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I sit there for a little while, soothing him, and then I finally stand to dump the rest of the soapy water into the grass and refill it with fresh water. After that, I go in search of one of the huge towels Frank uses to dry the cars after he washes them. Once I’m back outside, I fold it in half, and then I fold it again and plop it on the ground beside his water bowl.
His head pops up and he looks at me curiously.
“You have to sleep out here, okay?” I point to the makeshift towel bed. “You can’t come inside.”
He makes no complaints as he curls up on the towel and rests his head on his paws.
I think we might actually get away with the arrangement until I’m awoken in the morning by shrieks coming from downstairs. I leap out of bed and run down the steps, cringing as Chef’s French-accented English rings out of the kitchen.
“Why is there a dirty chien in my kitchen!?”
Oh god.
I arrive to find a complete disaster. Patricia and Chef have the dog cornered in the kitchen. Patricia holds out a broom in defense; meanwhile, Chef has a whisk and a frying pan.
The dog cowers with his tail between his legs.
“Don’t hurt him!” I shout, rushing past them to leap in front of him.
“Don’t go near him!” Patricia warns. “He’s vicious—he tried to bite my hand!”
“He’s not vicious,” I argue, petting his head to calm him down. “He’s scared. Look at you two!”
They glance at each other, only now realizing they look like a pair of cartoon villains. Patricia slowly lowers her broom. Chef sets his frying pan on the nearby counter.
“How did that dog get in here?” Cornelia asks.
I turn to see her and Nicholas standing in the doorway. Cornelia’s tying her robe closed over her silk pajamas, but Nicholas came down shirtless in a pair of black pajama pants. His dark hair is a ruffled mess, and I am momentarily dumbstruck by the sight of him.
“It rushed in when I opened the door,” Patricia explains. “I couldn’t stop it. It must have been sitting there, waiting on the other side.”
“How did it get on the property?” Chef asks.
“There are a few gaps in the perimeter fence,” Nicholas replies. “We’ve had animals sneak through in the past.”
It seems they’re all likely to buy his explanation of events and I know I could stay silent, but it’d still be a lie of omission, so I sigh and force myself to look back down at the dog.
“He came in with me last night.”
“Into the house?!” Chef asks, horrified.
“No, just onto the property.”
“Why?” Patricia asks.
“Because he was in bad shape. He has a cut on his neck and was really hungry…he found me during my walk home and I didn’t want to leave him all alone.”
“Maren,” Cornelia scolds.
“What was I supposed to do?” I say defensively. “Just leave him to fend for himself?”
“Precisely,” Chef says. “It’s what mutts do.”
I glare up at him. Why don’t you go a couple of days without food and see how much you like it?
“Maren, that dog cannot stay,” Cornelia says with a tinge of remorse in her tone. “Though I don’t think it would hurt if we gave him a proper bath—outside.”
Thirty minutes later, the dog is splashing around in a huge metal tub filled with water and soap. Cornelia attacks his left side, I get his right, and together, we scrub as much as we can for as long as he lets us. He barks and leaps, sloshing water over the side so that my t-shirt and shorts are soaked through.
“He’s not brown at all.” Cornelia laughs in amazement. “He’s white!”
She’s right. He had so much dirt and grime caked on, we couldn’t tell.
“He’ll look much more dignified once we’ve got him cleaned off,” she continues. “Like a proper gentleman.”
As if he understands her, he gives her hand a few hearty licks.
“All right, okay. Don’t get carried away now.” She grins, giving him a formal pat on his head. “Just because I said you’re handsome doesn’t mean anything will change. You still aren’t allowed in the house, you hear? Outside only.”
“What? He can stay?!”
“Outside,” she says, leveling me with a warning glare. “If I see him in the kitchen again, I’ll banish him for good. I don’t want to be awoken by Chef’s girlish screams for a second time.”
Her threat doesn’t pack much of a punch when she says it in a baby voice while rubbing behind his ears.
“Still…he’s not at all my kind of dog,” she adds as we dry him off. “My family grew up with purebred standard poodles.”
“Well I think he’s perfect. Small and rambunctious.”
“What are you going to call him?” Nicholas asks.
I glance up to find him walking toward us in workout shorts and an old Yale t-shirt. He has three towels folded in his arms; hopefully one of them is for me. I have soap smeared across my face and soggy clothes sticking to my skin.
