The Untamed North

It cannot be emphasized enough how much Maisie hated the drive. 54 hours didn’t sound easy, but it did sound doable. It would be like one of those “find yourself”, coming-of-age movies with an idyllic aesthetic. A killer playlist that would make her spirit soar while the miles flew by. Music that would make her cry and scream as she rolled down the highway, songs from high school that would make her laugh brightly. Like she did before the “ten-year hellscape”. She’d be leaving it all behind with just a mess of boxes in the back of her 1990 Plymouth Grand Voyageur. What a perfect vehicle for the whole escapade. The gas mileage, however, was horrendous. Every time she stopped and watched the settlement money go into the gas tank, her heart sank bit by bit. When she almost ran out of gas during one of the most desolate stretches, she bought a backup gas can and buckled it in the middle row seat. Garfield, her red husky, had dibs on the front seat.

Garfield and Maisie were not on the best of terms during his puppyhood. Several pairs of work boots, the table and chair legs in the dining room, and four candles were devastated by his insatiable jaw, putting a dark cloud over their relationship. The first three years with him followed those same initial footprints, and tension was always high when he stole his way inside the farmhouse. Trevor never trained Garfield, just let him run the house. Never bothered to wipe off his feet or spray the mud off his coat when they’d spend the day in the field. The two redheads would trample over each other into the kitchen and splatter the white walls and tile, demanding supper and a beer. And yes, that beer included Garfield. No matter how much Maisie harped on Trevor, he would never stop sharing his Bud Lights with the dog. She didn’t like the dog, but she didn’t hate him enough to slowly poison him either. It was an animal, for God’s sake, humans were created to take care of them. But Trevor didn’t have a godly fear in an inch of his body; everything was meant to workforhim. The milk cows bred, bled, and died at his beck and call. The corn grew thick and tall at his command. The dog would drink the Bud Light if he so wanted. And Maisie, well, Masie got the brunt of it all. Anything he wanted had to be done when he wanted it. You couldn’t yell a cow into producing more milk, sure, one could kick and hit it, but a thousand-pound creature couldn’t be dented by the measly fists of an angry Irish farmer. Women, however, can be dented.

They cook more, clean deeper, wash faster, and get quieter with every dent. Maisie didn’t even notice it happening at first. She thought it was just jumping a couple of steps ahead of the curve to reject her scholarship in Fairbanks, Alaska, and get married straight out of high school. Her guidance counselor fought back tears when she handed him back the acceptance letter and said that her future had been secured, flashing the smallest diamond ring the jeweler sold under his nose. Every girl in Iowa ended up married sooner or later. No one ever left the state either. She could get married now, start a family, and have her own two-story house while the other girls were moving back in with their parents after university. In no time at all, that tiny diamond would be upgraded (maybe every other anniversary, depending on how their first few years worked out) while the other girls curated their wedding Pinterest boards. Mr. Jacobs, the guidance counselor, simply didn’t understand she was just amazingly ahead of them all. He too had married young. Why didn’t he recognize she was hitting the jackpot as he had? Eighteen-year-old Maisie wasn’t brash enough to tell other people that she wasn’t like other girls, that she was smarter and more independent than they were, but she thought it. And unbeknownst to her, everyone could read her mind. But what teenager just graduating and taking their first baby steps isn’t arrogant? Sometimes it led to speeding tickets, unplanned pregnancy, or, in Maisie’s case, dents. Trevor convincing her to get married young and skip university was his first big abuse of his power over her. He’d always been a control freak and a perfectionist, but early on, it was more of a joke than anything. Everyone said he had OCD and was just really anal about everything. It was easy to roll your eyes when he’d throw a fit over someone tracking mud into his truck, even if his own boots were filthy, and the temper tantrums he’d have if his mom didn’t iron his pants the way he liked (with the crease down the middle of his blue jeans). And everyone knew he drank heavily even before his 21st birthday. The Murphey parents were just cool like that, letting any of the kids drink whatever they pleased when parties were held in their barn. And with liquor flowing freely, parties werealwaysheld in the Murphey barn.

That barn. Oh dear, that barn. Maisie now held it in a sort of contempt fit for baby murderers. It was where her innocence and chance at a decent life had died. It was in those hay rafters that they went so far it would have to be a shotgun wedding if Maisie’s dad found out. Knowing that his neck was potentially on the line, it was the very next week that Trevor appeared with a cheap engagement ring. But it was the most beautiful piece of jewelry that she had, in her mind. Even more beautiful than her great-grandmother’s diamond and emerald brooch, Mom gave her on her sweet sixteenth. Which, eventually, Trevor would pawn one year when the corn crop got blight. But he promised her that ring upgrade the following year once they got back on their feet. That hope of another ring from him was like bait, the carrot on a stick a little boy waves in front of a grunting pig. That just so happened to be one of his names for her, too. Pig. It stung the most. Worse than the common ones of slut, whore, and the extensive expletives. Maisie’s dad had been a pig farmer when she was growing up. It was her job on weekends and evenings to rake the dung and spread out fresh hay for them. It was grueling, smelly, disgusting work. And every time that Trevor called her Pig- when she had made his food the wrong temperature, when the jeans didn’t have a sharp enough crease, or even when she dared correct the dog herself- she smelled that muck. She could taste it in the air just like when she was a kid. It would make her gag as she worked to fix the error she’d made. The never-ending onslaught of mistakes she’d made was ruining their marriage. Once she’d built up a little leather against that taunt, as thin as that protection was over her skin, he somehow made it worse. She’d try to work backward and buff out the dents, shine her exterior with makeup and curled hair, but they were accumulating on her surface as if a hail storm had passed through.

“Barren pig,” He spat, a spray of Bud Lite dribbling from his drunk lips on the enunciation of the “p”. She didn’t even know what the trigger was for it that night. He came home from the fields and the cows soured. Had even kicked puppy Garfield in through the front door. Garfield had yelped and hid far under the dining room table between the tangle of chair legs, far enough back from any more kicks. Maisie envied the dog at that moment. All he got was one kick and then was left alone. He was the favorite during the day, treats and praise, scritches behind the ears, and then left to hide at night. She was abandoned all day long to the monotony and drudgery, just to still be met with the worst version of Trevor coming home.

“What did you say?” She asked, stunned, sitting on the couch next to him.

“I said get me another one,” He flung the empty can at her, the last dredges of the drink flying out of the top and dripping on the couch. She fumbled to grab it, missed, and it landed on her toes, getting her slippers wet. She stared at it, mentally sluggish from the long day and the current onslaught.

“No, what did you call me?”

“Pig. Barren pig. That’s all you are. You stink like one, and you can’t even give me a kid. I’ll have to get your sister knocked up if I want any of my own.”

Masie’s sister was sixteen at the time Trevor made this particular threat. But other taunts and promises of a similar nature made in the direction of her little sister, Samantha, were nothing new. How fit she looked, how she was ten times better than Maisie, that he should have risked the felony charges and gone for Samantha as soon as he met her, when she was ten. So the abusive words were not antitypical of his nature; it all made sense, but this new word- “barren” was the crushing element. He had voiced his frustration many times at their inability, up to this point, to conceive. Trevor wanted nothing more than to pass the third-generation Murphey farm to a fourth-generation son. Maisie knew what it meant to him. It wasn’t that she wanted to hold anything back; it wasn’t for a lack of want, or anything malicious. Her body simply wasn’t cooperating. They had been trying for a couple of years at this point, and Trevor was getting impatient.

Maisie stood, kicking the beer can away. She didn’t know what her body was about to do. Another dent. But this one was something different; a radius of cracks emanated from this dent. Across her psyche a thin web of fissures spread like a wildfire, fracturing her ego. New territory. Thin ice over a frigid lake, and Trevor was standing on a soft spot. He didn’t see or feel the ice shifting, the water bubbling up around his feet, the danger rising. She strode forward to Garfield and reached down to take the knotted rawhide bone from his mouth. The dog stared up at her, blue eyes quizzical, but his jaw let go. It was rare that she interrupted anything the dog ever did, and he was a little surprised at her interjection. She held the bone with two hands, slobber making it slippery, and turned back to Trevor, swiping through Facebook Marketplace.

Her steps were bleary, and her feet felt fuzzy. It wasn’t like a dream where your body isn’t your own, and you’re stuck inside your head watching it all go down. Maisie was grounded in the here and now, but she just felt lighter in that moment. There wasn’t too much thought behind it. It was her high school softball practice all over again. Muscle memory. Reflex. Retention. Procedural. Whatever name you want to assign to it, this action came naturally to Maisie. With the gentlest and smoothest of movements, she slid into position, hoisting the bone up above her shoulder, and brought it down in one fluid motion against the side of Trevor’s head. She wasn’t a large woman. Maisie just crested five foot two. But she was a farm girl by trade and breed, so she had strength built up behind the blow.

Trevor buckled. He lost consciousness for a solid five seconds before a groan left through his lips, slick with saliva, and his body began to stir. She cocked her head at him. He looked so vulnerable, even more vulnerable than when she watched him sleep and held his rifle in her hands, aimed at his little head. Maybe it was because this time he was covered in blood. You can’t help but look a little stupid covered in beer, spit, and blood on your own couch. Garfield didn’t move a muscle to stand, but Maisie could hear him lick his jowls at the new copper scent in the air. Trevor slid forward off the couch onto his knees, phone dropping too, and held his head. He didn’t swear, didn’t cry, just crumpled. Maisie let go of the rawhide onto the ground next to him and stood over him like a miniature sentry. There was no threat from her, no promise, no harsh words. She just stood and watched him. Trevor wouldn’t look into her eyes, wouldn’t even look at her feet. His pulse pounded in his ears and in the cut in his temple.

“Goodnight,” She said calmly. Her own pulse was perfectly even. Not one part of her body shook or tingled. It was a still night and a calm shore on her inner island.

“Goodnight,” He whispered back, not moving. Maisie picked up the beer can and set it upright on the table next to the couch that had fresh blood on its cushions. She went to their bedroom and even left the door unlocked in case he came to bed that night. Which he didn’t. For a week straight, he slept on the La-Z-Boy recliner.

The next night, Trevor kicked his boots off and left them in the garage. Garfield came in with washed paws. He hung his coat up in the mudroom all by himself. The following night, he was late for supper but appeared holding a bouquet of daisies for the first time since they were dating. Trevor brought home some Lindor chocolate, the white ones, for her next. Things were peaceful. Until the cut healed, that is. Then it all crept back in bit by bit. Until they were back in the normal dent, crack, plaster routine. But he never said barren again. Eventually, even “pig” would make a reinstatement. But there was a clear boundary after that event. Maisie had limits. Something that neither of them knew nor expected.

Those limits were very infrequent, but they happened with no notice. Since the pot was always boiling, it was hard to tell when it would overflow because of how consistent the chaos was. The first few years would have good times and then bad times. As time passed, the good decreased, and the bad became worse. What she could handle from him one day would make her snap the next. It would bring a couple of days of peace, and then the boil would return. Even she couldn’t predict when her limit had been found and pushed past. The rawhide home run was the first snap. The second was an actual baseball bat lodged in the front windshield of his lifted silver 2020 Dodge Ram. The third time, every pair of perfectly ironed jeans, after she finished ironing them, was burned in the backyard with his propane torch.

Nothing ever permanently changed after her biannual misbehavior. She never tried to tell him off, never cried or bargained; she acted out and then acted normal. It was a desperate moment of seeking control that once satiated wouldn’t return until the boil began to roll over the pot’s edge. She had no control over her temper. It simply wasn’t as consistent an issue as Trevor’s lack of self-control. They were both sticks of dynamite, and if they both blew at the same time, someone might end up dead.

That extreme, however, never came to fruition. The shotgun always got put back in the closet before Trevor’s skull painted their bedframe. Or his fists would tire before he caused her brain damage or internal bleeding. He’d pull over to let her drive before he veered them into one of the rare trees dotting the Iowan countryside when he was drunk. For ten years, they careened and weaved between possible homicide opportunities. They were perpetually caught between revenge and reaction.

Maisie didn’t know what part of her day was worse, the being alone or the being with him. They only had one vehicle, so she couldn’t go into town by herself. She’d have to wait for him to pull in on the truck, let him have his dinner, and then go into town to run some rushed errands before the stores closed. Any friends she had were all from high school and strictly on social media. Her mom, Abby, would stop by a couple of times a month for coffee in the afternoon, but it’d be the same topics of conversation week after week. And Samantha, after she learned to drive, never made the five-mile trip over to see her sister.

The being alone never numbed. It was an acrid wound every day that wept pus and bled heavily. She kept the TV on at all times to have voices for company. The barn cats all had names and were fed little by little all day long, so they would always be near the house, near to Maisie. As insane as it made her feel, she longed for Trevor to come home in the evenings. It hurt her to want him so bad. Made her feel sick and confused, and worst of all, dependent. The weakness of codependency left her rotting in that house, in that marriage, for ten years.

In their eighth year, the house across the street from theirs sold. It had been an ancient bachelor there for years and years, ever since Maisie and Trevor were kids, and no one else. But then he died. As all do. And the house was sold. Glued to the scene with binoculars, Maisie watched out of her front-facing kitchen as a young couple brought in some scant furniture and a few boxes into the house. Her heart raced, and her eyes stayed fixed on the young woman. She had to be Maisie’s age, around 26, maybe younger. What was her name? Where did she live before here? Was that her husband with her? Did she watch any of the same shows that kept Maisie company during the day? Maybe she liked guessing the answers to the Jeopardy questions proudly, even when she knew full well her answer was wildly incorrect. Did she have a dog too? Maisie’s heart raced as she watched the scene unfold. The two carried in a floral love seat straight out of the 80s into the house. The new woman tripped and almost lost her footing entirely. Maisie gasped and lurched forward as if she could catch her. But the woman regained her balance and barely caught herself from falling.

They moved in all their earthly belongings fairly quickly and then were gone. Maisie vibrated. She paced back and forth in front of the kitchen windows, holding firmly to her binoculars, and waited for them to return. How long would they be gone? How longcouldthey be gone with all of their belongings in the house? Or maybe this was just the first wave, and they would be bringing in more items soon. Dinner that night was fifteen minutes late because she was so preoccupied waiting for the couple’s return.

Maisie woke earlier than normal, even before Trevor got up for his farmwork, to watch the house across the dirt road. She’d never even tried to befriend the bachelor across the street. Everyone in town said he was a creep and lost custody of both his daughters for nefarious crimes against the children after their mother died. So Maisie kept her distance. But in the worst of the loneliest days, she had made extra cookies, thinking she could just drop them off to him, not even go inside. Just see another face for once. But they would get put away, frozen in Tupperware, and left for another day. The temptation was always there. For any human contact.

No one returned to the house for some time. A painful amount of time. The binoculars did not leave the windowsill above the sink. Maisie’s gaze was like a magnet towards the house across the street. It held her attention like nothing else. It was like a promise not yet fulfilled. The promise had been made,someonewas moving in as her neighbor. But when? How much longer would the young couple be gone for? Why was it taking them so long to return? Maybe they were moving from very far away and would make the trip in legs. That made sense. That calmed Maisie’s deepening anxiety.

She decided the young woman’s name must be Carrie. She looked sweet, she looked patient, and Carrie was the name of such a woman. Nick was Carrie’s husband. They were moving here from New York. The city specifically. Manhattan, to be even more specific. They had family here in Dubuque who were getting older, so they moved here to help out. It was Carrie’s parents who were aging. They used to own a car parts store in town, but have now retired. Maybe it was the parts store Trevor complained about because they were always sold out of the truck accessories he wanted immediately.

Two cats would be moving with Carrie and Nick. Opal and Gem. They were Siamese cats from the same litter. A breed Maisie had always wanted. The couple doted on their cats; they were their babies. Maybe they couldn’t have babies either. Or maybe they were just waiting to move out of the hectic city to start their family. They were newlyweds, so they still loved each other and got married on a warm June day. Not too hot and not at all windy. Just a fine June day. Her dress was one of those short couture ones they kept showing on the early morning news that were becoming popular in Europe. She was chic, she was stylish, and she could teach Maisie how to be too.

These memories passed over her at the North Dakota/Saskatchewan border, where she pulled off at a rest stop to stretch. Garfield leapt out of the front seat, out through her door, and did downward dog with a huge groaning sigh. She fished his leash out from the center console and clicked it into a locked position on the ring of his collar. They walked up and down the sidewalk and through the grass of the little park. He pooped, she bagged it, he peed, sniffed, and ate some grass. They were still not yet friends. They were allies, but not friends. Their trauma bond kept them at each other’s sides loyally, but they never quite meshed as she had with her childhood dogs. He was fiercely independent and obviously resented the last few long days in the van compared to his normal unwatched romps around the farm. But he rested more easily than she had seen him ever before. There was no loud, shouting, stomping man in the van with them. It was their oasis.

She dreamed of the little house they would rent in Fairbanks. It would have a fenced-in backyard for Garfield and a little yellow toaster for Maisie. It would be a one-bedroom, maybe even a two-bedroom; she certainly wouldn’t mind that, and would come with some pre-loved furniture. The kitchen would have enough counter space for her to make jam like she did every fall, and the fridge would be big enough for all the local produce she would buy. She’d heard that Alaska was known for its ridiculously huge produce. Maisie knew that hunting was a big activity there, too. She’d buy from local hunters and butchers and feed Garfield fresh meat until his shaggy coat came in thick and shining. Right now, he didn’t look quite mangy, but he bordered on it. Trevor only bought him the cheapest of dog food at the store, and oftentimes would mix in cat food to make it last longer.

She had applied to work for a temp agency in the city that said they would help not only with placement but with accommodation. They knew Garfield was with her and would help to find them both housing in the city. They had a high placement rate too- so she wouldn’t be bouncing for very long before finding a stable job. She knew how to do office work, taxes, budgeting, and all things clerical. While Trevor ran the feet of the farm she ran the brain. She knew how to watch the market to raise and lower prices. Maisie even knew some things about stocks. The couple had made some risky investments in the mid-section of their marriage and came away with three hundred grand by the time they sold stock. They could have hung onto the stocks for longer but Maisie always played it safe. Until now that is. But with more than half of the investment money, and their savings, in her first personal account and monthly alimony she felt safe enough moving across the country. It’s not like she would end up destitute. Anyways, that was not an option; she had a Garfield to take care of. She was a single dog mom.

After putting Garfield back in the van, she went inside the rest stop bathrooms, cleaned up, and bought a Gatorade. Then she went back to the vehicle, took out the trash that had accumulated on the passenger side floor, wiped down the windows that were smeared with tongue and nose prints from Garfield, and then set off again. The passport that had just appeared in the mail the week before itched in her pants pocket. She was at the Portal, ND point of entry and the farthest she had ever been away from Iowa.

There was a large brick office building off to one side of the driving lane and a black sheet-metal structure on the other side. Her hands shook as she white knuckled the steering wheel. What if they didn’t accept her passport? What if something wasn’t up to code with the van, and they wouldn’t let her enter? What if Garfield had missed some shot and wouldn’t be allowed over the border? What if Trevor had left some drug inside one of the doors of the van and she’d be caught with it and sent to border crossing prison? If border crossing prison was even a thing. Maisie knew you could be detained at the border but maybe not imprisoned. She clenched and unclenched her fists around the wheel.

There was a grand total of two vehicles ahead of her in line. It felt like forever before they were allowed through, but in reality, it wasn’t more than a couple of minutes per vehicle. Then it was Maisie’s turn. Her stomach churned as she fought off the idea of turning around and heading back the direction she came from.

“Good morning, ma’am,” The uniformed woman said to her through the microscopic drive-up window.

“G-good morning,” Maisie stuttered out. Feeling like she was already incriminating herself by not speaking clearly. The woman didn’t even seem to notice her anxiety.

“The purpose of your visit?”

“I’m driving to Alaska.”

“How long is your visit?”

“Um, I guess until I reach Alaska,” She fumbled with her words. The woman curtly nodded, not taking her eyes off of her clipboard.

“Passport please,” The woman extended her hand out and Maisie placed her documents into her open palm. The officer glanced at her picture, to Maisie’s face, and handed it back.

“Please proceed,” She said, and Maisie almost dropped her passport in shock. Google had said she would need to provide up-to-date veterinary records on Garfield’s shots. Two of which were given the week before. And that maybe the van itself would be searched. That they would need her itinerary plans and asked if she had any marijuana on her. But no, those were the totality of the questions asked of her. More than a little stunned, she dropped the passport into the center console and fumbled to put the van into drive. She hit the gas a little hard and lurched forward before getting control of her feet.

And that was it. They were free in Canada. For the first time in their lives, they left the Midwest and went to a new country. For quite a while it looked exactly the same, but slowly the scenery changed. She soaked in the wild flowers in the ditches and watched the big blue sky slowly deepen in hue as night came upon them. This day the plan was to drive through the night until around 2 AM, when she had reserved a motel until 9 AM check-out. It was just enough time to catch some sleep before another long day of travel. They didn’t stop for hours until they were both on the verge of tears from having to pee so badly. The rest stop routine was rushed, and they did their business quickly. The sense of urgency had grabbed Maisie something fierce once they crossed the border. There certainly was no going back now. They were in a whole newcountry.It was all getting so real so fast.

She was in a different country. She was a single dog mom. She had 60% of their savings and investments inhername. She was divorced! She was driving to Alaska. She had a job waiting for her in Alaska. She was having a panic attack.

Maisie gasped for air and veered off to the side of the road. Fumbling with the shifter, she threw it into park before they’d even come to a full stop, making the gears shriek. There were huge flashing white blobs in her swirling vision and she clutched at her chest. Her heart beat in every inch of her body. In her fingers and toes, in her teeth, behind her eyes, and worst of all in her ribs. Her ribs tightened around her insides like a vice and began to crush her lungs. Every gasp of air was more desperate than the last and the rattle that came out of her throat convinced Maisie that she was going to die here on the side of the road in Saskatchewan. She’d die in a land she’d never been to before and far away from where she was born. From the town she knew. From the bed she slept in every night. So far from the man she had been married to.

It was all a mistake. She’d bitten down and borne it for so long already, being married to Trevor for ten years. Why had she grown so weak so suddenly? The things she found out about him shouldn’t have shocked her so, made her want to kill him; that voice from the neighbor’s house shouldn’t have been allowed to impregnate her with such vicious plans. She was a wife. She was born to be a wife. It was her duty,her privilege,to take care of Trevor, the farm, and Garfield. What was she doing?! Galavanting out of the country towards a dream she had willingly given up on in high school. Away from the very man she had sworn before God himself to love no matter how hard things got.

She was a failure. This plan was a failure. Would Trevor take her back if she turned around right now and went to him? On hands and knees? Crawling and ripping apart the last of the dignity she’d maintained? He had to take her back. He didn’t know how to take care of himself after all. The only things he knew how to do for himself were boil eggs and take care of the cows and the corn. She’d left him to his own devices; did she expect him to subsist on boiled eggs alone? In that moment, Maisie saw the sweet baby face of Trevor when they were saying their vows at eighteen. He had thick freckles across his crooked nose, and his red hair gleamed in the Sunday afternoon light. He had been so excited.Theyhad been so excited. How did it go wrong so quickly? Maisie thought of the day that he brought puppy Garfield home, the grin that he wore that faded once she started to chastise him for buying a dog without asking her. She had been the thing that wiped those precious smiles off his face. The disobedient wife, the nagging partner, the cook who burnt the food no matter how long she practiced cooking. Disrespectful, arrogant, and resentful. No wonder Trevor lost his temper so easily. How hard she was to love. Maisie couldn’t even give him what he wanted most in life- a child. Trevor never even said that she had to give him only a son. Of course, he wanted a son, but he also wanted a daughter. He wanted as many children as they could have. But she left him with nothing. He was alone in the middle of Iowa. Without a wife or a dog. How could she be so selfish?

Garfield watched her warily as Maisie spiraled and sobbed and gasped for breath. He’d seen this happen before, back at the farmhouse. But it had been a while since one of these episodes overtook her and so far this grand road trip was going well. He didn’t know where they were going but he did understand why. He could smell the anxiety on Maisie every night when he and Dad came home from the fields or from the cow pens. Garfield could hear her heartbeat get louder and louder when Dad would shout at her, throw food on the ground, and break things. He didn’t exactly like Maisie all that much. She would yell at him too- when he would start eating what Dad threw on the ground. But she’d never hit or kicked him or thrown mud in his eyes like Dad. Garfield didn’t know the word Mom, Trevor always called Maisie by her first name when he was around, so she wasn’t Mom to him. She was just Maisie. And Maisie meant a meal every night, a hated bath every other week, and all of his toys piled on his bed every night when they got home. Maisie meant consistent.

Garfield usually just watched her meltdown at home and tried to avoid how angry Dad got when she was like this. But right now was different- right now there was no Dad. Garfield thought back to his mother. The strong husky that had given birth to him. She was big and warm, and her milk was sweet, and he had been the largest of the pups, so he got to her first every time. Mother would lick him and nuzzle him and make him feel safe. Even though these words weren’t in Garfield’s head as he watched Maisie, the feelings were. Cautiously, with a cocked head, he uncurled from his spot on the passenger seat and stood up on the center console. He bent his head down and started to lick the top of her head like Mother had when he was a pup. The crying didn’t stop. He licked her hair into little wet peaks and then moved his way down to her face. He corncobbed on her ear, licked the tears off her cheeks, and didn’t stop.

It was hard work cleaning such a shuddering, moving target. But Garfield made it work. Methodically, he cleaned her, catching all the tears and getting her wet all over again with his tongue. But eventually, Maisie started to calm down. Her breathing first. Then her heartbeat. Then her shaking hands. She didn’t look at him; her eyes were screwed shut, but he knew she felt better. But now he had to pee. He barked into her ear to tell her, and she almost started crying all over again. So then he just whined. Maisie scraped a sleeve over her wet face and neck and got out of the van, letting him crawl over her seat and jump out.

He circled the van twice, ate two crickets, peed on three different groupings of wild flowers (because they were beautiful and he wanted them to be his), and finally got back in the van. Maisie stood next to her open door, forehead resting against the side, and just worked on breathing.

There might not be any form of thinking that could get her out of the self-hatred pit at this time, but there was moving forward. There was no backpedaling or turning around anymore. There was only forward. Maisie didn’t know what to make of Garfield’s behavior, but she accepted it. Dogs were weird. They didn’t think like people thought. So once he jumped back in, she clamored after him and got buckled back up. He wouldn’t sit down until she put the car back into drive and pulled onto the road. Then he settled in, tucked his nose under his fluffy red tail, and went to sleep. Being a mother was hard work and a job that Garfield felt unprepared for. But he was the best at killing mice, fetching sticks, and rolling in mud. So there really wasn’t anything stopping him from being the best mother, too.