Unlikely Animals

by Annie Hartnett

Both funny and sad, the kind of story we like best.

The big white dog in the backseat sniffed at the top of the window, wondering if Emma could please crack it a little to let some smells in.

Her mother’s last rescue dog had died that summer, cancer, and she had recently said that she had “a dog-shaped hole in her heart,” even though her husband was also dying.

We liked that about dogs, we always had, how clearly they can show a person exactly what they’re thinking. We spend most of our time focused on the thoughts of the human beings of our town, but sometimes it’s good to be absorbed in the thoughts of a dog.

But of all the animals we have ever lived with, it was the fox who was our shared favorite. The Sprite had more personality in the tip of his little blackberry nose than most men have in their entire being.

Clive knew he’d had a good life, he’d just expected it to go on longer.

Her father often said that a poet loves anything that better illuminates the daily horror of being alive.

Sometimes lying to children is easier than explaining the truth. Teaching Lesson Number One.” “What’s Lesson Number Two?” “Oops, there’s the bell. Better get you down the hall.”

Leanne Hatfield had also gotten the chickenpox vaccine, which we had forgotten was a disease that could now be protected against. Those of us who had died of polio or had gone deaf from the mumps marveled at that kind of thing, modern luxuries.

Her dad had started feeding the birds; that was his new hobby. He told Emma that the ghost of Ernest Harold Baynes had promised him that the chickadees would eat straight from his hands eventually, if he remained patient enough. Chickadees are always the friendliest of birds.

“Everyone deserves to be looked for if no one knows where they are,” Clive said simply, and the children nodded. That was a satisfactory reason for kids who knew the rules of Hide-and-Seek.

Anticipatory grief, it’s called, when you’re sad about something that hasn’t happened yet. Oh man, we thought at Maple Street, how we missed the excruciating pain of being alive.

At Maple Street, we knew those four words—“I’m proud of you”—outrank “I love you” in terms of how much we need to hear them, especially from our parents.

That’s why we like living with animals so much; they exhibit their joy so outwardly, remind us how to be better alive.

At Maple Street, we don’t mind listening, even when we know how the story ends.

This book is about rooting for everyone, and about loving a place. And I hope it’s clear that I deeply love the place.