Page 72 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
She blinks.
She seems to be actively considering whether bladder control is even necessary. Maybe she can water one of my indoor plants. I stop recording and send the message to Lucian, who replies within seconds.
Lucian: I’m actually crying, laughing. She’s ridiculous.
Olivia: Oh, you think this is funny? YOU try dealing with your dog.
Lucian: I do. And I succeed. Because she knows I don’t fall for her bullshit.
Olivia: Please explain why she acts like a neglected orphan the second you’re gone.
Lucian: Because she knows you’re weak.
Olivia: I AM NOT WEAK.
Lucian: Weak to guilt. Be the alpha of the pack. Show her who’s boss.
Olivia: It’s not that easy.
Lucian: Those puppy eyes are your weakness.
I gape at my phone.
I lower my phone and stare at the sprawled-out, unmoving dog on my rug. “Sarah,” I try again, more firm this time.
Sarah whimpers.
Not a normal whimper. No. This one is drawn-out, breathy, like a tragic heroine moments before she faints into a dashing stranger’s arms. If she had a corset, she’d be loosening it.
I rub my temples. “Sarah. You’re embarrassing both of us. I have attended to thousands of dogs, and not one has been this manipulative.”
She flops her head dramatically onto the floor with a groan, then makes direct, soul-piercing eye contact.
I swear to God, she is about to die of my neglect.
I take another photo.
Olivia: Your dog is an actress. Get her an Oscar.
Lucian: Golden Globe at best.
Olivia: She’s evolving. I think she’s preparing a lawsuit against me.
Lucian: You should be worried. Soon, she’ll be speaking in that snooty English accent only she can do and giving you a lecture for not being what she wants you to be.
“That’s it, no more Miss Nice-Neighbor-Lady. Mean Olivia is taking over, you hear me?”
I drag Sarah to the door, finally getting her outside. But instead of walking, she immediately flops onto my front porch like I just shot her in the leg.
“Sarah, for the love of?—”
“Rough night?” a voice says.
I turn to see my next-door neighbor, an older woman named Martha, watching me over her white picket fence.
I gesture to Sarah. “She refuses to move. She is broken.”
Martha tsks. “You need to assert dominance.”
