Page 49 of Slots & Sticks
I press a kiss to Camden’s cheek. “Thank you for bringing me here.” Bo’s leash is wrapped around my hand. Skinbad is on his back, cradled in Camden’s arms like the world’s crustiest baby. His little doggy gut pooches out. It’s freaking adorable.
“You’re all set.” Ginger bends down to pet Bo one last time. “I’m so glad you’re taking both of them. The little guy’s a handful, but she’ll keep him in line.”
The other two staff members, the ones who we heard talking earlier, emerge from the cat side of the building. The woman elbows the man. He rolls his eyes.
“Hey, before you go.” She strides over and pulls out her phone. “Can we get a picture together? With the dogs?”
“Ooh, and can I take one for socials?” Ginger clasps her hands in front of her. “A happy follow-up to let people know he found a home?”
Camden nods. “Sure, I’m game.”
The woman shoves her phone at him. “Thanks.” She turns to me. “Sorry if this is weird, but I’m a huge fan of your mother’s music. I was so sorry to hear about what happened.”
My mouth drops open. When they were talking about celebrities earlier, they meantme?
I glance over at Camden, Bo’s leash in one hand, Skinbad snoring in his arms. He doesn’t look uncertain. He looks like mine. And standing beside him now, I look like his.
Camden passes a snoozing Skinbad into my unsteady arms. He takes the woman’s phone, but he waits for my approval before raising it. In the end, I nod.
I struggled with my mom’s legacy when she was alive. I’m not going to deny her now. I wrap my free arm around the stranger and smile while Camden snaps the photo.
Chapter Eleven
Camden
Skinbad, we soon discover, has strong feelings about car rides.
“Just sit on mylap,” Dot pleads.
We agreed that she should ride in the back seat so that she could keep an eye on both dogs. Bo’s doing exactly what I would have expected: she’s draped across the other two seats alongside Dot with her head in Dot’s lap, watching the landscape pass by outside the windows with mild interest.
Skinbad, however, is going ballistic. At first, he was content to stand with his front paws up on the door and his back paws braced against Dot’s thigh, with his naked noodle of a tail wagging for all it was worth. All the while, he screamed the song of his people.
To call the sound Skinbad makes a ‘bark’ would be to misclassify the unholy wail issuing from his open mouth. His endless shrieking makes me wonder when—orif—he stops for air. He’s now taking his psychotic performance art to the next level by darting back and forth between the windows at top speed, trampling across Dot’s legs and Bo’s ribs in the process.
“Do you think he hates us?” I ask over the shrieking. “Or is he having the time of his life?”
“He’s happy, I think?” Dot shakes her head. She tries to grab Skinbad on his next pass, but he’s too nimble for the likes of her.
“If he’s going to be doing this for the next six hours, maybe we should get you a pair of earplugs.” I remember seeing a billboard for some sort of “Welcome to Reno!” tourist attraction on the way in last night. We can give the dogs a chance to pee,grab something to eat, and find some earplugs for her. Or a tiny tranquilizer gun for us to use on Skinbad. Either works.
By the time we reach the exit for the tourist center, my ears are ringing. The sound is like tiny icepicks digging into my eardrums. With the sensory issues that accompany my ADHD, certain high-pitched frequencies hurt my brain, Skinbad’s screaming is well within that range.
I park at the back of the lot, away from the highway, next to a grassy strip reserved for dogs, with a swathe of scraggly pine trees beyond it.
I reach for my door handle. “I’ll come grab Bo, if you want to walk—”
“Skinbad!” Dot cries. The moment I open the door, the little dog vaults between the seats. He catapults himself, pelting over the grass and into the trees beyond.
“Shit!” My stomach drops. She trusted me with her new dog. If he ends up roadkill, I’m finished.
I fling myself out of the door after him. I don’t want the little guy to get hurt, and Idefinitelydon’t want to get downgraded from “a good kisser” to “the asshole who lost my new dog.”
“Skinbad!” I shout. But that’s a new name, one that will mean nothing to his tiny canine brain. I try calling again. “Krusty? Krusty, come back!”
By any name, this dog has zero recall. Despite my significantly longer legs and excellent cardiovascular health, I can barely keep up. Viktor would approve of Skinbad’s tactics. This is a flab-free workout routine.
Skinbad vaults up a boulder and stands there, looking back at me over his shoulder as he wags his tail.
