He’s sniffing a tree so thoroughly, he looks like a kindergartener in possession of the coveted blue smelly-marker at the craft table. When I tug the leash again, his tiny head swivels my way, unmistakably peeved by my interruption. The glare he shoots at me is downright lethal.
“Dogs are supposed to bring warmth and joy,” I inform him. “Caesar Milan assured me I’d never have a more loyal, loving companion.” I plant my hands on my hips and level him with a stare. “You, my grumpy fluff-ball, are supposed to adore me. Not flash vengeance in your tiny, beady eyes and drag my ass around the streets of Boston at midnight for Sniffapalooza.”
He ignores me, per usual, trotting around to smell the other side of the tree and weaving through the wrought-iron fence until his leash is hopelessly tangled.
He totally did that on purpose.
“Don’t make me play Old Yeller for you again,” I mutter, sighing as I move to detangle it — a process which will take at least forty seconds, by which point he’ll be ready to move on to another tree. Devious little bastard.
We walk Comm Ave toward the Public Garden, our usual late-night loop. Boo’s white body practically glows in the dark, pristine fur catching the moonlight, proud profile clear even from ten feet behind him.
They say New York is the city that never sleeps. Boston, on the other hand, is the city that gets drunk in the middle of the day at a Patriots pre-game party and passes out by seven.
Sure, certain neighborhoods are lively until the wee hours — mainly the student-infested bars packed around Fenway Park — but Back Bay, with its tree-lined streets, clean-swept sidewalks, and population of young professionals and families, is quiet by city standards even at midday. By this time of night, it’s practically deserted.
It seems emptier than usual, tonight — shops closed down, windows shuttered tight, hardly a soul out wandering the streets… besides a crazy woman talking to her Pomeranian, of course. At a cross street, a group of college girls stumble along, giggling and shushing each other as they try to sneak into one of the area’s swankier bars. Down the block, a man and woman walk hand-in-hand, probably headed to the pond for a moonlit make-out session on one of the benches overlooking the swan boats.
Ah, romance.
I contemplate following them and ordering Boo to poop directly in front of their bench, thus ruining their ambiance, but I refrain. Just because I’m miserable and alone doesn’t mean everyone else should be. I can rise above.
(I guess.)
By the time we’ve circled back to my brownstone, it’s well past midnight, my stomach is rumbling — can’t stress it enough, Cheez-Its are not an adequate dinner — and I’m no more in the mood to sleep than I was pre-walk. When I got home from Karma, I was so revved up, I spent an hour tossing and turning in my bed before I finally threw off the covers, pulled on the faded Harvard sweatshirt I stole from Parker ages ago, and grabbed Boo’s leash from the peg by the front door.
I’m sure my cellphone has exploded with messages from Lila and Gemma… which is precisely why I powered it off as soon as I got home and haven’t looked at it since.
I’ve no desire to be berated for skipping out on the gallery opening. Not tonight, at least.
Actually, I’ve no desire to do much of anything except microwave some edamame — my yoga instructor’s “healthy alternative suggestion” to delicious, buttery popcorn — plunk myself on the couch, flip on Netflix, and force Boo to snuggle with me for the next two to three years.
We finally reach my brownstone. My foot is on the bottom step as my mind scans through my to-be-watched queue, considering movie options. I’m simultaneously tugging Boo away from the neighbor’s flowerpots and fishing through my sweatshirt pocket for my front-door key, when a shadow detaches from the brick wall of my landing. Before I can blink, he’s moved to the top step and is towering over me like a demon straight from the depths of hell.
The grim reaper.
On my stoop
In the dark.