Doggone Disaster

by Margaret Lashley

  “Oh, thank you!” Vance and Milly practically sang a duet.

  “Drop her by my place on your way to work,” I said.

  “Should I bring the stroller?” Milly asked.

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Oh. And you need to pick up coffee creamer on your way in. Mr. Griffith used it all up.”

  “Will do.” Milly handed Charmine to Vance and reached out to give me a hug. “Thank you, Val.”

  “Sure. It’ll be fun,” I said, more to convince myself than anyone else.

  “We better get going,” Tom said. The four of us, plus Charmine, started the trek to the massive, carved-mahogany front door that probably cost more than my house.

  “Tomorrow then!” Milly called out to Tom and me as we trudged down the driveway.

  “Tomorrow,” I muttered, and waved back.

  “What’s the matter, Val?” Tom teased and took my hand. “Does taking care of a dog for one day seem like too much of a commitment?”

  “Ha ha. Very funny,” I sneered. But Tom had nailed my problem on the head. I couldn’t let him know it, though. “No,” I lied. “I was just thinking about the lady I met today at that fancy baby boutique. I bet she never imagined that some mutt would be taking a dump in that hundred-and-fifty-dollar dress.”

  Tom whistled long and low. “Hundred and fifty...never mind. Speaking of taking a dump, I need –”

  I stopped in my tracks and held my flattened palm up to Tom’s face. “Stop right there, Tom Foreman. That’s just way too much information.”

  Tom crinkled his nose quizzically, then laughed out loud. “Geeze, Val! I just meant to say that you should make sure you have some baggies with you tomorrow.” His voice shifted to baby talk. “For when you take precious little Charmine on her poo-poo walk.”

  I eyed him dubiously. “Yeah. Sure you did.” I tried to laugh it off, but couldn’t. Something had gnawed straight through my last funny bone.

  I knew what it was. But I didn’t want to admit it. Not to Tom. Not to Milly. Not even to myself.

  Chapter Four

  I hate dogs.

  There, I admitted it.

  To be fair, it wasn’t a gut-boiling hate, as in, “All dogs must die, now!” It was more like a long-simmering fearful distrust, as in, “I’ve got my eye on you, Mister Whiskers. Don’t try anything stupid.”

  My less-than-cordial feelings about dogs had been set in stone the day I’d turned five years old. My adoptive parents, Lucille and Justas Jolly, hadn’t thrown me a birthday party or anything fancy like that. There’d been no point. We’d lived out in the rural part of Greenville, Florida. And that was really saying something. Back then, Greenville didn’t even have that highfalutin flashing yellow light where you turn off Highway 90 to get to the IGA grocery store. In other words, it was before “The Carter Incident.” That was when Dallas Carter missed the turnoff, jumped the ditch and ran over a skunk with his monster truck. His back left tire had flung the squashed polecat clear up onto the roof of the IGA, where it, well, stunk to high heaven for nearly a month.

  Anyway, my point was, there wasn’t a lot going on in Greenville back then. And there weren’t any other kids around for miles. So I’d spent my fifth birthday like I had my fourth – in my bathing suit, screeching and running through the garden sprinkler with my sister Annie while my dad, Justas, cranked away at an old, manual ice-cream churn. I remembered him adding handful after handful of rock salt to the watery ice sloshing and circling ‘round and ‘round the churn that was shaped like a small, wooden barrel. I also recalled asking dad what flavor it was, but he’d just winked at me. He knew that I already knew. Dad had been making my favorite, like he always did on my birthday – homemade vanilla with some Georgia peaches mixed in.

  After Annie and I had whooped and hollered ourselves hoarse, the ice-cream was finally ready and Justas had yelled into the screen door for Lucille. She’d come out toting four bowls and spoons. We’d all gathered on the front porch to sing Happy Birthday to me. And, of course, to get our share of that incredible, mouth-wateringly delectable ice cream.

  Being the birthday girl, dad had dolloped me out my bowlful first. I’d kissed him on the cheek, then run off with it like a wild animal through the yard. I’d snuck around the corner of the house and shoved a big spoonful of it into my mouth. Time had stood still as the vanilla and sugar and eggs melted into heaven on my tongue. Then I’d plopped myself down in the grass and dished out another mouthful.

  That second spoonful had been almost between my lips when it happened.

  I’d gotten pummeled head-over-heels by Buford, Dad’s favorite hound dog. He’d knocked me backward into the grass, then licked my face clean with his nasty old dog tongue. I’d kicked and screamed in frustration. But Buford had paid no mind at all to my protestations. He’d finished me off and went to work on the sad remains of my bowl of ice cream, which was toppled over in the dirt.

  Happy birthday to me.

  That wasn’t the first time that sneaky old hound had ambushed me. As I recalled, every time I’d ever had something good – a spoon full of peanut butter, a chicken wing, a piece of Bazooka bubble gum, whatever – that blasted Buford knocked me down like a bowling pin, licked my face half raw, and stole my treat right out of my hands...or mouth, depending on how far along I’d gotten with it.

  And I’d hated him for it.

  As far as I could tell, the only thing that worthless hound had been good for was tormenting me. And that day, just like so many days prior, Buford had gone and ruined my fifth birthday. But he’d stolen more away from me than ice cream. That day in particular, Buford had taken away my love for dogs. Any kind of dogs. But especially rotten old hound-dogs.

  They say early childhood programming is hard to undo. In all honesty, in the forty-five years since Buford killed my enthusiasm for canines, I’d never given a dog much of a chance to try and make amends. I’d avoided them and they’d avoided me. It had been a détente that had worked fairly well...until now.

  As I lay in bed, recalling the past and dreading the day ahead, I tried to look on the bright side. I let out a big sigh. At least pet-sitting Charmine wouldn’t require heels or pantyhose....

  “Hey, you awake?” Tom asked. He rolled on his side and slipped an arm around my waist.

  “Yes,” I answered, leaving out the “since 3:00 a.m.” part.

  “You excited about spending the day with Charmine?” he teased.

  “Sure,” I lied.

  “Well, you better hop to it. She’ll be here in an hour.”

  “You go ahead,” I muttered.

  “What? No shower this morning?”

  “What for?” I groused. “A dog doesn’t care how I smell.”

  “I beg to differ,” Tom said, and nuzzled my neck. “That’s all a dog cares about.”

  I made a grouchy show of struggling against Tom’s charms. I flipped over on one elbow to face him. “What do you mean?”

  “A dog is nothing but a big nose,” Tom said. As if to drive the point home, he rubbed his nose gently on mine. “For your information, they can smell over a thousand times better than we can.”

  “Oh really?” I smirked. “Can they smell rejection?”

  Tom grinned wickedly. “Some breeds can. Some can’t.” He playfully bit my neck and growled.

  “I guess you’re one of those who can’t,” I snarled back.

  “Good guess,” he said, and wagged his blond eyebrows at me.

  “Oh, all right. Go on, then,” I giggled, and gave the dog a bone.

  “HERE SHE IS!” MILLY squealed as I opened my front door to let her and Charmine in.

  “I thought I said no stroller,” I grumbled.

  “Oh, come on, now. Charmine loves to ride in it.” Milly shoved the baby stroller into my house. “I’m running late. Here’s her bag with all her things.”

  Milly handed me a giant, pink baby bag. I grabbed it and nearly toppled over from the weight of it. “What have you got in here? A bui
ld-it-yourself doghouse?”

  Milly laughed. “No. Just the necessities. Her special food, water, toys, stuff like that.”

  Geeze! Dog sitting suddenly seemed a lot more complicated than I thought.

  “What am I supposed to –?”

  “I wrote everything down on a list,” Milly said, and blew a kiss toward Charmine. “It’s all in the bag.” Milly glanced up at me. “I’m running late, Val. I really gotta go. I still have to pick up the coffee creamer.”

  “But....”

  Milly turned and walked out the door. I stood, open-mouthed, and watched her click down the driveway in her heels. As she climbed into her Beemer, she waved and yelled, “Call me if you need anything!”

  I looked down at Charmine. She was sleeping peacefully in her stroller bed like a contented little ball of golden fur. I smiled. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. I perked myself a cappuccino and went back to bed myself. Yes, this was going to be easy-peasy.

  I had no idea what a rude awakening I was in for.

  Chapter Five

  “Goober! Get over here. You’ve got to help me!” I screeched into the phone.

  “Who is this?” Goober asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.

  “It’s me, Val, you ding dong!”

  “Oh. Sure, lure me in with flattery, would you?”

  “Sorry. Look, I don’t know what to do. A dog is tearing up my place!”

  “What? When did you get a dog?”

  “I didn’t. I don’t.... Look, I don’t have time to explain. Get your butt over here!”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Why? Are you too busy?”

  Goober sighed. “Okay, okay. Where is it now?”

  “I’ve got it trapped in the bathroom.”

  “Trapped? Should I bring, like, a gun?”

  “What? No...I mean...do you have a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Then why the heck did you...aargh! Forget it. Just come over, okay?”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  I hung up the phone and looked around. My place was a shambles. An hour ago, Charmine had woken up and gone crazy. She’d jumped out of the stroller and snarled and snapped at me, then she’d gone on a rampage, tearing up my place like a Tasmanian devil on LSD.

  I couldn’t get near her, and, since I liked having all ten fingers, didn’t really want to. So I’d set a trap. I’d thrown some doggy treats in the bathtub and hidden in my bedroom with my ear to the door. When I’d heard her nails clicking in my old, vintage tub, I’d skittered out of my bedroom and made a run for the bathroom door.

  My hand was on the bathroom doorknob when Charmine’s head popped up out of the tub like a deranged Whack-a-Mole. I’d screamed and she’d sprung up out of the tub, incisors bared, like a slow-motion scene from The Matrix: Doggy Style. I’d had just enough time to slam the door shut and escape with my life!

  I’d had my share of childhood traumas. Apparently, so had the psychotic little dog from hell. It was only 9:30 and my entire house looked like a garage sale that had been ransacked by Godzilla. I knew I was never going to make it through the day on my own. I’d been in desperate need of reinforcements. I’d thought about calling Milly, but what could I say to her? “Hi, Milly, uh...call the SWAT team. Your precious little ‘doodle bug’ is a raging nutcase!”

  So instead, I’d called the only person I knew who had experience dealing with bat-crap crazy on a daily basis. Goober. He lived with Winky, after all.

  While I waited for Goober to get his scrawny butt over here, I straightened the cushions on the couch and picked up the cotton-candy tufts of pillow stuffing littering the place like forty years’ worth of dust bunnies. How could one little dog make such a big mess?

  Then I spied something under the couch that sent my blood boiling. The mangy little fuzz-ball had chewed the heel strap off one my favorite green sandals! Dang it! The strap’s gnawed remains lay discarded on the floor like a mangled lizard. I bent over to retrieve the strap and nearly had an aneurism at what I discovered next.

  That little crud muffin had chewed a hole in the side of my couch!

  I belted out a two-minute medley of my favorite expletives. That dog and I were officially at war!

  I needed a strategy – and, of course, I needed to pee. I took a step toward the hallway and stopped dead in my tracks. Hockey pucks! My fuzzy nemesis had already taken strategic control of the bathroom, cutting off my access route to indoor plumbing. This called for carefully calculated counter measures – the first one being an encore performance of my greatest swearing hits.

  There was no way I was going to be defeated by a dog that weighed less than my belly fat! I stomped into the kitchen and yanked a metal saucepan out of the bottom cabinet. After a careful peek into the backyard to make sure the coast was clear, I pulled down my panties, squatted over the pot and took aim....

  I WAS STILL WIPING up pee from the kitchen floor when Goober knocked on the door. I threw the paper towels in the garbage and pulled off my rubber gloves. When I flung open the door, I saw that Goober had come prepared for battle. He wore a hockey mask over his face, a long-sleeved t-shirt with gray elbow pads, and orange knee pads over his raggedy jeans. He held a length of rope in one hand. In the other, he gripped a handful of chicken bones.

  “I didn’t know witch doctors made house calls,” I said.

  Goober shrugged. “I was going more for voodoo priest, but I’ll take it.”

  I crinkled my nose and stepped aside to let him in. “What’s with the getup?”

  “Always better to err on the side of caution,” Goober said. “In matters such as these, it’s advantageous to arrive over-prepared than under.” He pulled his hockey mask up until it formed an odd-looking cap on his bald head.

  “You’ve done something like this before?” I asked.

  “Sort of. I babysat my sister’s kids once.”

  “Close enough,” I sighed, and shut the door behind him.

  “So where is the dastardly beast? Still trapped in the toilet?” Goober ambled into the living room and sniffed around. “Woo doggy. Peed all over the place, huh?”

  My face flushed with heat. “Yes. Sure did,” I lied.

  Goober put a finger to his lips to silence me. He craned an ear in the direction of the bathroom. I watched from the living room as he tiptoed down the hallway toward it. He leaned over and stuck a big ear on the bathroom door. After a moment of hearing nothing, he tapped his knuckles lightly on the door. Charmine let out a barrage of squeaky barks that sounded like someone stomping on a rubber duck.

  “Dang. How big is that thing?”

  “I dunno,” I whispered. “Too much fur to tell, but I’d say well under ten pounds.”

  “Ten pounds?” Goober whistled and shook his head. “Fartknockers. It’s always the little ones that are so vicious. Sneaky, quick little jerks, too.” He walked back down the hallway and joined me in the living room.

  “So what’s the plan?” I asked.

  “Plan?” Goober flopped onto my ruined couch. “I thought you had a plan.”

  “Crap, Goober! I don’t know how to deal with a dog!”

  “Then why the flippin’ shizzle did you get one?”

  “I didn’t! It’s Milly’s. She asked me to pet sit for her.”

  Goober picked up a tuft of pillow stuffing next to a maimed pillow. “So this isn’t some deranged wild animal that got loose in your house?”

  “No.”

  “Well it sure tore up the place.” Goober’s eyes shifted from the tuft of stuffing to me. “What did you do to set it off?”

  “What?” I protested. “Nothing! I swear!”

  “There had to be some kind of trigger.” Goober looked around again. “I mean, this place is a wreck!”

  “Maybe Tom is right, Goober. He said dogs can smell emotions. Maybe it can smell my fear.”

  Goober laughed. “Don’t tell me the mighty Valiant Stranger is afraid of dogs?”

  I
folded my arms over my chest and scowled.

  Goober hitched up an eyebrow. “Well, that explains why you freaked out over our pet-cremation services.”

  I shook my head. “How does that...? Listen. Don’t start. I don’t need to be teased right now, Goober. I need help. I mean, look at this place!”

  Goober’s sarcastic face softened and he removed his hockey mask hat. “I didn’t know Vance and Milly had a dog.”

  I sighed. “They didn’t. She and Vance found it while they were in Hawaii. They brought it home with them.”

  Goober bit his lip and his face turned serious. “Hmmm.” He smoothed his bushy moustache with his thumb and forefinger, then ran his hand over his bald head. “Hawaii, huh? Not good, Val.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not good’?”

  “I heard if you bring a native dog back from Hawaii, you’ll be cursed by Peg-Leg forever. Unless you return said dog to the exact spot from which you absconded with it.”

  “Arrgh!” I cried out in exasperation. “That’s Pele’s curse, Goober! And it’s for lava rocks, not dogs.”

  Goober shrugged. “Have it your way. But it looks like you’ve been cursed pretty well by it already.”

  I stared at the hole in my couch. “You have a point.” I flopped into the easy chair opposite the couch. “What am I gonna do? Milly’s supposed to pick the dog up at five-thirty. I can’t just tell her to go fish her out of the toilet.”

  “Her?”

  “The dog!” I yelled in frustration.

  “I know!” Goober yelled back. “What I meant was, is the dog a ‘her?’ A female?”

  “Yes.”

  Goober grinned. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  I eyed him, confused. “That makes a differ-ence?”

  “Of course it does.” Goober smiled and waggled the bushy eyebrows on his peanut-shaped head. “All the women love me. You should know that by now. I’m the quintessential Alpha male.”

  Goober got up off the couch and marched down the hallway. I flinched and held my breath when I heard him open the bathroom door. I looked around for something to defend myself. I grabbed my copy of Love’s Lusty Love.