Page 65 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I’ll give her a raise, beg her . . . I press call. I’m sent to voicemail.
I text:Riley. What do you mean hives? You’re quitting? You’re literally walking a dog, not fighting off a swarm of bees.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Two hours until I need to be at practice and less to find a dog sitter in such a last minute. I have no backup plan.
Sarah isn’t just a dog—she’s my dog. My pain-in-the-ass, fence-jumping, sock-stealing, drama queen of a best friend. Now, I have to figure out what the hell to do with her before my coach decides I need a leash too.
Does Sarah get a little lost sometimes? Sure. But she always finds her way home.
But is Sarah—my angel, my literal perfect specimen of a dog—intense?
Impossible.
She’s friendly. She’s affectionate.
She’s an award-winning dog—if such awards existed outside of fancy-ass show breeds. No, the issue isn’t that my dog sitter just quit. The issue is that Sarah is in Pennsylvania, and I’m in Colorado for the conditioning phase of training camp.
A week in high altitude.
Too many days of grueling, lung-burning, body-destroying workouts aimed at getting me into peak form ahead of preseason.
Two days where I’m supposed to fine-tune my workouts, mentally prepare for the season, and—most importantly—not worry about whether my dog has emotionally blackmailed yet another sitter into quitting.
The sound of my messages blowing up derails my thoughts.
Riley has sent eight texts in under a minute.
Riley: Sarah got us kicked from the coffee shop
Riley: She’s banned.
Riley: She cried at the dog park when another dog took the ball I threw first.
Riley: Like, full dramatic whimpering.
Riley: Also, she refused to walk home. Sat on the sidewalk and just . . . REFUSED.
Riley: People thought I stole her while I was carrying her.
Riley: She slept on my chest last night and growled when I tried to move.
Riley: She’s your problem now.
Riley: GOOD LUCK.
I stare at the screen.
Sarah, my dog. My fully grown, ridiculously expensive Vizsla, who is supposed to embody athleticism and loyalty, is, it seems, a melodramatic diva with separation anxiety issues.
I text back:
You carried her home?
Riley: I HAD NO CHOICE. She went full deadweight. Like, boneless. People were recording me. I’m on social media, stealing your dog.
Riley: I’ll probably sue for emotional distress. You have 1 hour to find someone else to take care of her.
I groan. Of course, she’s on social media. I check the time again. I need a solution. Right now.
