Page 72 of Just Say (Hell) No
“Maybe I could,” he said. “Maybe I will. Are we showing off this portrait, then? Give me your keys, and I’ll fetch it from the boot. And after that…” He eyed Kors, who’d reappeared and was kicking the soccer ball with the boys. And there was Ella as well, belly and all, doing some flash footwork, dribbling the ball around Kors and laughing up at him when he moved, not very convincingly at all, to try to steal it from her. “I’ll do some of that sticking closer. And then there’ll be art. And afterthat,we can go home. My favorite part.”
Maybe it was the champagne that got to Nyree. Marko had told her he’d drive home, and she’d been nervous about her painting, and, well, there’d been all this champagne. All she knew was, when they were seated on the rows of white wooden chairs with pink bows at the end of each aisle, and Harold, Savannah’s balding, heavyset husband, appeared at the altar holding Pookie’s leash next to a celebrant who was about ten years old, wearing a fluffy pink skirt, and holding what Nyree sincerely hoped wasn’t a Bible, she started to choke.
Pookie was in a top hat and tails, but the hat was slipping, so he not only looked like a fat, bad-tempered dachshund, he looked like adrunk,fat, bad-tempered dachshund.
Surely she wasn’t the only one who thought it was funny. Shewasthe only one hoping to earn major future money off this wedding, though, so she got herself under control. At least until a white English bull terrier, truly one of the world’s least attractive dogs, with its tiny eyes, Roman nose, stubby body, and blocky, sloped head, came down the aisle in a pink gown with a tutu skirt and low-cut bodice, a glittery silver collar, and a pink fascinator tilted over one eye to the tune of Rod Stewart crooning, “You Are So Beautiful to Me,” and the giggles started winning the battle. Pookie lunged at his leash and started to bark, the bull terrier skittered backwards, Marko snorted beside her, and the bubble of hysteria rose higher.
Victoria, on the aisle, muttered, “What the hell?”
Nyree muttered back, “Maid of honor.”
Marko said from her left, not bothering to mutter, “Never tell me that’s a female. Groom’s pretty excited, though. Poor form, making a move in front of the bride, though I don’t think he’ll get far. Be eaten, most likely.”
Nyree said, “He’s fixed.”
Marko snorted again and said, “Bloody waste of time, then,” and Victoria clapped a hand over her mouth.
The bull terrier and Pookie were now both at the end of their leashes, except that Pookie was in attack mode, while the bull terrier was still trying to escape up the aisle. Pookie’s hysterical barking rose a notch in pitch, if that were possible, the bull terrier whimpered and moaned, and the Corgi waded into the aisle like a bossy neighbor and barked at both of them until its owner clambered over chairs and guests to pull it away by the collar. The glossy brunette owner of the bull terrier, tottering in her spindly heels, wisely decided to abandon the proceedings for the moment and dragged the dog between two rows of chairs, stumbling over the guests in her way, and headed behind the arbor to hide.
Somebody, hopefully a dog, was howling now, and the barking, from Pookie and various other quarters, had reached fever pitch. The music swelled to a higher volume to cover the noise, Elvis Presley began to sing, “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You,” and the audience rose to watch Precious mince down the aisle on a rhinestone-studded leash with Savannah behind her.
The gown was ivory, poufy, and enormous, billowing out over the four-pound Chihuahua’s hindquarters and forming a train. Whatever space it didn’t take up was covered by a veil made of fine lace and studded with sequins, so you could barely see Precious’s wizened little old-man face peeking out the front. Victoria said, “Oh. My. God,” Marko said, “You can’t make it up,” and Pookie, ignoring his bride, gave a final lunge, tore his leash from Harold’s hand, dashed behind the arbor, and went for the bull terrier. The two of them tumbled against the lattice, the arbor shook, and the celebrant shrieked, dropped her hopefully-not-the-Bible book, and ran up the aisle to her mother with her pink net skirt bobbing around her. The barking continued, flashes of brown and white dog and pink gown showed through the lattice, and the arbor swayed, then returned to an upright position as the crowd let out a collective breath and Harold, who’d got hold of Pookie’s leash, dragged him around to the front again.
“Right,” he gasped, his spectacles awry and the sweat standing out on his high forehead. “Ready.” And everybody settled down.
For a moment. Until the bull terrier dashed around the edge of the arbor, her gown flapping around her, Pookie charged after her, banging into the structure along the way and dragging Harold along with him, and the whole thing fell over with a crash that took Harold with it.
The bull terrier ran. She started by making a circle around the audience with Pookie following, both their leashes trailing, then crashed against the front row of chairs and streaked down the center aisle. Precious, the Chihuahua, yipped, yelped, and strained at her leash until Savannah picked her up and shouted at Harold, who was chasing after Pookie, “Go the other way! Cut him off!” Harold ignored her, lunged, grabbed Pookie’s leash, lost it again, and knocked into the chair in front of where Victoria was standing. That sent her tumbling backward into Kane, who caught her, grinned at her happily, said, “Awesome,” and set her on her feet again.
Whoever was in charge of the music had turned Elvis up as some sort of last-ditch effort at normalcy, and he bellowed about his hand and his heart while the bull terrier headed across the garden, still chased by Pookie, his wedding finery intact other than the top hat bobbing against his chest and bouncing off the ground. A motley group followed them: the bounding, ecstatic golden retriever, the corgi, who rapidly fell behind on his stubby little legs, and an assorted dozen other dogs.
Beside Nyree, Marko turned and shouted, “Come on, lads,” his voice somehow carrying over the Beach Boys, who were caroling that God only knew how they felt about you. At which signal Kane kicked off his jandals, and the three of them took off. They outpaced Harold, and then they were racing past the kids and the other dads. Tom, in the lead by a fair stretch, got to the bull terrier while the others were still catching up, grabbed its leash, and stuck a foot bravely into the path of a charging Pookie. Marko dove for Pookie’s leash like he was going for the tryline, hit the ground, and yanked the dog into a spectacular backwards somersault more acrobatic than Pookie could ever have managed in his fat little life. Kane scooped up a Yorkshire terrier in one arm and a miniature schnauzer in the other, and the other dogs scattered in a joyful frenzy.
Savannah had her hands on her cheeks and was screaming, providing nothing like harmony for the Beach Boys, and as a crowning act, the golden retriever, forgetting whatever training it possessed, leaped at the white tablecloth covering the food table and brought the entire thing crashing down.
The demise of a wedding cake, Nyree discovered in the next few seconds, resembled nothing so much as a building imploding. Four tiers of white icing and pink roses wobbled majestically, toppled, fell to the grass, and shattered in a cloud of icing sugar, where a half-dozen dogs leaped on it. The ones who weren’t already scoffing sausage rolls, that is.
“A dog wedding for the ages,” Victoria said beside Nyree, but Nyree couldn’t answer. Unfortunately, she was laughing too hard.
The absolute wrong response, considering that her dog-portrait future was going up in smoke. From the aisle, Savannah was moaning, “He’s strangled him! Oh, myGod.”And indeed, Marko, the destroyer of dreams, had picked up a panting Pookie, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and was striding across the grass.
He didn’t bring the dog back to Savannah. Instead, he walked past all of them and up to the house, where he opened the glass sliders, dumped Pookie inside, and shut the door again. Then he came back down the hill, stopped in front of his hostess, who’d finally stopped moaning, and said, not sounding even slightly out of breath, “Groom got cold feet, I reckon. Ah, well. It happens. Awesome wedding, though. I don’t know about you, but I could murder a beer.”
The reception, Marko found, was heaps more fun than the pre-wedding festivities.
For one thing, he had a bottle in his hand. For another, he had an arm around Nyree’s waist, and she was cuddled up to him and sneaking sips of his one-and-only beer instead of being mauled by some married fella who would now know better. The kids all had their shoes off, and so did Ella, Kors, Victoria, and Kane, since all of them were playing soccer. And Nyree was talking about painting.
“I can’t believe how you justcapturedhim. His personality, I mean,” Savannah said. The Pookie portrait was unwrapped, set on the table that Marko and the boys had righted, the rubble of the wedding cake having been cleaned up with admirable efficiency by the canine guests, some of whom would no doubt be throwing it up later. Precious, sans gown and veil, was safely tucked into Savannah’s arm, and Pookie was sleeping it off in the house. There was no food left, but the dogs hadn’t broken any beer or champagne bottles, so the guests weren’t complaining.
“Looks like she’s captured you as well, mate,” Harold told Marko with a well-lubricated laugh. In another minute, he’d be elbowing Marko in the ribs and asking, “Know what I mean?”
“Too right,” Marko said, taking his beer back from Nyree and pulling her a little closer. She fit perfectly under his arm, he’d discovered. “But then, I’ve had my eye on Nyree since we were teenagers. She finally looked back, that’s all.”
“Oh,” Savannah said, and pressed her palms together as her coterie of friends perked up. “Tell. Really? Were you childhood sweethearts?”
“Not so much,” Marko said. “I had to hold back, as her dad was my coach. Highlanders,” he explained to the men, who nodded in understanding. “Grant Armstrong, eh.”
“Scary fella,” Harold agreed.
