Page 71 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns

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Innocently.

Like she’s never done anything wrong in her life.

I grab my phone again.

Olivia: She won’t go outside. She won’t eat. I’m pretty sure she’s wasting away in real time.

Lucian: She’s a Vizsla, not a Victorian child with consumption.

Olivia: Then why does she look like she’s about to start coughing into a lace handkerchief?

Lucian: Because she’s dramatic as fuck. Just ignore her.

I huff.Ignore her?Lucian clearly does not understand the power of Sarah’s guilt trips. This dog is a professional-level manipulator.

A mastermind.

A con artist with fur.

I stand up, forcing Sarah off me and onto the rug. She lets out a wounded gasp. Like I have betrayed her on a soul-deep level.

I grab her leash. “We’re going outside.”

Sarah flops onto the floor.

Flat.

Unmoving.

Refusing to acknowledge reality.

I cross my arms. “Sarah.”

No response.

I pull out my phone.

Olivia: Your dog is pretending to be paralyzed so she doesn’t have to walk.

Lucian’s response is instant.

Lucian: :laughing: emoji

Lucian: This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Olivia: Glad my suffering amuses you.

Lucian: It really does. Receipts or it didn’t happen.

I grumble under my breath, but I start recording because I am weak to peer pressure. I pan the camera from the door to where Sarah is sprawled dramatically on the floor.

“Sarah,” I say. “Outside.”

Sarah lets out a soft, pitiful whine and a dramatic poof of air—like I’m the insufferable one.

“Outside,” I repeat.

Sarah remains a motionless, tragic figure. I sigh. “Sarah, you have to go to the bathroom.”

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