Pet Project

Why would I go through this again? I asked myself for the fiftieth time today. The work to this point was going more smoothly than I would have expected, but it was not without a small amount of trepidation given my history. However, the client had been quite clear.

“I want only the best,” the mysterious figure had said, dropping half of the payment up front onto the pitted wooden desk. The individual’s face was hidden by their cloak, but the voice had a low feminine quality to it.

“Despite my past… mistake?” I asked, but still picked up a coin to test it.

The answer was a nod. “I will be back in two weeks,” they said, and in a quick flash of blue, swept out through the open door into the lovely sunny afternoon. The smell of salt air gusted in after them. A small ache hit me then, the loss and the guilt and the fear. The lack of work in the aftermath. I allowed the clear afternoon air to carry it all away and got to work.

The materials were costly, but it had been made clear that money was no object. And so I began the project, working day and night to provide the best quality result possible. My reputation and my redemption hinged upon it, I felt.

Days of detail carving. Eyes, ears, nose. Evenings by lamplight to cut and smooth larger pieces to make the legs, the body, only to refine the next day. Here I was, near the end of the process, and it certainly looked realistic, perhaps more so than my last work had been initially. Each piece shaped with such precision, such attention to detail. And now, the fittings, putting all the parts together to make a whole. I brushed sawdust aside as I fitted the head onto the piece via a dowel. The seam was all but invisible.

Finally there it stood in front of me; a replica of a dog, every joint perfect, one paw raised, head tilted to listen to some unknown sound. It was the very image – even down to the size – of my own dear Viola, who had lived to a lovely old age but had left me behind some years ago. She had been my inspiration.

The only thing remaining was to paint.

My typical choice with my wooden creations was to imbue them with color and fanciful spark, but for this, I wanted instead to make it look like Viola, a fitting tribute. The browns and tans and golds, the warm eyes. The tang of paint mingled with the dusty wooden scent and the sea air. I could only paint by daylight, so it took three days for this portion of the work.

Finally, my task was complete. Perfection. The day of the unveiling, the stranger appeared like clockwork in the doorway of my small shop.

“You have done it!” the individual exclaimed, and threw back the hood to reveal shining golden hair – very unusual in this area – and sparkling blue eyes. “I love her!”

The woman took the wooden dog in her arms and hugged it. “You have done well,” she said, eyes shining. Somehow, I felt as though I was being forgiven, though I had done nothing wrong. The guilt weighing my past was lifting in that smile. She continued, “Here is the remaining gold. The final part of the payment will come soon.”

After she left, I wondered at that last statement, but she had paid the agreed amount so I did not dwell. I had other trinkets and items to make, as I had been focused on the dog for long enough that other tasks had fallen behind. Business had not been the same since — I abruptly shoved away the memory, the smile, the small uplifted arms. But small functional items were always in demand.

A few weeks passed, and the duties of life swept me away. Business, to my surprise, noticeably increased after this job, for which I was truly grateful. Then, one sunny afternoon I was in the middle of assisting someone with a commission request when suddenly a small golden-brown puppy bounded in through the door and right over to me. It jumped up to be held and, shocked, I obliged. I could have sworn that when I picked it up it smelled of fresh-carved wood, though it was living. While pondering this and completely distracted from my unfortunate customer, a sudden shadow darkened the doorway and it was the woman who had purchased the carved dog, holding a second puppy in her arms.

“For you,” she said, nodding at the tiny wriggling bundle in my arms. “You have been through much,” and again I knew somehow that she knew more than she was saying. “I hope this one brings even more joy than the last.”

I had to hold back tears as the memories flooded me then, the ache of disappointment and the tragedy of having a son I had so badly wanted turning into my worst fear. The puppy licked at my hands, seeming to notice, and the sensation brought me back to the present, to warm sunlight and the peaceful cry of the seabirds in the distance. I was not my failures, and there was still love in the world.

The golden stranger left on that cryptic note, and the puppy in my arms happily tried to lick my face as I returned to my work. Violette, I thought. I could have sworn there was wood grain in her fur.