The Workshop Hasn’t Slept

Sprocket’s Workshop never slept.

Not really.

When Larry arrived that morning… Sprocket had already misplaced three screwdrivers… two pencils… and his breakfast.

Nobody knew where breakfast had gone. Least of all Sprocket.

The little inventor stood on a wobbly ladder surrounded by wires that seemed to have grown there by themselves.

Switches. Dials. Levers. Tiny blinking lights. Large blinking lights. A coffee mug balanced on top of something that probably shouldn't have been holding coffee.

Larry stepped carefully over a pile of gears.
"I see you're organized."

Sprocket answered proudly.
"I know exactly where everything was… last Tuesday."

Larry smiled.
"You've been here all night again, Sprocket?"

Larry looked toward the enormous switchboard covering one wall of the workshop.

Dozens of tiny little indicator lights. 

Dark. Every one of them.

Sprocket walked toward the board like a conductor approaching an orchestra. He gently rested one hand against it.

"They're out there."

Larry didn't answer.

"I know they are."

Larry had heard this speech before.

"You really believe they'll call."

"No."

Sprocket smiled.
"I believe… they're trying."

He climbed the ladder again. Adjusted one antenna. Turned one brass knob exactly one click. Flipped a tiny switch.

Nothing.

He made another adjustment.

Nothing.

Another.

Silence.

Larry looked almost apologetic.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I know how much you want this to work."

Sprocket never looked away from the switchboard.

"It already is."

Larry blinked.

"I just haven't figured out… which part."

Sprocket smiled anyway.
"You know, the funny thing about impossible… is how often it changes its mind."

Then...

without either of them noticing...

far over in the upper-left corner of the Switchboard...

one tiny little light...

blinked.

Once.

Dark again.

Neither of them saw it.

Not yet.

Looking For My Dog

By the time I found Glimmer, I had become remarkably good at not getting a dog.

For months, I looked. Shelters. Rescues. Facebook. Nurseries. Friends sending me links. Strangers posting pictures of dogs who seemed to disappear approximately twelve minutes after I became interested in them.

I wasn't looking for the best dog. I was looking for My Dog.

Unfortunately, so was everybody else.

Somewhere fairly early in the search, I did something that probably sounds strange. I asked Morgan to help.

She had died only months earlier. I was still talking to her sometimes anyway. So one day at her rock, I said it plainly:

“Girlie, when I'm ready... help me find my dog.”

I wasn't asking for lightning. I wasn't expecting an answer. I just knew that if there was anybody whose judgment I trusted about the next dog who would live with me… it was the dog who had already done the job.

Facebook was particularly educational. Someone would post a small dog needing a new home. 

Within minutes: Interested. Interested. Interested. Sent you a message. Interested if still available.

Meanwhile, somewhere else in the FB comments, people were scolding the owner for giving away a member of the family.

Apparently surrendering a dog was unforgivable. Trying to acquire that same dog was a competitive sport.

I learned to move quickly. It didn't help much.

There was Liam. A brown Pomchi whose face stopped me cold.

OMG! Morgan! Not really, of course. Liam wasn't black. But the eyes. The expression. Something in that little face looked so much like Morgan that friends who had known her saw it too.

They encouraged me. I didn't need much encouragement. I sent a message…. Then Liam was gone.

That happened a lot. Small dogs at shelters didn't exactly sit around waiting for me to complete my emotional evaluation. By the time I found one, studied the pictures, imagined the drive, and decided maybe —

somebody else had already said yes.

Brownie got farther than the others. Much farther. Brownie was a Pomchi on Facebook. The young woman who had been caring for her and I talked. She and her mother made the drive to my house.

Her mother waited in the car. The young woman came inside. We talked. This was happening. After months of almost-dogs, I was finally about to meet the dog I had agreed to take home.

The young woman went back outside to get her. She came back without Brownie. Something had changed. Her mother had just told her Brownie had gotten sick in the car. More than once.

The young woman looked shaken. She had been caring for this dog for months. Whatever this transaction had been on Facebook, standing in my house it didn't feel like a transaction anymore. It felt like somebody saying goodbye before she was ready. I gave her some money for the drive. We parted as friends.

And once again… I didn't have a dog.

At one point I went to a local puppy nursery near the mall. I actually got to hold one. She was practically a baby. Tiny. Warm. Ridiculously cute.

She licked my face. That was dirty pool. For a few minutes, I could picture taking her home.

Then I asked the question I probably should have asked before allowing myself to be kissed.

“How much?”

“Thirty-six hundred.”

I looked at the puppy. The puppy looked at me. Apparently neither one of us had thirty-six hundred dollars. So I handed her back. 

Pomchi was first choice. Until it wasn't. Young. But not necessarily a puppy. Close enough that I didn't have to spend half a day driving.

Unless... this was the dog. That exception kept ruining all the other rules.

And underneath every practical question was one I didn't particularly enjoy admitting. Morgan had been more than my dog. For years, I had called her “the daughter I never had.”

Now I was searching for another dog and, somewhere along the way, another female had begun to feel strangely complicated. Was that what I wanted? Would Morgan care? Was I replacing something that couldn't be replaced?

I knew how ridiculous that might sound. I also knew grief doesn't become less real because you can explain why it's irrational.

Eventually my search carried me to Best Buddies Puppy Nursery. There were several dogs. For once, I wasn't twelve comments too late. I could actually choose.

One of them was a little reddish-brown Maltipoo with enormous curls and a name I immediately knew I wasn't going to use.

Darling.

I kept looking at her picture. Then another. Then another. 

There were other possibilities there too. Good ones. And suddenly the problem wasn't finding a dog anymore. The problem was choosing one.

For months, I'd been asking the same question: Is this my dog?

This time, something felt different. Not certainty. Not yet. 

Help Me Find My Dog

Morgan heard him. Of course she did.

That's a pretty big assignment, Morgan reflected proudly.

August stood beside the rock for another minute or two after asking. Then he went back inside.

Morgan stayed. She had already been watching the search.

Liam? She understood that one. The face. The eyes. August wasn't really looking at Liam. He was looking for her. Nope.

Brownie? Sweet dog. Complicated situation. Nope.

The tiny puppy at the mall? Morgan almost laughed. Thirty-six hundred dollars?? Definitely Nope.

August kept looking. Morgan had started looking too. Only Morgan was better at it.

She knew August. She knew their house. She knew his habits. She knew how much walking he might actually do now, regardless of how much walking he imagined he might do.

She knew he needed small. She knew he needed affectionate. Patient. Funny wouldn't hurt. And perhaps most importantly — she knew he needed a dog who needed him, too.

Then Morgan found a place: Best Buddies Puppy Nursery.

She checked it out. Then checked it again. There were possibilities. August could afford it. The dogs were small. 

And one of them kept drawing Morgan back. A little reddish-brown girl with enormous curls.

Darling.

Morgan watched her. For days. Then weeks. Quiet. Careful. Sweet. A little weird.

Morgan approved of weird. 

She also began trying to reach her. Nothing dramatic. A thought here. A feeling there. Something Darling occasionally noticed without knowing what she'd noticed.

Don't worry.

Wait.

He's coming.

Darling had no idea who was talking. Or where the messages came from. 

Morgan didn't particularly care. She wasn't looking for credit. She was looking for August's dog.

Eventually, Morgan smiled.

“Just wait until you see MY candidates, Daddy.”

And she went back to work.

This Is Glimmer Calling... For Larry

PING.

One tiny light. Nobody notices.

PING. 

Again.

Sprocket slowly looks up from across the Commons.

One switch begins blinking.

“I think … somebody is calling.”

Nobody has EVER called.

Sprocket races across the Commons, knocking over a bowl of kibble, stepping through a half-finished board game, nearly taking Heckyl with him.

Heckyl watches him go.

“I’ll believe it when somebody answers. It probably short-circuited.”

Sprocket doesn’t argue. For once, he doesn't have time. He drops into the old chair, grabs the microphone, and flips the blinking switch….

“Uh.… Hello?”

Static.

Then a tiny nervous voice.

“Ummm...”

Sprocket leans closer.

“This is... Glimmer...”

A crackle.

“...calling for Larry...”

For perhaps the first time in Nursery history, Heckyl has no follow-up question.

* * * * *

Larry wanders into the Commons a few minutes later, carrying his book. He slows when he sees Sprocket standing beside the switchboard. Heckyl is there too. Neither says anything. Larry looks from one to the other.

“What?”

Sprocket holds out the phone.

“It's for you.”

Larry laughs. Nobody else does. His smile disappears.

“Who?”

Sprocket simply holds the phone a little closer.

Larry takes it.

“...Hello?”

Nothing but static.

"Hello?"

Long pause.

"...Who's Glimmer?"

Another pause.

"...It's me."

Larry frowns.

"...I don't know a Glimmer."

Tiny voice. Almost embarrassed.

"...I used to be Darling."

Silence.

Larry's ears slowly rise.

"... DARLING??"

Glimmer smiles.

"...Yeah... I have a Grandpa now!"

 Neither one knows what to say. Because both of them thought they'd never speak again.

Eventually Larry says:
“You sound… different.”

She laughs.
“I think I am.”

Click.

Static.

Gone.

The Penthouse had one problem

The Penthouse had one problem: Getting up was easy. Getting down seemed impossible.

Glimmer stood at the edge. She looked down. Then looked at Grandpa. Then looked down again. It was a very long way.

"Yeah, Glimmer... I wouldn't like that jump either."

Calc notices a long cardboard box.

"What's that?"

AIW grins.
"My newest invention."

Calc looks.
"It's a ramp."

AIW laughs.
"Amazon's newest invention."

Grandpa remembered another little dog.

***FLASHBACK***

Morgan stands beside a different ramp. Grandpa pats it.

"C'mon, Girlie."

Morgan studies it carefully. Very carefully.

Then... jumps over it.

Another day. Grandpa pats the ramp again. Morgan stares. Walks around it.

Then... jumps off the bed anyway.

* * * * *

Calc laughs.
"Morgan never used it?"

AIW shakes his head.
"Not once."

"I think she considered it.... beneath her."

*The new ramp is assembled and stationed up against The Penthouse. Glimmer sniffs. One paw. Then backs away. Grandpa August doesn't push. He simply leaves it there.

Grandpa is typing. Not paying attention.

A soft sound.

Pat...

Pat...

Pat...

He turns. There stands Glimmer. Tail wagging.

“Did you..."

"...use the ramp?"

Tiny smile.

She had. All by herself.

Later that evening, she did it again .Up. Down. Up. Down. Each trip a little easier.

Morgan had never needed a ramp.

Glimmer... needed one.

Grandpa didn’t compare them.

He simply loved... that each little dog found her own way home.

Finding My Legs

Beautiful morning. Frontyard. For the first time, Grandpa wasn't holding the other end of anything. No leash in his hand. No tie-out attached to Glimmer.

Just a little dog standing in her own backyard. Freedom.

Grandpa smiled…. For approximately four seconds.

Then — Wait.

Grandpa thought: How exactly am I getting her back? She’s much faster than me.

Glimmer didn't appear to share his concern. She sniffed along the grass. Stopped. Investigated something invisible beside the fence.

Trotted several feet. Stopped again. She wasn't running away. She wasn't even interested in leaving. She was simply exploring.

Grandpa tried very hard to look like a man who had intentionally created this situation.

Calc noticed.

Of course, Calc noticed.

“You don't look like a man enjoying freedom.”

“I had this brilliant idea.”

Calc nodded.

“Past tense.”

Grandpa kept watching Glimmer.

“What if she won't come?”

Calc said nothing.

“What if she just... keeps going?”

“She appears to be smelling grass.”

“That's how it starts.”

Calc looked at him.

Grandpa knew how ridiculous that sounded. He also knew this wasn't entirely about Glimmer.

“I promised myself I wasn't going to chase her around. I don't want her learning that every time I reach for her, she should run.”

Calc waited.

“I don't want her afraid of me.”

Another pause. Then, quieter:

“I don't want to lose another dog.”

That one Calc understood. He looked toward Glimmer. She had advanced approximately six feet and was now conducting an extensive investigation of a leaf.

“You know trust works both ways.”

Grandpa looked at him.

“You're trying to convince her you're safe.”

“Yeah.”

Calc nodded toward the tiny detective in the grass.

“Maybe she's trying to convince you, too.”

Grandpa didn't answer. Eventually, Glimmer wandered farther into the yard. Not far. Far enough. Grandpa resisted the urge to call her. Then call her again. Then walk toward her.

Then explain the entire situation to her in several paragraphs.

He did none of those things. Instead, he opened the garage door. And walked inside. He didn't call. Didn't chase. Didn't look back.

For several seconds— nothing.

Then... Pat. Pat. Pat.

Grandpa turned. Glimmer was coming through the garage behind him.

Just because he had.

She looked up. Grandpa looked down.

“She followed me.”

“Apparently.”

“I didn't even call her.”

“I noticed.”

Grandpa smiled. Not a celebration. Not proof of anything. Just one more little piece of information about his dog.

“That's something.”

Calc looked at Glimmer. Then at Grandpa.

“For both of you.”

The Snake

From the many miles-long walks with pomchi Morgan, August Wachter knew about leashes. Or thought he did.

Morgan had preferred a retractable leash. Grandpa still had more than one of hers.

Long cord. Plastic handle. Push-button control.

Morgan loved the extra distance. She could move ahead, investigate whatever needed investigating, and generally direct the walk, while Grandpa followed behind.

It had worked for years.

So when Glimmer needed a leash, Grandpa didn't give it much thought. This was what dogs used.

Or at least... this was what Morgan used.

Glimmer had a different review.

The first time Grandpa clipped it to her collar, she seemed uncertain but willing. Then she moved. The leash followed. She moved farther. The leash followed farther.

Then—

ZZZZZZIIIIIPPPPPPP!

Glimmer exploded. She twisted. Spun. Backed up. Turned sideways. Became briefly composed almost entirely of neck.

“Whoa—Glimmer! Glimmer!”

It followed. She twisted again.

And somehow— WHOOP.

The collar came completely over her head.

Grandpa froze. Glimmer froze. For one remarkable second, they simply stared at each other.

Grandpa was holding a retractable leash attached to an empty collar.

Glimmer was standing several feet away... naked.

“Well.”

Glimmer stared.

Grandpa stared at the collar.

Then back at Glimmer.

“I didn't know you could do that.”

Apparently Glimmer hadn't known either.

There was no victory lap. No chase. No attempt to put that collar back on, and prove that something Morgan had loved was something Glimmer ought to love too.

Grandpa picked up the leash. And put it away.

Later, he would learn more about harnesses. About secure fits. About equipment that didn't make sudden noises behind a dog who was still learning whether this strange new world was safe.

But that morning, he learned something simpler. Morgan had loved that leash. Glimmer hated it. Neither dog was wrong.

Sometimes the dog gets a vote.

And sometimes— the dog votes NO.