“Yeah. It’s been a rough fewweeks.”
“Why didn’t she take the dogwithher?”
“Apparently, Al is allergic.” He sighs. “Something about thedander.”
“Are youkeepinghim?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” His eyes get a little glossy. “He’s the only thing I have leftofhers.”
Shit.
I hate when people cry. I never know what to say, or how to react without sounding like an emotionless robot. Generally, I think platitudes likeit’ll get betterandtime heals all woundsare for Hallmark cards and Lifetime movies. It seems far too cliché to actually say themoutloud.
Thankfully, I’m saved by the distinct noise of liquid hitting hardwood in a steadystream.
“Shit!” I yell, racing toward the sound. “He’s not potty trained atall,Duncan!”
I fly down the hallway to my kitchen. Skidding to a stop by the fridge, I suppress a scream as I see the tiny dog unleashing a torrent of urine that belieshissize.
“How do you evenfitall that pee in such a small package?!” I mutter, scooping him up into my arms and carrying him, still dribbling, toward the patio door. By the time I get him out onto the tiny patch of grass I call a yard, his tank is empty. He rolls on the grass, tongue lolling from his mouth. Happy asaclam.
“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” I mutter, arching my brows at him. He’s wagging his tail so furiously, his entire body moves back and forth in a blur. “You do realize, if my landlord finds out about this, she’ll never give me my securitydepositback?”
The dog doesn’tanswer.
(Shocking,Iknow.)
With a sigh, I pick him up, tuck him under my arm like a clutch purse, and walk back inside. Duncan is wiping the kitchen floor with a wet papertowel.
“Sorry aboutthat,sis.”
I scratch the puppy behind his velvety ear in an absent gesture. “What’shisname?”
“He doesn’t have one, yet. The breeder brought him over the day after Susie left… I was waiting to name him, until I knewforsure…”
Whether she wascomingback.
“Kind of strange timing, getting a dog together if she was planning on dumping you,” I can’t help pointing out, lowering the mongrel back to the floor. He promptly collapses on my feet, paws sprawling in all directions like his bones are made ofrubber.
It’snotcute.
Atall.
Deny,deny,deny.
“Apparently she put her name down on a waiting list for him before we even started dating,” Duncan explains. “I didn’t have anything to dowithit.”
“Well, Clifford the Little Red Dog needs a name.” I pause. “Maybe you should call him Pisser. Or Tinkles. OrPuddles.”
“Funny.” Duncan rises to his feet. “Pee aside, he’s pretty cute,isn’the?”
I shrug. “I suppose, if you like slobber on your face and pee on yourfloors.”
“Oh, come on, sis. He’s a redhead too. You’re kindred spirits. Practicallyrelated.”
I snort. “Yes, becausethat’showgeneticswork.”
“Even you aren’t immune to thosepuppyeyes.”