Read Online Dog Stays in the Picture by Susan; Morse - Free Book Online Page A

capacity to think of anything more creative than cheese and crackers for lunch. While I’m munching I check our voice mail again:
    Susie, have they called you yet? I hope you’re not worried, because it’s all right, really. I mean, it was frightening, but no harm done because that woman I backed into with the scooter at the party today is fine, thank heavens, although it was a little touch and go at first when she fell down and we were very upset until she was able to get up from the floor. So please don’t worry and I hope everything’s fine with the boys.
    And God bless. Call me back. It’s Ma, and I’m so much better now I really don’t think I need the scooter anymore anyway. It was very useful for a while, but I think for now they’d better keep it.
    Because the party was too crowded, you know, and I couldn’t see where I was going at all. And I’m very glad that woman’s leg braces weren’t damaged in the slightest. So call me back.
    I call. The scooter has been confiscated, and Ma’s supposed to take a month to think about what she’s done. Then, maybe, she can have her vehicle back, like a senior-citizen time-out. Tomorrow, when the Ivy U application is finally over with, I’ll have to go see her. Visits have been interesting lately. I bring Lilly whenever possible, but she’s extremely nervous in the car. I don’t think she has ever traveled in a regular passenger vehicle. She won’t lie down on the backseat, and because of her long flamingo legs I’ve been quite worried she’d fall into the seat well and break something. Even her tail can be an issue. I can’t get over all the many ways greyhounds can injure themselves—you wouldn’t think a dog’s tail would be all that vulnerable, but I’ve heard stories about greys who get so excited when the leash comes out, they whack their tails against something and actually break the skin. They don’t feel it, though, and they keep on wagging, and then there’s this sort of loose garden hose, geysering blood all over the walls like a doggie horror movie.
    My car’s backseat now has an elaborate strapped-in dog cover that at least provides Lilly a flat surface. She can stand safely behind me, her needle nose thrust in agitation as far as possible between my headrest and the window, seeking comfort. I try to remember to bring treats, because once we arrive, Ma is mostly disapproving if Lilly is too stressed to relate to her.
    â€”Susie, this dog won’t do. It’s much too damaged.
    â€”She just needs time, Ma.
    Nothing is broken.

    I have a feeling my cheese-and-cracker lunch was not such a good idea—too much dairy. We are having our traditional New Year’s Eve fondue tonight (just us, the kids, and David’s mother), followed by a movie. Usually fondue prep is my job because David’s allergic to everything in it. (Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. He can eat cheese. He just can’t have the white wine, garlic, cornstarch, lemon juice, kirsch, or nutmeg. Basically anything that makes it taste good. Oh, and no bread. And I’m pretty sure his cheese has to be imported.) So on fondue nights while we crowd around the pot with our little spears to harpoon crusty chunks of French baguette and groan orgasmically about the faaabulous flavor of Gruyèrrrre , David sits watching, patient and uncomplaining, with his plate of rice pasta and broccoli.
    I’d like to spare David the nonsense fondue requires (digging out the special forks, setting up the pot and the sterno, slicing all that yummy bread), given he won’t have the satisfaction of actually enjoying it once it’s served tonight. But this year time is of the essence; the boys have looming deadlines and I need to be available right up till we hit that last Submit button with the final application fee payment. Midnight’s a ways off. I’m not stressing too