Chapter 4
4
N ick
Poodles are cute, but that’s just a mask to hide their true identity as evil spawns of Satan. In five minutes, I’ve been growled at, barked at, cornered in the kitchen, and pawed all over by two mutts who spent the morning playing outside unattended in the mud. My jeans are covered in dog-shaped prints, as is the white button-up I foolishly chose after my shower. And as for the Taylor’s floor…it’s in serious need of a scrub. But I don’t have the time or the desire to clean up this crap. My niece and nephew will be over soon, and my back is aching too much to think about finding a mop and bucket.
I’m only thirty but getting older kinda sucks. Chopping wood used to feel like an easy way to skip the gym; since yesterday all the muscles in my body hurt like I’m a man twice my age, and I resent it. Nothing two ibuprofens won’t deaden, but I’m not at home to take any.
“Alright, calm down, and I’ll fill your bowls, but hurry up and eat so we can get a walk in before I need to head home.” The dogs aren’t listening and continue to jump on me, one on my legs and the other on my back. Now that they’ve decided I’m more friend than foe, they’re in my personal space in ways that would get guys like me slapped with sexual harassment if I pulled it with a woman. Like, say, the new neighbor. That thought comes from nowhere, blindsiding me with guilt. She was easy to look at, that’s for sure, but I don’t need to be looking at anyone at this stage in my life, most of all her. The proximity is too convenient. Loretta could have told me her granddaughter was close to my age and, oh, by the way, kinda hot.
Guilt sits on my shoulders so heavily that the ache intensifies.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, too many paws, too many noses currently poking me in places they don’t belong.
I yelp, yell, “Back off!” and lower both food bowls to the ground. The dogs descend like vampires on an innocent sheep, vicious and focused and straight to the throat. It’s almost gross to watch, so I busy myself with refilling water bowls, watering plants, and stacking mail into a neat pile near the landline phone.
The Taylors live across the street and down the hill, are in their fifties and still have a kid living at home, and live a partially vintage lifestyle that involves record players, hard-cover books, newspaper subscriptions, and Mrs. Taylor dressing like a seventy’s housewife. They regularly lecture me on the dangers of cell phone usage and screen time—brain fog, low concentration, elevated cancer risks, and all that. Much to their dismay, I text in front of them from time to time and play YouTube videos to watch them squirm. Much to Mr. Taylor’s discredit, he keeps a cell phone hidden in his desk drawer and lives in constant fear of his wife finding out. I caught him on it once when I came by for the key and surprised him in his home office. He swore me to secrecy, and so far, I’ve kept my word. But if his pain-in-the-butt dogs keep violating me every time I show up to feed them, I might have to spill his dirty secret to his wife. Either that or ask for a raise. A cold six-pack should do it. I’ve never taken money and never will.
The dogs finally show signs of slowing down, so I grab two leashes, attach them to both collars and lead the poodles out the door. My sister pulls into my driveway just as we step out onto the front porch, but she’s early and has her own key, so I don’t worry much. Ten minutes, that’s how long I’ll give the dogs. We’ll walk fast to cover more ground and that way, I’ll get them into the backyard and make it home in time for Susan to make it to her appointment on time.
We walk. Or the dogs walk while I drag behind them. Either way—save for two near-fights with two separate neighbor dogs and one unfortunate collision with a tree that involved me and a leaf-covered but otherwise exposed root—we make it down the hill and back to the house in record time. I’m breathing heavily and have a bit of leash burn on my right palm, but no matter. We’re done for today, and I can’t get home fast enough.
Say what you want about my rambunctious niece and nephew, but they don’t get my clothes muddy, and neither goes poking into places they shouldn’t unless you count Rowan’s affinity for forcing eyeshadow onto my eyelids and gold cuffs onto my earlobes.
I guess that’s one way dogs are better than kids.
“Okay, we have an hour. What do you want to do?” I say to the kids when I reach my driveway, coming up behind my sister as she helps them out of the car. Rowan still sits in a booster seat even though the laws regarding it are ridiculous. Eight years and eighty pounds? I was eighty pounds when I was eleven years old because puberty didn’t introduce itself to me until after my twelfth birthday; that was humiliating enough. Back then, a booster seat would have killed me. Susan and I don’t share the same opinion on the matter, but apparently, uncles don’t get a say.
“You look awful,” Susan says, looking at me with open distaste. For a second, I’m offended until I remember the mud stains on my clothes. I look down with a big eye roll.
“The Taylor’s dogs. They’re terrorists with innocent faces and stupid hairstyles.” If I sound bitter, it’s because I am. The shirt is Armani. What if the pawprints won’t come out in the dry cleaning?
“They’re poodles. They can’t be that bad,” Susan starts, then raises an eyebrow as she gives me a once-over. “But I’ve been known to be wrong.”
“Can we go see them? Can we? Can we?” Rowan starts in. Ever the animal lover, I should have known better than to bring up the dogs in front of her. I’ll never get away with saying no, and just to be clear, I’d rather have a root canal without pain medication than go see those dogs again so soon after depositing them into the backyard. No one wants to see Cujo twice; we’ve all seen the movie. I’m not in the mood for a bloodbath.
I look to Sam to protest, but he stands there mute and neutral like the traitor he’s currently being. Come on, Sam. My telepathy isn’t working and breaks completely when Sam says, “I want to see the dogs too,” and picks up a fallen pinecone on the driveway.
I look at my sister. “I guess we’re going back over to the pet cemetery.” She nearly laughs but wisely holds it inside.
“You can’t kill them,” she says.
“Can’t live with them, either,” I mutter, and this time she does laugh.
“Have fun, guys. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks not to leave at all,” I say, inserting enough sarcasm into my voice to let the kids know I’m kidding. Mostly.
“It’s a dentist appointment,” Susan says. “I don’t have a choice, and an hour is optimistic.”
She’s right on both counts. Dentists are notoriously slow, and Susan never comes back when she says she will. It’s like the extra half-hour is a tax that only big sisters know about, and little brothers like me are eternally paying it.
I sigh and come up with a palatable plan. “Alright, kids, let’s go see the dogs. But right after, I’m driving us through McDonalds. So, if you want to do both, we’ll have to hurry at the Taylor’s house. No playing fetch or asking to give them a bath.”
“But what if they need a bath?” Rowan whines at the same time Sam says, “Rowan, they don’t need a bath.” The brother-sister dynamic is alive and well for all generations, and today, Sam is my favorite. Though Rowan gains bonus points when she succumbs with a “Fine, I want a Happy Meal anyway.” And now they’re pretty even.
“Alright, you better get going,” I say to my sister, practically shoving her into the car before the kids and I trudge back to the neighbor’s house. After another round of Please Violate Me from the poodles—but only me, by the way; they don’t lay a paw on the kids—we take the mutts on their second walk for the day. Afterwards, we head back home, me in a flop sweat with a couple of extra muddy prints on my backside. I change into sweatpants and a hoodie, bag up my designer shirt, and we head to McDonalds by way of the dry cleaners because you can’t rush too fast to save Armani. By the time we make it home, there’s a text from my sister that she’s running one more errand—you know, Christmas babysitting is hard to come by—and just needs one more hour. It’s a lie. One that I fall for every time. It’s a good thing I kinda like this uncle gig I’ve got going.
“Alright, kids, who wants to help me stack firewood?” A duet of groans greets me just like I knew it would until I offer twenty bucks to the first child to correctly stack twelve logs and ten to the runner-up. Then, they both shut up and get to work.
My sister might be a liar, but I’m a master of bribery.
Our parents did a bang-up job raising us.