busy.”
“Man, you should have come,” Lyle said. “We were pretty awesome.”
Just then the phone rang. I saw Robot turn to grab the receiver and screeched, “Don’t!” Seamus jumped slightly in my arms and all the guys froze, staring at me in alarm. “It could be my mom,” I explained. “She’d freak if a guy answered.”
Robot lifted his hands as if in surrender. “Whatever, love. You answer the bloody thing.”
I set Seamus down on the floor and wagged my finger in his face. “Stay put,” I said. Then I snatched the cordless off its base. “Hello?” I said, trying to sound calm and collected.
“Hello?” came a deep, male voice. “May I please speak with Ms. Katherine McAllister?”
“Speaking,” I replied hesitantly.
“Ms. McAllister, this is Alan Wethington from the shelter. I was just calling to see how your dog was doing.”
I looked at Seamus. He was sitting on the floor with his snout poking out from beneath the towel, looking like an incredibly small, bearded monk. “Um . . . okay, I guess. I do have sort of a problem, though.”
“Really? What’s that?”
I couldn’t tell if the guys were listening to me or to the talk show on TV. Just in case, I went into my room and shut the door halfway.
“Seamus doesn’t seem to be, you know, going,” I explained. “It’s been two days, but he hasn’t had a bowel movement.”
“I see. Is he eating?”
“Yes.”
“Is he lethargic?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, if he doesn’t seem sick, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. He’ll go. You might try taking him on a long walk to get things moving.”
Duh. Been there.
“Okay.”
Just then, there came a huge crashing sound from the main living area. An uneasy feeling came over me.
“Uh . . . gotta go now,” I said quickly. “Thanks for calling!”
I turned off the phone and sprinted out of my room. I checked the spot where I’d left Seamus, but he wasn’t there. The towel was lying about a foot away.
“Where’s Seamus?” I asked.
“Beats me,” Robot said.
Lyle and Kinky just shrugged.
A tinkling noise emanated from the kitchen nook. I raced around the bar and skidded to a stop. The tall yellow plastic trash can had been knocked forward, its lid halfway open, disgorging coffee grounds, used tissues, and ketchup-frosted wrappings all over the kitchen floor. In the middle of the mess stood Seamus, his wet fur grainy with Folgers and other unidentifiable fragments. He was chewing on something brown and drippy.
The guys ran up behind me.
“
Eew!
What’s that?” Lyle asked.
“It’s my burrito from last night,” Robot replied.
“Eew!”
“Drop it, Seamus!” I lunged for him, but he quickly cut sideways. His eyes drooped guiltily and his tail curved between his hind legs, but I could tell he had no intention of letting go his loot. “Please, Seamus! Put it down!” I stepped over the upturned can and made another grab for him. Seamus jogged in place for a split second, his paws slipping on the gooey debris, then finally got up enough traction to race from the room. “No! Stop!”
But there was nothing I could do. Seamus was tearing around the living room, leaving behind a mucky path and the fragrance of wet, slimy dog.
It took me over half an hour to clean the kitchen and vacuum up the trail of coffee grounds. The others sat on the couch eating Pop-Tarts and watching TV. Every now and then Lyle would flash me a look of pity, and Kinky even offered to help, but I refused. As it was, tears of frustration were already collecting in my eyes, and their sympathy only made me feel more pathetic. When I finally did spring a leak and start crying, I didn’t want it to be in front of them.
Meanwhile Seamus sat whining on the patio, watching me through the cracks in the blinds. Pity and anger took turns squeezing my heart. As embarrassed and aggravated as I was, I also knew he didn’t really know what he was doing. He was just being a dog: a sloppy, curious,
“Man, you should have come,” Lyle said. “We were pretty awesome.”
Just then the phone rang. I saw Robot turn to grab the receiver and screeched, “Don’t!” Seamus jumped slightly in my arms and all the guys froze, staring at me in alarm. “It could be my mom,” I explained. “She’d freak if a guy answered.”
Robot lifted his hands as if in surrender. “Whatever, love. You answer the bloody thing.”
I set Seamus down on the floor and wagged my finger in his face. “Stay put,” I said. Then I snatched the cordless off its base. “Hello?” I said, trying to sound calm and collected.
“Hello?” came a deep, male voice. “May I please speak with Ms. Katherine McAllister?”
“Speaking,” I replied hesitantly.
“Ms. McAllister, this is Alan Wethington from the shelter. I was just calling to see how your dog was doing.”
I looked at Seamus. He was sitting on the floor with his snout poking out from beneath the towel, looking like an incredibly small, bearded monk. “Um . . . okay, I guess. I do have sort of a problem, though.”
“Really? What’s that?”
I couldn’t tell if the guys were listening to me or to the talk show on TV. Just in case, I went into my room and shut the door halfway.
“Seamus doesn’t seem to be, you know, going,” I explained. “It’s been two days, but he hasn’t had a bowel movement.”
“I see. Is he eating?”
“Yes.”
“Is he lethargic?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, if he doesn’t seem sick, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. He’ll go. You might try taking him on a long walk to get things moving.”
Duh. Been there.
“Okay.”
Just then, there came a huge crashing sound from the main living area. An uneasy feeling came over me.
“Uh . . . gotta go now,” I said quickly. “Thanks for calling!”
I turned off the phone and sprinted out of my room. I checked the spot where I’d left Seamus, but he wasn’t there. The towel was lying about a foot away.
“Where’s Seamus?” I asked.
“Beats me,” Robot said.
Lyle and Kinky just shrugged.
A tinkling noise emanated from the kitchen nook. I raced around the bar and skidded to a stop. The tall yellow plastic trash can had been knocked forward, its lid halfway open, disgorging coffee grounds, used tissues, and ketchup-frosted wrappings all over the kitchen floor. In the middle of the mess stood Seamus, his wet fur grainy with Folgers and other unidentifiable fragments. He was chewing on something brown and drippy.
The guys ran up behind me.
“
Eew!
What’s that?” Lyle asked.
“It’s my burrito from last night,” Robot replied.
“Eew!”
“Drop it, Seamus!” I lunged for him, but he quickly cut sideways. His eyes drooped guiltily and his tail curved between his hind legs, but I could tell he had no intention of letting go his loot. “Please, Seamus! Put it down!” I stepped over the upturned can and made another grab for him. Seamus jogged in place for a split second, his paws slipping on the gooey debris, then finally got up enough traction to race from the room. “No! Stop!”
But there was nothing I could do. Seamus was tearing around the living room, leaving behind a mucky path and the fragrance of wet, slimy dog.
It took me over half an hour to clean the kitchen and vacuum up the trail of coffee grounds. The others sat on the couch eating Pop-Tarts and watching TV. Every now and then Lyle would flash me a look of pity, and Kinky even offered to help, but I refused. As it was, tears of frustration were already collecting in my eyes, and their sympathy only made me feel more pathetic. When I finally did spring a leak and start crying, I didn’t want it to be in front of them.
Meanwhile Seamus sat whining on the patio, watching me through the cracks in the blinds. Pity and anger took turns squeezing my heart. As embarrassed and aggravated as I was, I also knew he didn’t really know what he was doing. He was just being a dog: a sloppy, curious,
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