting the jump. Niya was the entire world, nudging me off my feet and out into the sunlight.
Stillwater, whether by fate or personal choice, had become my new home. Somewhere inside me I knew that leaving it would have been to leave Minnesota entirely. But everyone leaves home at some point or another. Were it otherwise, we would have no need for it. That was what Louis had done, and it scared me more than any dog ever has. So I stayed. I slept on his couch and drank his beer and eventually leashed his dog, who blew past the door and went poking through the reeds and tall shoots of green, while I stood down by the pond where Louis once stood with me, watching a mysterious light reflect off the dark water, so easy in our means.
