The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“Why did you put up such a fuss?” she demanded crossly. “Mr. Duffy is a very nice man. If you had only been halfway polite, I would have asked him in for coffee.” Clyde squirmed and whined, and she gave him a little shake as she put him down. “Don’t do it again,” she warned him, as he scampered off. “And don’t go too far,” she called after him. “It’s time for your supper.”


She went to the kitchen, where she opened a can of Ken-L Ration and mixed it with a spoonful of leftover vegetables and gravy from supper the night before—wondering as she scraped it into Clyde’s bowl how long she would be able to buy canned dog food for her buddy. If the supplier wouldn’t extend credit, Mrs. Hancock might not be able to get it, and Clyde would have to content himself with leftovers.

She shook her head. It was amazing how much people took for granted. It hadn’t occurred to her, for instance, that canned dog food on the grocery store shelf might depend on Mrs. Hancock’s access to a bank. No bank, no canned dog food!

Clyde came when she called and gobbled his dinner while she went into her bedroom and changed into a blue cotton print housedress. Looking at herself in the mirror over the dresser, she wiped off the red lipstick, which now struck her as perhaps a bit too . . . well, garish. Frowning critically, she regarded her reflection. Had Mr. Duffy thought so?

Then tipping her head to one side, she colored, remembering his response when she’d told him that she’d had plenty of time to get used to being a widow.

“These local fellows,” he had said. “What’s wrong with them? They haven’t got eyes?” He’d sounded almost amused by their failure.

She smiled wonderingly. But what had he found so attractive? Her new hairstyle? Her skin? Her figure? It wasn’t bad for a woman her age—she was naturally slender. She didn’t have to worry about spreading out, the way some women did past thirty. Then she shook her head, telling herself not to be silly. Mr. Duffy hadn’t meant anything by the remark—it was just something that a gallant gentleman would say to a lady. She only found it surprising because there weren’t that many gallant gentlemen in Darling.

But a little later, while she was heating up a can of Campbell’s tomato soup and making a grilled Velveeta cheese sandwich for her supper, she remembered something that had happened not long before. Clyde was usually friendly and pleasant, with a wag of his tail and a polite little bark of greeting for everyone. But a salesman had knocked on the door late one evening, wanting to sell her a life insurance policy, and the little dog had barked and growled so menacingly that the fellow had excused himself and left, hurriedly. The next day, she learned that the very same man was locked up in Sheriff Burns’ jail, having been caught breaking into Pete’s Pool Parlor.

At the time, she had congratulated Clyde on his astute assessment of the fellow’s character. Who knows what mischief that man might have tried if she had let him in? But now that she had seen the Scottie behave the same way toward Mr. Duffy, she had to admit that he might be merely jealous of male callers whom he didn’t recognize. By instinct, he was a territorial little dog, and he considered her to be his very own property. Still—