Sleeps with Dogs by Lindsey Grant Page A

room. You can put his cushion in there if that works.” She turned off the light in the bedroom, and I followed her back through the maze of hallways and into the laundry room.
    â€œThis is where you’ll find his leash, his fleece, doggie bags, and his toothbrush and toothpaste. I brush his teeth once a week—he loves it—so if you’d like, you can certainly do it while I am away. Twice, if you can.
    â€œThere’s just one other thing. The previous sitter broke the washing machine. Apparently she was doing her laundry while she was here with Charlie and the washer overflowed.” Katherine rolled her eyes and waved her hand dismissively, like laundry was something she’d rarely dealt with and definitely wouldn’t tolerate of someone living in her home while she was away. I wrote in my notes, NO LAUNDRY, triple underlining the words.
    â€œI’m traveling through Italy—Venice, Florence, Rome—and the only way to reach me would be through my travel agent. That information is by the telephone, but I don’t expect you’ll have any reason to use it. If there’s an emergency, just call Charlie’s vet. His office and home numbers are by the phone as well.” I wrote, Unreachable, but mentally I was scribbling, Don’t touch anything! Don’t eat any of her food, don’t use the towels, don’t drink on the furniture, and don’t drool on the pillows. Don’t screw this up!
    So there I was in the palace of perfection. When I arrived the first night, I brought Charlie in from his private courtyard where he was lounging on the stoop of his custom doghouse. It had a ramp up to the wrap-around porch, eaves, and even contrasting trim paint.
    When I gave him his three cups of kibble with egg, he shoved his long snout through his bowl, eating every last big of egg and leaving the rest behind. He walked away with bits of yolk on hisface. Judging by the loosely formed piles under the bonsai trees outside, he really did take monster shits.
    After dinner, Charlie trotted around the house with his bear fixed in his jaws, making a strangled whining sound. For a while he sprawled across Katherine’s bed with his teddy next to him. He didn’t show any interest in me until I pulled out his leash from the basket in the laundry room.
    I strapped him into his hunter-green fleece, and I had to admit, he looked handsome in his walking outfit. Given my experience with other greyhounds and their finicky reaction to rain and chill, I figured he’d probably appreciate this extra layer. The February evening was crisp, though certainly not as cold as it could get in late winter.
    With daylight savings still months away, the street lights were already on at seven o’clock, bathing the hushed street in a tangerine half-glow. The construction workers had gone home. The porta potties stood at intervals along the sidewalk like crooked teeth that needed pulling. Charlie stepped over the threshold willingly enough, onto the mossy cobblestone path that led to the street. At the curb he stopped short, though. He lifted his long snout to the air, nostrils flexing.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I asked as I tugged gently on the leash, already a little chilly and ready to get my blood pumping with a vigorous walk.
    This was the very best neighborhood to walk in, during the day or in the dark. It seemed utterly inoculated against anything threatening or unsavory. No garbage, no overgrown grass, no tacky mailboxes or junky looking cars. This bucolic pocket of the city was a far cry from those neighborhoods littered with broken bottles and the occasional needle, used condom, or KFC box full of chicken bones that just begged to be choked on by a sniffy, curious dog. Which all dogs are. There, daylight provided no assurance that bad stuff wasn’t going down.
    I clicked my tongue at him. “Giddy up, Charlie boy. Come on!” He stood completely still.
    All I could