Page 80

A local DJ came next, followed by a well-known comedian, a television anchor, and even the city’s mayor.

Then Bwat walked down the runway. He was wearing a tuxedo, except the shirt was open to his waist and the bow tie was around his bare neck.

“It’s Chippendales again,” Jordan leaned over to tease me.

“I did not approve that outfit,” I told her.

The jacket fit his shoulders like it had been custom tailored. The bow tie was a bit crooked. His hair was gelled back with combed severity. And in his arms was a tiny, Yorkie mix whose fur stuck out in all directions like he’d been groomed by a blind man with a pair of kindergarten scissors.

Spartacus. I’d assumed the dog had been adopted by now. The other ones Bwat had taken under his muscular arm had all found their forever homes, but he would not be here with this elderly dog if it wasn’t still available for adoption.

My heart twisted for the angry little guy. Spartacus liked few people, and Bwat had been one of the few. I’d originally encouraged him to adopt the dog, fearing he’d never find a home, but now that we lived together, I wasn’t sure I could share even a five-thousand square foot condo with this hostile little guy.

“And now we have Bwat of the Baltimore Tusks hockey team, with Spartacus. Spartacus is a Yorkshire Terrier mix who was rescued from a hoarding situation in the city. He’s eight but is in good health with lots of years of love left to give.”

Love. I winced a little at the descriptor.

“Spartacus has lost most of his teeth but is still able to eat anything you put in his bowl. His fur is growing in nicely and he is beginning to show everyone what a beautiful boy he is.”

Satan leapt to her feet. “Five hundred dollars for the demon-dog!”

I stared at her.

“The dogs are not part of the auction,” Escallates said. “I’ve been told that adoptions occurred after the event.”

“Fuck that shit,” Satan told him. “A thousand dollars for Spartacus.”

Bwat held the dog out and Spartacus bared all three of his teeth. “He is a brave dog who has survived much. He has love to give to the person that deserves it.”

“I deserve it,” Satan shouted. “Two thousand dollars.”

Bwat paused. “At first, Spartacus did not trust me. He did not trust anyone.”

The toothless dog snapped at the air.

“But trust is something that must be earned, sometimes slowly with treats.”

The crowd laughed. Spartacus barked, shrill and defiant. Bwat continued down the runway and the dog wriggled.

“No,” Bwat told him. “You cannot eat that man with the red shirt.”

I clapped a hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Satan shouted.

Suddenly the little dog squirmed free of Bwat’s arms and launched himself right off the end of the runway.

And into Satan’s arms.

The little dog bit her chin, drawing blood, then licked her cheek as Satan laughed. “Where do I write my check?”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the Spartacus adoption,” I told Bwat as we drove home.

He shrugged. “The dog has chosen, and I feel that he chose well.”

The little Yorkie did seem to have picked Satan as his human, or demon, and the ten-thousand-dollar donation had been great for the shelter.

“I really thought you’d end up bringing him home.” I glanced over at Bwat.