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I knew Brynn did well for herself as a top-level CPA in a prestigious financial firm. She had such high-profile clients, they were protected by nondisclosure agreements. But I didn’t know she didthiswell. Bravo, my friend. Bravo.
It’s quite possible I would have stood in that spot, captivated by the view, for hours, completely forgetting my long-anticipated shower, if not for a low, guttural growl. The hairs on my arms shoot straight up, almost as quickly as my heart catapults into my throat.
Slowly, I turn toward the source of the sound.
A monstrous dog, almost mythical in size, engulfs the shadowy hallway. It reminds me a little of Beethoven from all those movies I watched as a kid. What kind of dog was he again? A Saint Bernard? I think that’s it. Except, this dog has fangs that could fillet me in seconds.
“H-hey there, girl.” I hold up my hands like a bank robber surrounded by a heavily armed SWAT team.
I’m met with another menacing growl.
When Veronica said New York City would eat me alive, I hadn’t thought she’d meant literally.
“B-boy?” I stammer, worried I’d accidentally offended him. Was a dog more likely to maul you if you got its gender wrong? I’m not sure, but I don’t really want to find out, either.
“Who’s a good boy?” I ask feebly. My high-pitched, trepidatious tone resembles a preschool teacher who’s afraid of children. The dog isn’t impressed and curls his upper lip in a vicious snarl.
I have no idea what to do.
The ironic thing is I’ve always wanted a dog. For my fifth birthday, I’d begged my parents for a puppy, but thanks to Matt’s allergies, they gave me a goldfish instead. I named him Spot, which suited him perfectly since he had a big white circle on the left side of his body. I’d strap his fishbowl into the seat of my little umbrella stroller and take him for walks. I even taught him a few tricks.
The only two he learned with any level of competency were “stay” and “play dead.” And every time he successfully executed the last trick, his namesake spot would inexplicably be in a different location the next day. I don’t want to admit how old I was when I finally figured out therealtrick, which involved a punch card at the local pet store and my parents’ uncanny ability to lie straight-faced.
Of course, I could have adopted a dog when I moved out, but I live alone in a tiny apartment in Burbank, and it doesn’t seem right to keep an animal cooped up most of the day.
I wonder if I explain all of this to Cujo if he’ll have mercy on me. Then a thought hits me. Depreciation! The last word from Brynn’s text. Snippets from one of our phone calls weave in and out of my jet-lagged brain as I struggle to find focus. I’d been busy trying to book my flight, so I only caught half of what she’d said.
I’m not entirely certain my recollection is correct, but it’s worth a try.
“D-depreciation?” I whisper, praying this works.
His bushy reddish-brown eyebrows lift slightly. That’s a good sign.
“Depreciation,” I say again, this time a little louder and with more confidence.
The dog lunges toward me, and in my terror, I scrunch my eyes shut and fall to my knees, covering my face with both hands.
So, this is how it ends….
Two enormous paws topple me backward, but instead of ripping out my jugular, my attacker lathers me with an inch of slobber.
I force my eyes open and gaze into the most adorable, droopy brown eyes I’ve ever seen. The ferocious beast has transformed into a two-hundred-pound lapdog. I can’t help but laugh.
“Hey, buddy. Are we friends now?” I scratch behind his soft, oversized ears, then notice the collar around his neck.
“Wilson,” I add, reading the engraving.
He wiggles his backside in greeting.
“Hey, Wilson. I’m Quincy. Thanks for not eating me.”
He nuzzles my face, and is so sweet and cuddly, I can’t believe I was ever afraid of him.
“As much as I appreciate the sponge bath,” I say as he licks my face again, “I’m in desperate need of a hot shower.”
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and I dig it out to read the text from Brynn.
Still working. So sorry you’re spending your first night alone. Help yourself to the food in the fridge, including the leftover sushi. And don’t wait up. It’s going to be another all-nighter.
