toward Seamus. “Can I play with William?” he asked.
“Actually his name is—”
Oh, what the hell.
“Sure,” I said. “Only William isn’t allowed in the pool. Could you help bring him over here so I can pull him out?”
“Yeah!” he said, hopping up and down. “I’m a good swimmer.”
“Well, don’t go where it’s too deep,” I cautioned. “Just try to make him swim this way.”
He dog-paddled a few feet over to Seamus and called to him. “Come on, William,” he said. “Come this way.”
It worked. Slowly and steadily, Seamus followed the boy toward the side of the pool. As soon as he got close enough, I reached in with both arms and pulled him up. He was all wet and thrashing, and it hurt my lower back to lift him out of the water, but eventually I was staggering upright, pressing his wriggling frame to my chest.
“Thanks,” I said to the boy. “You really are a good swimmer.”
His little chest puffed proudly. “Can we do that again?”
I didn’t want to take a chance on Seamus slipping away again, so I carried him all the way back to the condo. As we stepped into the building, I could hear the familiar rattle and squeak of the service elevator. I turned the corner in time to see the door sliding shut.
“Wait! Hold the door, please!” I called out.
A hand poked through the opening and the doors reversed themselves.
“Thanks,” I said, stepping inside.
My face flushed as I saw the owner of the hand. The same guy from the day before stood leaning against another stack of boxes.
“Hey,” he said with a nod. His eyes passed over Seamus in all his soggy, reeking glory before swiveling up to the number display.
He didn’t glance at us again for the rest of the ride—which seemed to take a few archaeological eras. Seamus kept writhing about in my arms trying to sniff the guy, but I held him tight in my arms. By the time the elevator squealed to a stop, I was light-headed from wet doggie aroma.
The doors parted and I stepped out onto the landing, taking a deep breath of cleaner air. The guy began hurriedly moving his boxes out of the lift.
“You want me to hold the door for you?” I asked.
“No thanks, I got it,” he said, without looking at me.
Fine. Be that way,
I thought as I marched toward my door. What was that guy’s problem, anyway? I could tell he wasn’t crazy about Seamus (and considering Seamus’s present state, I couldn’t exactly blame him), but he didn’t have to be rude.
I was hoping to give Seamus an immediate bath, but Christine was holed up in the bathroom with a radio going. Lyle, Kinky and Robot were sitting around the living room watching MTV and eating cold Pop-Tarts.
“Hey!” Lyle called, waving a half-eaten chocolate tart at me. “Want one?”
They’re mine, you hairless, bug-eyed cretin.
“No thanks,” I mumbled, struggling to keep a grip on Seamus, who was twisting his lower body like a champion hula hoop artist.
I knocked on the bathroom door. “Um, Christine? Are you going to be a while?”
There was no answer. All I could hear was the rushing of shower water and Christine trying to warble along with Franz Ferdinand.
I walked Seamus into my room and shrouded him in one of the towels I’d set down for his bed. Clutching him against me once again, I went into the kitchen and got the coffee pot going one-handed. By the time I’d finished my arms were sore and aching, so I returned to the living room and settled on the opposite end of the couch from Robot.
“What happened to him?” Robot asked, nodding toward Seamus, his upper lip curling in disgust.
“He fell into a pool,” I grumbled as I rubbed the water out of his fur. I really didn’t want to tell them the whole story, and thankfully they didn’t ask.
“Were you at our gig last night?” Kinky asked. He sat sprawled in the yellow chair, his long legs stretched way out in front of him.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Why not?”
Because I wasn’t invited.
“I was
“Actually his name is—”
Oh, what the hell.
“Sure,” I said. “Only William isn’t allowed in the pool. Could you help bring him over here so I can pull him out?”
“Yeah!” he said, hopping up and down. “I’m a good swimmer.”
“Well, don’t go where it’s too deep,” I cautioned. “Just try to make him swim this way.”
He dog-paddled a few feet over to Seamus and called to him. “Come on, William,” he said. “Come this way.”
It worked. Slowly and steadily, Seamus followed the boy toward the side of the pool. As soon as he got close enough, I reached in with both arms and pulled him up. He was all wet and thrashing, and it hurt my lower back to lift him out of the water, but eventually I was staggering upright, pressing his wriggling frame to my chest.
“Thanks,” I said to the boy. “You really are a good swimmer.”
His little chest puffed proudly. “Can we do that again?”
I didn’t want to take a chance on Seamus slipping away again, so I carried him all the way back to the condo. As we stepped into the building, I could hear the familiar rattle and squeak of the service elevator. I turned the corner in time to see the door sliding shut.
“Wait! Hold the door, please!” I called out.
A hand poked through the opening and the doors reversed themselves.
“Thanks,” I said, stepping inside.
My face flushed as I saw the owner of the hand. The same guy from the day before stood leaning against another stack of boxes.
“Hey,” he said with a nod. His eyes passed over Seamus in all his soggy, reeking glory before swiveling up to the number display.
He didn’t glance at us again for the rest of the ride—which seemed to take a few archaeological eras. Seamus kept writhing about in my arms trying to sniff the guy, but I held him tight in my arms. By the time the elevator squealed to a stop, I was light-headed from wet doggie aroma.
The doors parted and I stepped out onto the landing, taking a deep breath of cleaner air. The guy began hurriedly moving his boxes out of the lift.
“You want me to hold the door for you?” I asked.
“No thanks, I got it,” he said, without looking at me.
Fine. Be that way,
I thought as I marched toward my door. What was that guy’s problem, anyway? I could tell he wasn’t crazy about Seamus (and considering Seamus’s present state, I couldn’t exactly blame him), but he didn’t have to be rude.
I was hoping to give Seamus an immediate bath, but Christine was holed up in the bathroom with a radio going. Lyle, Kinky and Robot were sitting around the living room watching MTV and eating cold Pop-Tarts.
“Hey!” Lyle called, waving a half-eaten chocolate tart at me. “Want one?”
They’re mine, you hairless, bug-eyed cretin.
“No thanks,” I mumbled, struggling to keep a grip on Seamus, who was twisting his lower body like a champion hula hoop artist.
I knocked on the bathroom door. “Um, Christine? Are you going to be a while?”
There was no answer. All I could hear was the rushing of shower water and Christine trying to warble along with Franz Ferdinand.
I walked Seamus into my room and shrouded him in one of the towels I’d set down for his bed. Clutching him against me once again, I went into the kitchen and got the coffee pot going one-handed. By the time I’d finished my arms were sore and aching, so I returned to the living room and settled on the opposite end of the couch from Robot.
“What happened to him?” Robot asked, nodding toward Seamus, his upper lip curling in disgust.
“He fell into a pool,” I grumbled as I rubbed the water out of his fur. I really didn’t want to tell them the whole story, and thankfully they didn’t ask.
“Were you at our gig last night?” Kinky asked. He sat sprawled in the yellow chair, his long legs stretched way out in front of him.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Why not?”
Because I wasn’t invited.
“I was
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