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Am I?
Static taps his phone. “That’s all our time for today. I’ll be billing you at the usual rate.”
I laugh as we get out and head around to the back door of the place. But I’ve got to wonder if he’s right.
It’s been months since I had a bunny in my bed. Her bed. A bed. Fine, the front seat of my car. Whatever. It’s been months, and only part of that was about my nut. I’d been slowing down anyway. Losing interest in the repetition of something that no matter how varied or creative the sex was… felt hollow. Meaningless.
For a long time, that’s all I wanted.
It felt easy and uncomplicated. Safe.
But hey, maybe a little meaning wouldn’t be the worst addition to my life. Something with the potential to last.
Static opens the shelter door, swears, and then slams it again… going so far as to lean into it.
“What the fuck, dude?” I push him aside and reach for the handle.
“Don’t,” he warns, but it’s too late. I open the door… to pandemonium.
Dogs are barking, people are running, and cages are rattling.
Staff ranging from about fifteen years of age to I’m guessing seventy, all wearing orange T-shirts with the shelter name, are trying to catch… something. It’s small. It’s fast. It’s a blur of black and white, weaving and dodging between reaching hands and shuffling legs as the staff pursues the little beast making a noise like a broken squeak toy.
“Candice, get him!” shouts one of the orange shirts as the blur runs warp-speed circles around his handlers.
Static blows out a low whistle and, shaking his head, takes a wary step back as I step in and to the side.
“Cut him off,” gasps an older woman with a long gray braid and a name tag that says “Susan.” She bumps the counter and stumbles, so I push in, crossing to catch her elbow.
“You okay?” I ask as she glares at what I’m pretty sure is a dog. He’s got a solid case of the crazy eyes, just a little buggy, not quite aiming the same direction. And that tongue… are they supposed to be that long?
“Who the hell thought E.M. was the right dog for this event? Who?!” she snaps, and now everyone is taking a step back.
Damn, don’t mess with Susan. “His name is E.M.?”
She growls, and I gulp. “For Eager Much. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he sure can’t wait to get there. He’s… energetic. He’s a lot.” She harrumphs, eyes narrowing on the other staff as they scramble after this whirling dervish. “And whoever thought the least-adoptable dog in the shelter was appropriate to include in a publicity spot needs to get their head out of their ass.”
Least adoptable? That’s kind of harsh. And “a lot.” That could have gone on the back of my jersey all the way through middle school.
Ben’s A Lot.
“Ben’s very smart, but he’s a lot.”
The other staff are breathless, grunting as two of them reach for him at the same time, bumping heads as he darts toward Static who’s standing with his back to the wall.
I point. “Dude, the door.”
But it’s too late. The blur has seen a way out and, sliding sideways as his little paws frantically dig for purchase, he makes a break for it.
Aww, shit.
Not on my watch, buddy.
All I need is some viral TikTok of me letting this dog slip past me when I’m trying to show the fans, management, and the kid bagging my groceries that I’m ready to play.
So I channel our goalie, Olsen, and throw myself in front of the door, full extension— oomph —sliding across the linoleum so my body blocks the exit. I’m half looking for the phone that’s got to be catching this shit, because I’m feeling heroic AF.
But unlike the pucks I play with for a living, the blur jumps, using my ribs as a springboard and vaulting to freedom.
