Page 21 of Love in Training
Lydia catches me up on the latest drama between her mom and sister on the ride over. After Lydia’s baby shower, Marion apparently recorded a video that went semi-viral about how under-appreciated she is as a grandma. Knowing their mom has never so much as changed a diaper for Celia’s baby, I was shocked Lydia’s sister didn’t murder Marion in her sleep. Neither Lydia nor I really knew our dads growing up, but I’ve always secretly thought hers must’ve just run for the hills.
We’re laughing over the comments on the video when the elevator opens on my floor. But as soon as we step into the hall, we both stop and look at each other.
“What is that?” Lydia asks, tilting her head at a high-pitched sound.
It stops as soon as she speaks, and I furrow my brow. “Huh. I don’t?—”
A clear wail echoes down the hall, and now I think I can guess what it is, or at least where it’s coming from. My skin prickles. I fumble with my keys, pace quickening as I close in on my apartment door.
“Oh, poor thing,” Lydia says, trailing behind me. “I didn’t know any of your neighbors had a?—”
“Holy. Shit.”
My door swings open, and at first, I think it must’ve snowed indoors. There is white fluff and feathers everywhere. The entire floor is covered. It’s on the coffee table and the counter. One of my barstools lies on its side. A framed poster is askew on thewall. And my couch—my cute velvety green couch—is destroyed. Stripped of half its fabricandstuffing. In a daze, I reach down and retrieve one of my prized Louboutins from the debris.
“What the...” My hands shake as I pick up the ruined heel. For a split second, I wonder if someone actually broke in, did this to hurt me—is my stalker back in the game? Until I look more closely at the shoe. And realize it’s been chewed. “Fuck!”
As if in reply, a bark issues from across the room. There, in the center of whatusedto be my bed, sits a panting Belgian Malinois. Lydia swings the door shut behind us, and he stands up, barking.
“Lydia, open the door.” I panic, stepping between the obviously insane animal and my pregnant friend. “Don’t let him get close to you!”
She places a warm hand on my arm, and I pause, looking at her.
“Caprice,” she says calmly. “Theo brought you a dog?”
I look at her dumbly. I had imagined picking her up, coming back to my place to surprise her with this news, then sipping coffee while she offered friendly advice on pet ownership. Now my gaze drifts from her face, around my destroyed apartment, and back to the canine still barking and wagging his tail on my shredded purple duvet.
“He—he was Kyle's.” My back hits the door, and the next thing I know, I’m gasping for air.
Nearly eight months pregnant, my friend sets down her coffee and donuts and holds my hands as I sink to the floor. When she seems assured I’m not going to totally pass out, she hefts herself back up and coos softly at the beast on my bed.
“Hey buddy, how are you?” she says.
Rufus spins in circles, barking, sending feathers into the air.
“Lydia—” I croak, worried he’s lost his mind and could bite her, or worse. But she just waves me off, reaching into herpocket and holding out a handful of the dog treats she carries everywhere.
“What’s his name?” she asks quietly.
I stare ahead, trying to focus on the animal watching her. “Rufus.”
“Oh,Rufus.” I hear the smile in her voice. “How very canine.”
The edges of my vision darken, and I put my head between my knees, forcibly slowing down my breathing. I refuse to lose consciousness while Lydia’s doing something potentially stupid.
When I’m able to look up again, she’s almost to the bed. She moves slowly, treats out in front of her. The dog spins like a top as she approaches, creating a new whirlwind of feathers, but pauses when she speaks to him in a low, soothing voice.
“There you go. It’s okay. You’ve had a rough morning, huh?”
I snort, regaining control of my heartbeat.
He lets out a low whimper.
“Do you like cheese treats?” she asks. I hold my breath as she extends her palm flat in front of his snout. Tentatively, he leans forward, glances at her, and pulls back. He finally reaches out again and takes the small orange square out of her hand. “Good boy,” she says, still quiet, but there’s relief in her tone.
She repeats the process until he’s stopped panting, and it’s clear he’s watching for goodies every time she reaches into her pockets. I drag myself to my feet, righting my barstool on my way up.
“Where’s his water dish?” Lydia asks.
