Such a bad idea on so many levels.
As T.J. was pulling away, the dog vaulted over the seat andcrashed onto the front floorboards with a whompand a whimper. T.J. came to a gear-grinding stop and threw the shifter intopark mode. “What the fuck, Ford? You okay?”
Ford climbed into the front seat, clawing into the leatherfor leverage. Sixty-three pounds of slobbering, whining black dog sat up in thepassenger seat like he owned it.
With a resigned sigh, T.J. resumed driving. Bracing an armagainst Ford’s chest at every turn and stop, he stuttered his way to the condo.By the time he parked in his building’s garage, dusk had settled in and snowwas steadily sifting from the clouds. He wrestled the dog, a fluffy dog bed,and countless bags out of the car and watched in horror as the dog lifted hishind leg and peed on the back tire of a Mercedes beside T.J.’s H1. A cry camefrom a few spaces away. T.J. locked eyes with an older woman who tsked and berated him about his “filthy animal.”
He speed-walked to the elevators, chased by the woman’sindignant threats—to do what, he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t stick around tofind out. When they were safely on the elevator heading to the thirty-fifthfloor, Ford looked up at him innocently. “What? I had to piss,” he seemed tosay.
In that moment, it struck T.J. he’d have to take the dogoutside every time he needed to relieve himself. How often did dogs go? Wherethe hell did he take him? Not to the garage, that’s for damn sure. Andfor the hundredth time this past hour alone, he mentally smacked himself. All for a girl … who’s not yours.
Inside his apartment, T.J. bounded around the eighthundred-square-foot space, closing its few doors. Thedog watched him blandly, as if thinking, “So I can’t get into the coat closet,the bathroom, or your clothes closet. Big fucking deal.” For the first timesince he’d bought the place, T.J. wasn’t digging its open floorplan.
As he emptied shopping bags and washed out two dog bowls, hekept a wary eye on Ford. He filled one bowl with water and placed it on thefloor beside the kitchen island. The dog stuck his paw in it, tipping it andspilling the contents. Then he gave T.J. a cross-eyed stare.
“Seriously?” T.J. grabbed towels from the bathroom andmopped up the mess. “Okay, so you’re not thirsty.”
Ford on his heels, he set the dog bed in front of the livingroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows, then grabbed his smartphone and plopped downon the couch. “Where’s the closest park?”
Ford sat on his haunches, his body between the couch and thecoffee table, staring.
“Now what?” T.J. said. “Take your dog bed for a spin. It’sgot a prime view, and Natalie said that bed,” he stabbed his finger toward saidbed, “is every dog’s favorite. Smells like magical dog food or something. Oreven better, girl dog.”
Ford continued staring at him. “What, did your tail run outof wag? You used it all up on Natalie and there’s none left for me? Fine. Bethat way.”
Trying to ignore the eyes boring into him, T.J. entered “dogparks near me.” To his surprise, the first one to pop up was on the third levelof his building. “I guess I do take you to the garage. Sweet! Who knew?”
Ford blinked, then launched himselfonto the couch, knocking the phone from T.J.’s grip.
“Shit!” T.J. scooted him off and retrieved it. “This ispeople furniture, not dog furniture. You have your own bed.” He pointed toFord’s sleeping spot again, but the dog merely placed his paws back on thecouch. T.J. gave him a sharp “no,” and Ford turned a few circles, wrapping hisleash around his legs. The leash T.J. had forgotten to unclip.
“Oh, for Christ’s—” The dog tripped andlanded hard against T.J.’s knees. “You okay? I thought dogs landed onall fours.”
When T.J. had Ford’s legs unencumbered, the dog, still onits side, bicycled all fours and upended the coffee table, scatteringeverything it held, including a bowl of Goldfish crackers. He quickly pouncedon the crunchy orange bites, stamping some into the carpet.
T.J. sprang to his feet. “Looks like a goddamn bomb wentoff!”
Except where the Goldfish had been. That area was spotless.
He picked up his smartphone and slid his thumb over thescreen, hovering over Natalie’s name. “Don’t do it. You’ll just give her morereason to laugh at your stupid ass. Save your one call for a real emergency.”
With a frustrated huff, he sat back down and pulled upYouTube videos of people training their dogs to do basic dog stuff. Sit. Heel.Come. If these yokels can do it, so can I. It all looked so simple, sostraightforward. Snacks figured heavily into the training. One more reason toappreciate Natalie—she’d made him buy treats, a good thing since he was prettysure those were the last of the Goldfish crackers.
Empowered, he decided it was time to try a few lessons, butwhen he looked around, Ford was nowhere in sight. Oh shit.
“Ford?” No response. “Dog doesn’t know his name,” hemuttered. He ventured a “Buddy Boo” as he searched his bedroom with no success.He opened the closet door, sure the dog couldn’t be in there, and cursed a bluestreak when he discovered the dog was, in fact, in the closet, immenselyenjoying the taste of T.J.’s shoes, including his favorite—and mostexpensive—pair of Nikes. But worse was the carnage the dog had inflicted onT.J.’s pee wee stick, the one he’d scored the tournament winning goal with. Thedirty white tape that had held the knob in place was mangled beyondrecognition, as were the knob and the blade tip.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
Beyond the slobber-coated shreds of shoes and the remnantsof stick stood the gaping bathroom door, and he slapped his forehead. He’d leftit open when he’d grabbed the towels to mop up the water.
As realization of what Ford had just ingested struck him,T.J. panicked, and he lugged the dog out of the closet, snatched his phone, andhit Natalie’s number, hissing, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” Nothingbut ringtone. Chest
