Page 69 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Okay, she’s considering it. That’s good. But soon I realized that perhaps—perhaps—I’m willingly, too willingly, entering another game I shouldn’t be playing.
“I’ll pay you the same amount I’m paying my dog sitter,” I offer, as this is my only option no matter what.
There’s a long pause. Then, begrudgingly, “Fine. I’ll assume custody of Sarah.”
I pump my fist but then correct her, “No. No. It’s not custody. You’re puppysitting.”
“Semantics, but . . .”
“But?”
“If she acts like a menace, I’ll charge you double,” she warns me.
“Sarah? A menace?” I scoff. “Impossible.”
She snorts. “Then I suppose you won’t mind if I send you hourly updates on every single dramatic thing she does.”
My grin widens.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I murmur. “I’m counting on it—open communication. I want this co-parenting to work like a well-oiled machine.”
Maybe I should consider this a win, right? I can find a way to use this to my advantage somehow. I’m not sure how, but I will.
Chapter Twenty
Olivia
The One Where I Become a Full-Time Dog Therapist
I’m not saying I regret agreeing to babysit Lucian’s overdramatic dog.
However, I am saying that had I known Sarah was such a manipulative menace, I would have created a formal custody agreement—complete with a therapy fund and a legal out-clause.
Because this?
This is absurd.
She seems so . . . nice. So peaceful.
But deep down?
She’s a little evil—maybe exactly like her owner. Now I understand why the pup-sitter was scratching her arms yesterday. She’s not allergic to Sarah; she has acute anxiety that is affecting her immune system. I’ve seen this before with owners who can’t handle their dogs because they weren’t a good match.
I glance at Sarah. “Are we a good match, girl?” I mean . . . it’s only been three hours since I picked her up from Lucian’s place, and I’ve already been subjected to:
A guilt trip so intense I’m reconsidering every life decision that led me here.
A full-scale hunger strike because I didn’t arrange her kibble into a Michelin-star-worthy presentation.
An Oscar-worthy portrayal of devastation when I suggested we go outside while it’s raining.
Sarah is currently sprawled across my lap like a dramatic Victorian heroine—flopped onto her back, one paw draped over her eyes, full-body sighs shaking her frame.
Someone needs to inform this dog that she is not a lap dog. She’s a fifty-five, perhaps sixty-pound dog, not a ten-pound Maltese—and that won’t be me.
For the past fifteen minutes, she has been whimpering softly—like she’s the most neglected creature on the planet. I sigh, rub my temples, and snap a picture of her absurd display of despair.This has to go into some scrapbook:Most intense moments in pet history.
Olivia: Your daughter is unwell.
