by Heidi Heimler
When I hear
the thud of their bodies falling onto the bed, I
slink into the room and position myself so my
eyes are just above mattress level. Then - I
Her eyes meet
mine and the action on the bed comes to a
cant, she says. Not with him
sitting there; watching.
Aw babe. Im at full mast.
He stumbles off the bed, grabs
me by the collar and tosses me into the yard. As
soon as the door closes behind him, I slither
through the hole Ive dug beneath the fence.
I run with
wild abandon through the neighborhood, frothy
drool dripping from my mouth, my tags clanking. I
tear across Mrs. Pittmans garden, and when
I see her puckered face in the window, I turn
around and plow through again.
I stop in
front of the Bradlys house, where a hot
French poodle with a killer do and an
attitude to match just moved in. For weeks
Ive been fantasizing about sniffing her
perky little behind. I bark until my throat is
sore, but theres no sign of my beloved.
I move on, a
bit slower now as there are so many heady scents,
so much fascinating information to take in.
Piddles the pug has apparently declared ownership
of the corner fire hydrant, but Gershwin the
Husky made it abundantly clear that he is the
sole proprietor of that particular hydrant. Mrs.
Griswalds wolfhound has gastric issues.
Iggy the Malamute needs grooming.
exception of Gershwins hydrant, I mark
everything. Lampposts, mailboxes, and newly
tarred driveways, I decorate them all. At the
Smiths notorious for forgetting
garbage day - I belly up to the trash can buffet.
hear it: Joes rusty jeep rumbling in the
distance. The sputtering grows close and I
quickly polish off the last bits of Limburger
cheese, chicken skins and bread crusts.
Then he spots
me and the jeep screeches to a stop. We run to
each other like long-lost lovers. He sweeps me
into his arms and chides me for scaring him. I
lick his face.
I can hardly
wait till his next date.