Page 62 of Worst in Show

I shake my head. “Why do you always say that?”

“Maybe I don’t feel like arguing.”

“Said the person scared to lose the argument.”

Leo lifts his finger as if to correct me, but then lets it fall. “Damn, I’ve got nothing.”

“That’s what I thought. Now, are we doing this or what?”

“Oh, you’re on. Tilly, let’s get ’em.”

“Come on, Cho,” I call. She’s over by the fence, sniffing. When she hears my voice, she barks loudly and sits down. What now? As I approach, she circles the area and starts whining. “What is it? We’ve got a bet to win, girl.”

Then I see it. Boris’s leash, but no Boris.

How far can a blind, geriatric dog get in ten minutes?” Leo asks as we make our way through the cornfield, flashlights in hand.

Boris was still there when we took off our jackets, so he couldn’t have gone that far. Footprints in the mud lead us in this direction, but outside our pockets of light, it’s pitch-black and not a little like a horror movie before the alien serial-killer children attack. He could be anywhere.

“Boris,” I call, echoed by Leo several rows over. “Where are you, buddy?”

“He must have caught the scent of some animal,” Leo says. “Wolfhounds are great hunters.”

I’d laugh if I wasn’t so worried. “Yeah, that’s what I think of when I see Boris—a great hunter…”

“Instinct never goes away.”

I put my hands up like a cone and yell his name again. Far behind us, the aunts do the same. They stayed back, volunteering to search closer to the house while keeping tabs on the other dogs.

“What if he’s hurt?” I shine my flashlight through the cornstalks. “What if we can’t find him?”

“Don’t worry.” Leo’s voice is soft. “We’ll keep searching until we do.”

A few minutes later, we’re crossing a dirt road to the next field when Leo grabs my sweater and pulls me to a stop. “Shh, what was that?”

We freeze and listen. At first there’s nothing, but when I call Boris’s name again, there’s a sharp yelp coming from somewhere on our left.

“That’s him!” I take off running, almost tripping over the uneven wheel tracks. “Over here.”

Boris is in a shallow ditch, muddy up to his neck, but he’s alert and happy to hear my voice. He licks my face profusely. “What’s going on, buddy?” I run my hands across his body, and when I get to one of his back legs, he whimpers. His foot is stuck in what looks like a small drainage grate. “You poor thing.”

Leo leans forward. “Here, I’ll hold it still, and you get his leg.”

As gently as possible, I free Boris from the trap.

“I think it’s a tractor footstep,” Leo says, examining the metal piece. “Weird.”

Whatever it is, it hurt him. “Aww bud, you’re shivering.” I stroke Boris’s head in my lap.

“I’ve got him.” Leo puts his flashlight down, and before I have time to protest, he pulls off his gray Henley and wraps it around Boris. “That should keep him warmer until we get back.”

I’m speechless. He gave up his shirt. For my dog. In the ambient light from the flashlights, it looks like steam is rising off Leo’s bare chest. It’s the pool photo all over again, only better because it’s live.

“Won’t you… um, be cold?” My tongue is like sandpaper. I haven’t seen a male torso quite so erotic since Hugh Jackman poured a bucket of water over himself in the movie Australia. A voice in the back of my head tells me to look away, but there’s no chance. I don’t even care if he notices my gawking. Leo Salinger is fi-ine.

“Nah, I’ll have to carry him back anyway,” Leo says. “It’ll keep me warm.”

That snaps me out of my drooling session. “But he’s over a hundred pounds.”

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