Jackson had already headed home and instructed me to walk and feed Bruce. This being the fourth time in the matter of a few weeks, I’d stopped getting that smarmy feeling whenever I stepped into Brogan’s condo.
The ten-minute trek to the apartment chilled me to the bone, and by the time I entered the building, every muscle in my body was tightened in on itself, trying to conserve heat and energy. In concept, I was a huge fan of cold weather. Pumpkin spice lattes, boots, and skinny jeans? Sign me up. But stick me in sub-sixty-degree weather for more than two minutes, and I was shivering more than a teacup Chihuahua. For a Portland girl, I was a wimp.
Bruce was sitting in the entryway, tail thumping against the floor, when I entered the posh apartment.
Before he could jump up, I put my hand out in front of me, standing my ground. I’d read a few online dog obedience articles during lunch today, and was willing to try anything to preserve my clothes. So here I stood in Brogan’s entryway, having a showdown at the O.K. Corral with this slobbery heathen.
There was only room for one alpha in the room, and it sure as heck wasn’t going to be Bruce. “Sit, boy.” I’d made the mistake of wearing tights with my boots this morning and did not want to walk ten blocks with holes running down the expanse of my thighs.
Bruce licked his chops and gave an exaggerated huff, but followed my command and plopped his butt down on the slate tile.
I smiled, relieved that I didn’t have to go through another round of chasing him down the hall, or dusting paw prints off my shirt. “Good boy.” Maybe he wasn’t too bad. We’d just gotten off to a rocky start.
I worked my way into the kitchen and picked up his food bowl, then moved over to the pantry to scoop some kibbles into the bowl. We’d found a good routine, Bruce not jumping all over me, and me getting as little dog saliva on my skin and clothing as possible. It’s not that I hated dogs. I mean come on, who didn’t love a cute Yorkie? But Bruce was, to put it in the best terms possible, a disgusting, slobbery dog. Drool pooled on the floor, slopping from his jowls as he waited for me to get two scoops of food from the pantry.
My lips curled in disgust. “We need to get you a bib, dude.”
Bruce huffed in response. Apparently he didn’t like my dig at his leaky mouth problem.
The food scoop had disappeared into the quicksand of kibble, and I had to dig to get it. As I was stooped over, sifting through the food, one inhalation shy of keeling over from the toxic fumes, there was a tug at my sweater. I ignored it as my fingers hit the metal scoop.
I measured out two cups and turned to drop it in Bruce’s food bowl, but was immediately thrown off balance. I turned and found a large chunk of my sweater in his mouth, his jaw working a hole in the thin fabric.
“What the hell? Your nasty food probably doesn’t taste great, but neither do my clothes.” I tugged my sweater out of his mouth, pulling it close to my body, and the soppy wet end wacked against my thigh.
He abandoned my sweater for dog food, not caring that he had, again, annihilated another sweater.
“What is with you and ruining my stuff?”
I’d decided to hold off on the wet food until after our walk, since that was what seemed to give him the most gas. A less gassy Bruce equaled a happier Lainey.
I pulled my sweater tighter around me and grabbed his leash off the counter. The wet spot Bruce had used as a chew toy sopped against my leg, and I glared down at him.
He just wagged his tail in response. Monster. Hope the sweater gave him extra gas tonight—after I left.
I leashed him up, and we strode out to the elevators, his toenails clicking against the tile. I looked down at the mutt and shook my head. What was the story with Bruce anyway? Everything else in Brogan’s life seemed so clinical, clean, organized. This dog was a mess. What neat freak who couldn’t handle garlic in the workplace wanted a dog that farted non-stop and left a trail of drool like a slug along the slate floor? It didn’t make sense.
It wasn’t my job to speculate, though. It was my job to make enough money to not drown in health insurance debt for the rest of my life.
As soon as Bruce and I entered the street, I pulled my phone out of my purse and dialed home. Mom had just gone through another chemo treatment today, and I wanted to check on her. She picked up after the fourth ring, her voice weak.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom.”
She took a deep breath, exhaling into the phone. “How are you, sweetie?” Her voice trailed off, barely carrying through to my end of the call.
Dang, she’d sounded more tired than I’d heard her after prior treatments. “I’m okay. How are you? How did treatment go today?”
She paused for a moment, the silence saying more than anything else. I imagined her hunched over the toilet, all alone in the house, no one to take care of her. What if she passed out? What if she had a bad reaction and no one was there to take her to the hospital? All the what-ifs washed over me and my gut twisted.