Timing is Everything

Timing is Everything

I’ve been a regular at Fridays at Five since my silver-haired neighbors, Irene and Dave, started the tradition during the pandemic. Every week, on their quiet, one-lane street in Venice, California, a rotating cast of kids, dogs, and neighbors gather around their red-checkered table for wine and tea, cookies and cheese. Anywhere from seven to fourteen people come and go, depending on Shabbat plans or weekend getaways. Whenever strangers walk by, Dave calls out, “Fridays at Five! We’re here every week! Come join us!”

I’ve loved these gatherings. Dave and I are both songwriters, and Irene has become an instant friend—so empathetic about my recent divorce, inviting me for non-Friday dinners and movie nights. Most Fridays, I walk over with Kai, my nine-year-old German Shepherd rescue, tossing him cheese and hoping the potluckers don’t think I’m rude. I usually arrive mid-party, never quite sure exactly when the festivities begin. Once, I even showed up after it had ended.

Now, you’re thinking, Well, duh. Fridays at Five. Isn’t it obvious? Yes, but we must consider the time change! Turns out, Dave had rebranded the event Fridays at Four during the months between the equinoxes. And lately, with my domestic routine cracked open, my concept of time has been wonky.

My winter and spring had been brutal. With my husband gone, Rachel off at college, and Quinn busy being a high school senior, my home had shifted from chaotic to calm. Sleeping alone in my king-sized bed after twenty years felt surreal. Kai, sprawled on his floor bed, was an adventurous partner but not a cuddler. My black Burmese cat, Pedro, slept on my feet, while my 17-pound tabby, Abby—disgruntled ever since Pedro stole her spot—exiled herself to the bathroom at bedtime.

By summer, I was finally adjusting, enjoying my new independence. One sweltering afternoon, after a swim at the local pool, I stopped by Fridays at Five, damp with chlorine, expecting the usual gossip and snacks.

But where was everyone?

The driveway was empty. No table, no wine, no cheese. Just Dave, deep in conversation with a concerned blonde woman holding the leash of a pig-sized, frantic white dog—one ear pointed up like a triangle, the other folded down like a fortune cookie.

Is This Dog Lost?

Dave said, “Hi, Dev. This is Michelle. She lives on Federal. She found this dog yesterday.”

Michelle said, “Do you know her? I found her in the alley behind my house.”

I looked at the pig-sized cutie and instantly felt protective, detached, and lucky feelings, all at once.

“Does she have a name tag? Is she microchipped?”

“No,” Michelle sighed. “I’ve knocked on doors, took her to the shelter for a scan, posted on Nextdoor. Nothing.”

“Oh no!” I bent down to pet the lost girl in her pink leopard-print collar, only half-wondering if she’d bite.

“Can you keep her?” I asked Michelle.

“I can’t. My husband’s allergic. She spent last night in the garage, but it’s too hot during the day.”

Man, was it hot. I knew Dave and Irene, with their antisocial dog, Washington, wouldn’t be able to house her.

“I guess I’ll take her while we try to find her home.”

The words left my mouth before my brain could stop them. At least I didn’t need permission from Nick, like the little kid in me who used to beg my mom, Can we keep her? I’ll feed her and do everything. Pleeeeease?

Michelle teared up. “Oh my gosh, thank you! You can keep this collar. I’ll drop off the bed a neighbor gave me. Here’s my number if you need help. She’s very sweet.”

The sweet dog circled my feet, panting. As we climbed into my van, water trickling down my tank top, I turned to Dave.

“By the way, where is everyone?”

He smirked. “It’s 4:30. Hello? Fridays at Five.”

“Right,” I said, wondering if the little bitch in my car had rabies.

Two blocks later, I led her through my gate, my own pets watching from the air-conditioned house. I unhooked the leash. She darted from corner to corner, peeing, wiggling her seven-inch, S-shaped tail, then pressed her rounded body against mine.

“Hello, Cookie,” I said, inspired by her bent ear. “Where did you come from?”

She licked my hand, her soft brown eyes pleading. Her upper cheeks looked plump and dimpled. Her nose was pink at the tip. I checked her ears—clean. Eyes—dirty. Nails—long and sharp. Her tummy was pink and soft, her back dewclaws curling inward like ominous ram horns. I hoped they weren’t digging into her foot pads, and wondered how in the world I’d ever cut them.

I posted a wish list on Buy Nothing. Within hours, neighbors delivered a crate, flea meds, a muzzle, shampoo. I gave her the flea-killing medicine, secured the muzzle and doused her with warm water. As dead fleas fell to my deck like caraway seeds, she jumped a few times but never bit.

Her asymmetrical ears gave her an almost human persona as I tried out names—Red (short for Right Ear Down), Roadie, Rose. “Sit, Rose Petal.” She sat. “Spin?” She twirled three times. “Sit pretty.” She balanced on her haunches, front paws poised like a circus dog.

“Damn, little moonbeam—you came fully loaded.”

####

Six Months Later, after Michelle and I had searched high and low, no one claimed her. Eventually, I stopped asking strangers, Do you know this dog? After a DNA test, it was clear—this three-year-old chihuahua-pomeranian-poodle mix was home.

She passed every vet test—except for separation anxiety. There are two kinds: the easy one is when a dog is sad and lonely on their own. The trickier one is more like a chemical brain imbalance that makes dogs throw themselves at doors and foam at the mouth. A low dose of Zoloft has been a godsend.

She and Kai walk in perfect sync now. Together, with Kai’s protective, 70-pound frame on my right, Rosie’s curious, 20-pound body on my left, I’ll call out ‘KaiRo, sit.’ And they obey like they’ve known each other forever. After nine years as an only child, Kai treats his clingy, demanding little sister with generous acceptance.

Quinn is obsessed. The thought of leaving Rho when she goes to college next year wrecks her. And as a bonus, when my ex-husband drops Quinn off from carpools, the new girl growls at the door—the unintentional security system I didn’t know I needed.

At home, her tap-dancing paw clicks follow me everywhere. When I settle in to read or watch TV, she burrows into the crook of my knees or curls on my lap, like a wise, snowy Yoda. When I’m cooking dinner, she’s a scavenging, an arctic fox hoping I’ll spill cauliflower.

Now that she’s stopped chasing the cats, bedtime is complicated. All four animals—Kai, Abby, Pedro, and Rosie—sprawl across my bed, waiting for me to brush my teeth. The minute I pull down the covers, Rosie’s head is on my pillow. I used to kiss my husband goodnight. Now I spoon a tiny, devoted dog.

As I write this—Friday, February 14, 2025—I can’t imagine life without her. My valentine, my Rhododendron (Rosie for short.)

“Uh oh, it’s 3:45. KaiRo, time to get ready for Fridays at Five! Or is it Fridays at Four?”