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They bounce . . .
“I’m heading out tonight, and I just wanted to warn you that I have a problem with Barry,” she replies.
“Who’s Barry?”
“My dog. You know, the one you hate.”
I screw up my face. “You named your dog Barry?”
“He came with the name. Anyway, I have a date tonight, and . . .”
She’s going on a date . . . looking like that?
Owoooooooooooo. The dog howls from next door, and I instantly feel my hackles rise.
“Has there ever been a worse sound than that?” I ask her.
“He just doesn’t like me going out.”
That makes two of us.
“I’m not babysitting for you. I can’t help it if your dog is a wimp, Juliet. What were you thinking getting a mutt named Barry, anyway?”
“I know . . . but”—she hunches her shoulders up and tries to be cute—“if you could just—” She holds out a piece of paper with a phone number on it.
“Call the pound to come and take it back?” I reply dryly.
“No,” she snaps. “He will calm down when I leave. I’m sure of it.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Call me and I’ll come home.”
Owoooooooooooo cries the wimpy dog over the fence.
Hmm . . . I take the paper from her. “You better come straight home if I call because I am not listening to that carry on all night.”
“You won’t even hear him; you’re playing cards with your friends.”
“I’ll be bored of them soon.”
“Fuck off,” I hear the chorus of them all yell inside, and I roll my eyes. Of course they’re listening.
“So, if he doesn’t calm down, you’ll call me?”
“This is a major inconvenience.”
“Please?” She does a jig on the spot.
I exhale heavily. “I guess I’ll have to. I don’t want the entire street disrupted.”
“Thanks.”
My eyes hold hers. “Have a good night.”
Not too good.
“You too.”
