Xena

The smell of smoke never frightened me.

Not the good kind, anyway.

Not the old familiar smell that clung to turnout coats hanging in lockers. Not the scent that lingered on boots after a long call. Not the smell that drifted through Fire Station 87 when the engines rolled home at three in the morning and tired firefighters stumbled through the bay doors looking like they'd wrestled dragons.

That smell meant my people were home.

My name is Xena.

Retired firehouse mascot.

Professional nap enthusiast.

Part-time squirrel security officer.

Full-time lover of cheese crackers.

And I love Mom.

Mostly.

Well.

I love Mom all the time.

But I love Mom a little extra when she has a cheese cracker in her hand.

I'm just being honest.

Humans appreciate honesty.

Usually.

I used to live at Fire Station 87.

Back then I was younger, faster, and considerably less gray around the muzzle.

The firefighters found me during a storm.

At least that's the story I've heard a thousand times.

Humans love repeating stories.

A firefighter named Mike told it every chance he got.

"She was this tiny little thing," he'd say.

I was not tiny.

I was compact.

There is a difference.

"We found her under Engine Two during a thunderstorm."

True.

"She marched right into the station like she owned the place."

Also true.

"Then she stole my sandwich."

A gross exaggeration.

I merely relocated his sandwich to my stomach.

Very different.

After that, I stayed.

Nobody voted.

Nobody signed paperwork.

One day I was a stray.

The next day I was Firehouse Dog.

That was how things worked.

The station became my kingdom.

I knew every corner.

Every smell.

Every creak in the floor.

I knew which firefighters shared snacks and which pretended not to.

I knew who secretly cried after difficult calls.

I knew who talked to photographs of loved ones when they thought nobody was listening.

Humans think dogs don't notice things.

We notice everything.

We simply don't judge.

Most of the time.

I absolutely judged Greg for putting pineapple on pizza.

Some crimes cannot be ignored.

When the alarm sounded, the station transformed.

One second everyone was laughing.

The next they were moving with astonishing speed.

Boots.

Coats.

Helmets.

Doors opening.

Engines roaring.

Lights flashing.

The whole building suddenly alive.

I never went on calls.

The chief wouldn't allow it.

"Too dangerous," he always said.

So I waited.

That was my job.

Waiting.

Watching.

Greeting them when they returned.

Sometimes they came back smiling.

Sometimes they didn't.

On those nights I walked from firefighter to firefighter and rested my head on knees.

No tricks.

No barking.

No games.

Just company.

Humans need that sometimes.

Someone who sits beside them without asking questions.

Years passed.

My muzzle turned white.

My naps became longer.

My jumps became shorter.

The firefighters began using words like "retirement."

I didn't like retirement.

Retirement sounded suspiciously like fewer people available to share snacks.

Then Mom appeared.

Her name was Sarah.

She volunteered at the station museum after the firehouse became a café and historical landmark.

Everybody loved her.

Especially me.

Because she carried treats.

I am not complicated.

The day I retired, half the station cried.

I pretended not to notice.

The chief gave a speech.

Mike cried first.

Then everyone else started.

Humans are contagious that way.

Sarah knelt beside me and scratched behind my ears.

"You'll come home with me," she whispered.

Home.

The word sounded nice.

So I went.

Mom's house was smaller than the station.

Much quieter.

No alarms.

No engines.

No firefighters arguing about sports.

No midnight calls.

At first I wasn't sure I liked it.

I missed the noise.

The chaos.

The routine.

Most of all, I missed my people.

Then Mom bought me a bed.

Not just a bed.

A magnificent bed.

A bed softer than clouds.

Softer than laundry.

Softer than the couch I wasn't supposed to sleep on.

Naturally, I continued sleeping on the couch.

Some traditions matter.

Mom talked to me constantly.

Humans do this.

"I'm going to the grocery store."

Excellent.

Bring snacks.

"The weather is nice today."

Wonderful.

Still bring snacks.

"I need to do laundry."

I have no opinion on this.

Bring snacks.

Most conversations could be improved with snacks.

Then came the Cheese Cracker Incident.

The first one.

There would be many.

Mom sat at the kitchen table eating square cheese crackers.

I was lying nearby.

Not begging.

Observing.

There is a difference.

A scientist observes.

I was conducting research.

One cracker accidentally fell.

I immediately secured the evidence.

For science.

Mom laughed.

"Did you like that?"

Like it?

It was magnificent.

A golden square of crunchy perfection.

The texture.

The flavor.

The way it dissolved into salty happiness.

Art.

Pure art.

From that day forward, cheese crackers became sacred.

Mom quickly discovered something.

When she held a cheese cracker, I became extraordinarily affectionate.

Not intentionally.

It simply happened.

Tail wagging.

Happy eyes.

Closer proximity.

Perhaps leaning against her leg.

Possibly resting my chin on her knee.

Maybe gazing lovingly into her soul.

Pure coincidence.

The cracker had nothing to do with it.

Probably.

One afternoon Mom was talking to her friend Janet.

I lay beneath the table.

Janet asked, "Does Xena love you?"

"Of course she does," Mom replied.

Correct.

Janet laughed.

"What about when you have cheese crackers?"

Mom looked down at me.

I looked up.

She produced a cracker.

My tail immediately accelerated to hurricane speed.

Both women burst out laughing.

"See?" Janet said.

Mom shook her head.

"Xena loves me more when I have a cheese cracker in my hand."

I would like the record to show that this statement was technically accurate.

But only technically.

Because here's the thing.

Humans misunderstand dogs sometimes.

They think treats create love.

Treats don't create love.

Treats reveal opportunities.

Love comes first.

The cracker is merely a bonus.

A very important bonus.

An exceptionally delicious bonus.

But still a bonus.

Winter arrived.

Rain tapped against windows.

The house smelled like coffee and books.

Mom spent evenings reading in her favorite chair.

I spent evenings occupying approximately seventy percent of her foot space.

It was a good arrangement.

Then Mom got sick.

Not terribly sick.

Just enough.

The kind of sickness that makes humans move slowly.

The kind that steals energy.

The kind that turns cheerful voices quiet.

I didn't like it.

For three days she stayed home.

No walks.

No gardening.

No museum.

Just blankets and tea.

And sleep.

Lots of sleep.

So I stayed close.

Closer than usual.

When she sat, I sat.

When she slept, I slept nearby.

When she coughed, I checked on her.

Dogs are funny that way.

We can't fix things.

We can't bring medicine.

We can't make soup.

So we stay.

Sometimes staying is enough.

On the third day she smiled weakly and reached for a box.

Cheese crackers.

My ears perked.

Hope!

She held one out.

I took it gently.

Then another.

Then another.

Finally she laughed.

"At least one of us still has an appetite."

I rested my head on her lap.

Not because of the crackers.

Well.

Not entirely because of the crackers.

Spring arrived.

Flowers returned.

Birds became insufferably confident.

Squirrels resumed their criminal enterprises.

Life felt good.

Then one Saturday Mom took me to visit Fire Station 87.

The old building looked different.

The engines were gone.

The bays held museum displays.

Photographs covered the walls.

Families drank coffee where firefighters once gathered after calls.

But some things remained.

The smell.

The memories.

The feeling.

Home.

The moment I entered, voices erupted.

"Xena!"

People rushed over.

Older now.

Grayer.

Different uniforms.

Same hearts.

Mike nearly dropped his coffee.

"Look who's here!"

I received approximately six hundred ear scratches.

Possibly more.

I lost count.

Mom sat with the former chief.

They talked while I wandered.

Every corner held memories.

There was the spot where I stole a hot dog.

There was the locker room where I hid during thunderstorms.

There was the office where the chief pretended not to feed me bacon.

Humans think dogs forget.

We don't.

Eventually I returned to Mom.

She held a cheese cracker.

Of course she did.

The museum café sold them.

Naturally.

I sat beside her.

She smiled.

"Still my girl?"

I leaned against her leg.

Always.

The cracker was nice too.

But mostly always.

The chief watched us.

"You know," he said, "she looks at you the same way she looked at us."

Mom smiled.

"What way is that?"

"The way dogs look at their people."

Nobody spoke for a moment.

Sometimes humans get quiet when they're feeling something important.

The chief scratched my ears.

"She's lucky."

Mom laughed.

"I think I'm the lucky one."

Correct again.

Humans occasionally surprise me with their accuracy.

That evening we drove home.

The sun was setting.

Orange light filled the car.

Mom reached over and scratched my neck.

I sighed.

The good kind of sigh.

The kind that says everything is right.

Age continued its work.

It always does.

My walks became slower.

My naps became legendary.

My hearing faded a little.

Not enough to miss the sound of a treat bag.

I had priorities.

One night a thunderstorm rolled through town.

The kind that rattles windows.

The kind I feared as a puppy beneath Engine Two.

Mom sat beside me on the floor.

"You okay, girl?"

Not entirely.

Thunder remained suspicious.

She wrapped an arm around me.

The storm rumbled.

The house shook.

But Mom stayed.

So I stayed too.

Because courage isn't always about being fearless.

Sometimes courage is simply staying beside someone.

Humans taught me that.

Firefighters especially.

Later that night Mom shared a cheese cracker.

Just one.

For morale.

I accepted.

For morale.

People often think a dog's life is simple.

Eat.

Sleep.

Play.

Repeat.

And yes, those things are wonderful.

Particularly eating.

But there's more.

A dog's life is really about belonging.

Finding your people.

Staying with them.

Loving them.

Again and again and again.

Every day.

No matter what.

I belonged to firefighters once.

Now I belonged to Mom.

The love wasn't divided.

Love doesn't work that way.

It grows.

Expands.

Makes room.

Like a firehouse welcoming a stray puppy.

Like a woman opening her home to a retired mascot.

Like a dog finding family more than once.

Tonight Mom sits in her favorite chair.

I'm lying nearby.

The house smells like tea.

Rain taps softly against the windows.

A comfortable silence fills the room.

Then I hear it.

The unmistakable rustle of a cardboard box.

Cheese crackers.

My ears immediately stand up.

Mom laughs.

"Oh, now you're interested."

Interested?

Madam.

I have always been interested.

She holds up a cracker.

I rise with remarkable speed for a dog my age.

Some miracles never cease.

"Do you love me?" she asks.

I wag.

"Or do you love the cracker?"

I wag harder.

This is a trick question.

Humans adore trick questions.

The answer is both.

Obviously both.

She gives me the cracker.

I crunch happily.

Perfect.

Wonderful.

Magnificent.

Then I rest my head against her knee.

The cracker is gone.

The love remains.

It always remains.

Mom strokes my fur.

I close my eyes.

Outside, rain falls.

Inside, everything is warm.

Safe.

Home.

And if Mom happens to have another cheese cracker in her hand?

Well.

I might love her just a tiny little bit more.

At least until the cracker is gone.

Then I'll go right back to loving her with my whole heart.