and let her brown curls tickle my cheek. I told her I’d take him for a couple of days, just for a trial run. Slipping out of the garage, I rummaged the kitchen shelves for a water bowl and checked the linen closet for old blankets or torn towels. I didn’t know a thing about puppies. Isn’t this what they do in the movies? Waiting by the running faucet, I wondered how I hadn’t noticed this before. He was a loner – a low maintenance, solitary boarder always content sitting in the next room with the same brittle rawhide bone that had traveled with him from Claire’s apartment. Boorish, I’d say: a brute face, squat as a watering can. A black refrigerator magnet clamped the business card of Brown, Bowman, and Tiding: Life Insurance, LLC. My neighbor, Rubin Hartz, had written his home number on the back. I picked up the cordless phone and dialed hesitantly. “Yeh-low, this is Rubin.” “This is Charley from next door. I’ve got a problem over here with Reginald.” “Jesus, how are you Charley? Haven’t heard from you in a long time,” he chuckled. I could tell he was chewing gum: loud smacks and wheezing, like a cow gnawing on cud. “My dog’s just had puppies and, since you have a dog, I thought you might know what to do.” “Reginald!” he wailed. “Terry, c’min here a minute,” he hollered. “Who is it?” Terry called from another room. “It’s Charley from next door.” He laughed again and cleared his throat to gain some composure. “We’ll be right over.”
Terry Hartz examined the puppies, holding them up like a projector slide to the light. “He did –” she started, “I mean – she did just fine.” We both stumbled over pronouns. Rubin had set up a canine nesting area with a red circular dog bed and some old squeaker toys. They’d brought
56 |
bsr