great.”
“Excuse me.” I scurried off to my room, sat down on the bed and took deep breaths until I didn’t feel like screaming anymore. Then I threw on a pair of shorts and halter, and pulled my hair into a sloppy ponytail. When I returned, Kinky and Lyle were standing side by side at the French doors, peering out onto the patio.
“What is that?” I heard Kinky ask.
“I think it’s a dog,” said Lyle.
“It is,” I said. “He’s my dog.”
Kinky chuckled—a series of short exhales through his beak nose. “He’s funny-looking. Kind of reminds me of my science teacher’s toupee, only messier.”
“You should talk, frizz-head,” Lyle quipped.
By now Seamus had seen them and was barking and twirling about.
“What’s wrong with him?” Lyle asked.
“Nothing,” I said, my voice whiny and defensive. “He just needs to go for a walk.”
“Right.” Kinky nodded, his frizzy mane bouncing up and down. “Probably has to go to the bathroom. Do you use a scooper? Or do you just leave it there?”
“Man! I hate it when people just leave it,” Lyle whined. “I always step in it.”
“No,” I said hastily. “I pick it up.” But a nagging thought was screeching through my mind. It suddenly occurred to me that I actually hadn’t picked up anything since I got Seamus.
Because Seamus hadn’t made
anything for me to pick up!
I was, without a doubt, the lamest of all dog owners. No wonder he’d been acting a little batty. The poor guy was about to bust!
Twenty minutes later we were wandering around the park. I’d expected Seamus to really let loose once we got there, but other than watering a couple of trees, he didn’t do anything.
“Come on,” I urged. I was all set with several plastic grocery bags. I’d seen our neighbor back home, Mr. Floyd, use them while walking his Pomeranian. He’d slip a couple of them over his hand like gloves, pick up his dog’s droppings, and pull his hand out backward, sealing the mess inside. Then he’d tie up the ends and toss the whole thing into the nearest garbage can.
Only Seamus wasn’t giving me anything to scoop up. Instead he yanked me this way and that as he barked at squirrels, sniffed out various odors and then rolled in the grass, making a variety of throaty grunts and whines.
“Quit playing, Seamus,” I begged. “I’m starving.”
I should have been paying better attention, but I hadn’t had my coffee yet and I was daffy from lack of sleep. Apparently the pool opened early on Saturdays, and as we staggered down the sidewalk, Seamus’s ears pricked at the sounds of splashing and the giddy squeals of little kids. The next thing I knew, the leash had slipped out of my grasp again.
“Seamus!”
I gasped in terror as he raced toward the pool like a furry cannonball. Seamus shot past the open gate and then launched himself into the air. He sailed magnificently over the water for a split second before descending with a loud splash.
At that point the entire scene picked up volume and tempo. Children shrieked with delight. The lifeguard began blowing his whistle and shouting. Several onlookers burst out laughing. Meanwhile Seamus swam about happily and oblivious, his little paws briskly treading the surface as if he were an oversized windup toy.
“Seamus!” I ran through the gate and over to the side of the pool. “Seamus, come here!”
“Is that your dog?” growled an incredibly buff, mean-looking lifeguard.
“Yes,” I replied with a sigh. “Sorry.”
“Get him out of there!”
“Okay, but—” I glanced down at my clothes. Did he expect me to dive in there myself?
“Now!” the lifeguard added. “He’s scaring the kids.”
From what I could see, the kids were moving
toward
him, crowding about so they could pat his head or wave pool toys in his face in the hopes that he might play fetch.
Something wet poked my foot. I glanced down and saw the boy I’d met in the park the day before. He grinned at me and pointed
“Excuse me.” I scurried off to my room, sat down on the bed and took deep breaths until I didn’t feel like screaming anymore. Then I threw on a pair of shorts and halter, and pulled my hair into a sloppy ponytail. When I returned, Kinky and Lyle were standing side by side at the French doors, peering out onto the patio.
“What is that?” I heard Kinky ask.
“I think it’s a dog,” said Lyle.
“It is,” I said. “He’s my dog.”
Kinky chuckled—a series of short exhales through his beak nose. “He’s funny-looking. Kind of reminds me of my science teacher’s toupee, only messier.”
“You should talk, frizz-head,” Lyle quipped.
By now Seamus had seen them and was barking and twirling about.
“What’s wrong with him?” Lyle asked.
“Nothing,” I said, my voice whiny and defensive. “He just needs to go for a walk.”
“Right.” Kinky nodded, his frizzy mane bouncing up and down. “Probably has to go to the bathroom. Do you use a scooper? Or do you just leave it there?”
“Man! I hate it when people just leave it,” Lyle whined. “I always step in it.”
“No,” I said hastily. “I pick it up.” But a nagging thought was screeching through my mind. It suddenly occurred to me that I actually hadn’t picked up anything since I got Seamus.
Because Seamus hadn’t made
anything for me to pick up!
I was, without a doubt, the lamest of all dog owners. No wonder he’d been acting a little batty. The poor guy was about to bust!
Twenty minutes later we were wandering around the park. I’d expected Seamus to really let loose once we got there, but other than watering a couple of trees, he didn’t do anything.
“Come on,” I urged. I was all set with several plastic grocery bags. I’d seen our neighbor back home, Mr. Floyd, use them while walking his Pomeranian. He’d slip a couple of them over his hand like gloves, pick up his dog’s droppings, and pull his hand out backward, sealing the mess inside. Then he’d tie up the ends and toss the whole thing into the nearest garbage can.
Only Seamus wasn’t giving me anything to scoop up. Instead he yanked me this way and that as he barked at squirrels, sniffed out various odors and then rolled in the grass, making a variety of throaty grunts and whines.
“Quit playing, Seamus,” I begged. “I’m starving.”
I should have been paying better attention, but I hadn’t had my coffee yet and I was daffy from lack of sleep. Apparently the pool opened early on Saturdays, and as we staggered down the sidewalk, Seamus’s ears pricked at the sounds of splashing and the giddy squeals of little kids. The next thing I knew, the leash had slipped out of my grasp again.
“Seamus!”
I gasped in terror as he raced toward the pool like a furry cannonball. Seamus shot past the open gate and then launched himself into the air. He sailed magnificently over the water for a split second before descending with a loud splash.
At that point the entire scene picked up volume and tempo. Children shrieked with delight. The lifeguard began blowing his whistle and shouting. Several onlookers burst out laughing. Meanwhile Seamus swam about happily and oblivious, his little paws briskly treading the surface as if he were an oversized windup toy.
“Seamus!” I ran through the gate and over to the side of the pool. “Seamus, come here!”
“Is that your dog?” growled an incredibly buff, mean-looking lifeguard.
“Yes,” I replied with a sigh. “Sorry.”
“Get him out of there!”
“Okay, but—” I glanced down at my clothes. Did he expect me to dive in there myself?
“Now!” the lifeguard added. “He’s scaring the kids.”
From what I could see, the kids were moving
toward
him, crowding about so they could pat his head or wave pool toys in his face in the hopes that he might play fetch.
Something wet poked my foot. I glanced down and saw the boy I’d met in the park the day before. He grinned at me and pointed
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