Page 65 of Hound Dog
Pressing his lips into a firm line, he made a littlehmsound, but didn’t push the matter further.
“I was thinking,” Finn said. “If we combined our guacamole recipes, we might create the best, most ultimate guacamole anyone ever tasted.”
I smiled, looking back at him. He wasn’t wrong. If we utilized his trick of roasting the garlic, and my secret of letting the yogurt marinate in the flavors, that would be one heck of a fine guacamole. “I’m pretty sure that wouldguacmy world.”
It took a moment for the joke to hit him, but he stopped in the middle of the trail, throwing his head back with a barking laugh. “I think it’s time to rock out with our guac out.”
With lips pressed together, I tried to smother my laugh and gave him a chastising look. “Well, that was guacward.”
He nodded with a falsely overdramatic frown. “You’re right. That was guac bottom.”
I stopped fighting my laughter and broke out into a giggle, slowing my stride while Finn and Tyson caught up to us with his long, sweeping steps.
With a gasp, I froze. Twenty feet ahead of us was a Mourning Warbler, sitting on top of a raspberry bush. Moving slowly, I pulled my backpack down and unzipped it, finding my pocket guide to birdwatching.
“What are you doing?” Finn asked, bounding up to me with Tyson at his side.
“Shhh,” I whispered. “You see that bird?”
The Mourning Warbler cocked its pale, bluish gray head at us, locking us into a staring contest.
“Yeah… so what?”
“That’s a male Mourning Warbler and it’s super rare to find.” I flipped open my book and showed Finn the page that I had dogeared a while ago.
“Huh,” Finn said, taking the book from me and examining the page briefly. “This thing’s seen better days, hasn’t it?” He flipped through some of the pages, stopping at one that was almost ripped in half.
He wasn’t wrong. I’d found the book at a garage sale a few years ago. It was completely worn out. The spine had long since broken. Several pages were torn or missing.
He paused on one of the pictures and shuddered dramatically. “Not going to lie—birds kind of freak me out.”
I gaped at him. “Seriously? They’re so beautiful, though. And theysing.”
“So do you, and I’m kind of afraid of you.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop my smile. “Come on. You’re not actually afraid of… birds, are you?”
I’d wanted to ask if he was afraid of me, but I’d chickened out at the last minute.
“I absolutely am,” he said while flipping through the book. “They can peck your eyes out.”
“They only do that if you’re doing somethingstupid.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Like if you accidentally kayak too close to a loon’s nest.”
With my gasp, the mourning warbler flew off. Reluctantly, I took the book back from Finn and tucked it into the front pouch of my backpack. “You did that?”
“Afraid so. Add to that, their freaking terrifying loon howl and I’ve been traumatized by birds since I was a kid.”
Despite the heat of the summer day, a welcome breeze rushed by us, cooling my sweat-damp forehead. I pushed forward, continuing up the trail.
“They were just protecting their chicks. You can’t blame them for that.”
“Yeah, and I was just trying to take a shortcut to beat my siblings across the lake. Unfortunately, I screamed like a baby, dropped my oar, and my brothers had to flank my kayak to get me back home safely.”
I couldn’t help my laugh and didn’t even try to hide it. “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “It’s just the thought of you being so terrified by a loon is kind of funny.”
“Um, have youseena loon? Theyareterrifying. They freakingrunon the water. And their wingspan is massive.”
