Page 177 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Shane gave up on decorating the same day he started, and the recent bad weather has prevented Dollie or me from doing it on our own.
The next sunny day, that is my mission.
Rainwater drips from my nose as I rush through the backyard, trying my hardest to encourage Bubbles to continue putting one foot in front of the other and get into the house as quickly as possible.
For some reason, she likes the rain.
Likes nature.
A flower distracts her, the lonely primrose standing out amongst the dull weeds, giving the yard some light.
Giving her a gentle tug, I pull her away, wanting to preserve the flower and the poodle’s health. Apparently, some flowers are toxic to dogs, and I know too little about which ones to take the risk.
No longer interested in the flower, I let her run for the door, burning off residual energy from our first walk together on the quiet hills surrounding our home while I hurry to get the key into the lock.
Turning, I have to shield my eyes, hoping that it’ll eliminate some of the anxiety she brings.
It doesn’t, and when I lower my hand, that anxiety only builds.
Her white fur turns brown as she rolls around in the dirt, ensuring that the grime is properly embedded.
The rolling continues as I take one step closer to her. My mouth drops open, and I taste some of the dirty rainwater slip inside.
Spit it out three times, or Bubbles will die.
Twigs catch in her uncut hair, and she lets out a yelp, allowing my broken mind to win.
I spit three times, then whistle, calling her over.
She scampers to her feet, beelining for me to pull out the twig that hurt her so much.
Ignoring the rain that makes my clothes stick to me, I try to remove the twig, and she yelps again. Turning her head, sharp teeth catch my skin in warning.
Fuck!
Little bastard.
Shaking away the pain in my bleeding hand, I catch her eyes and see no aggression there, so I make a second attempt to get the twig.
Parting her hair carefully with my fingers, I try to find an easy way to get the wood out without covering the dog in my blood.
I fail.
She’s both bloody and dirty, and now I have a fucking splinter sticking out of the top of my thumb.
This is why I should leave the dog stuff to Dollie.
“Bubbles?” Her sweet voice is hardly music to my ears—there’s far too much concern in her tone. “Are you okay?”
The dog rushes past me to greet her owner at the back door.
Dollie takes a step back as I turn and step inside. Bubbles goes with her.
“What happened to her?” Dollie’s eyes wander to me, stalling on my bleeding hand where a toothmark greets her. “What happened to you?”
I point to the twig in a silent warning.Do not touch that.
Stepping into the room and out of the rain, I drip rainwater everywhere. Bubbles shakes herself off, and mud splashes the cabinets. The dark color makes it almost impossible to see the germs. But I know they’re there, all of them tormenting me.
