Damn right I am. As much as I’m bitching, I wouldn’t want to lose him. He’s one of the best sports agents out there. “So why aren’t you meeting me at the airport?”
“I have an appointment. One I can’t break. Don’t worry. She’ll take good care of you. Feel free to ask her any questions about your contract with the Outlaws. Or anything else for that matter. She’s thoroughly familiar with your situation.”
My situation. Yeah, my well-and-truly-fucked-up ‘situation.’
No sooner do I hang up with Marty than the phone rings. It’s the dog service. Not taking Marty’s word about its reputation, I pepper them with questions. They assure me they do this all the time and provide references, mostly military, for me to check out. After a few phone calls that reassure me Butch will be in good hands, I call back the dog service and ask them to come by in a couple of hours.
Butch glances at me, his big, brown peepers worried.
“Don’t give me those sad puppy eyes. I can’t help it, boy.” I scratch the top of his head, right on the spot he loves to get rubbed. But his tail doesn’t wag. Damn if he doesn’t know something’s up.
“Look I know Chicago is no San Diego. No sun. Cold enough to freeze your nuts off. Well, if you had any.”
“Woof!”
“You’re never going to forgive me for giving you the big snip, are you?”
“Rawr!”
“You’ll love Chicago. You’ll see.” I don’t know if I’m trying to reassure him or me. But I do know one thing that will make us both feel better. I grab his leash and head out with him. Gotta take my best boy for a run on the beach one last time.