Read Online Drop Dead on Recall by Sheila Webster Boneham - Free Book Online
Authors: Sheila Webster Boneham
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pounds and as sweet and confident as can be.”
“His breeder let him get into that condition?”
“Oh, no! She sold him as a puppy. The people who bought him decided four years later they didn’t want him. Thank God they brought him back to the breeder. She was furious about the shape he was in, but thankful they didn’t just dump him somewhere. I saw him a couple days after she got him back, when she had me take some photos of her other dogs, and I couldn’t get him out of my head. I’d just lost my old Aussie, Rowdy. It took me a month to talk her out of Jay.”
“Some things are meant to be.” He stood up and I found myself falling again into eyes so brown they made my mouth water. After maybe a minute, maybe a month, Tom asked, “Have you heard any news about Abigail?”
Earth to Janet. “No, nothing, except that they aren’t sure what she died of.”
“Not bee allergy?”
Giselle was watching us from across the ring. She stopped when she noticed me noticing her.
“Apparently not. Actually, I wondered about that when the epinephrin didn’t work. It should work really quickly, as I understand it. And besides …”
“It should have,” Tom cut me off. “But I suppose other factors could affect how well it worked. I know just enough about commercial drugs to be dangerous.”
Commercial drugs , I wondered. As opposed to what?
16
I had Tuesday morning free, so after I fed the dogs, Leo, and myself (in that order) and pooper-scooped the litter box and the back yard, I settled into my new green Adirondack-style chair that sat outside the ring of shade from my enormous red maple. The chair is actually periwinkle blue, but it’s made of recycled milk jugs, so I love it double. I wrapped my fingers loosely around my mug and inhaled the musky sweet steam of blackberry sage tea and savored the moist heat against my palm. I had the latest copy of Nature Photography , the membership roster from Dog Dayz, and my cell phone. Jay and Pip were playing “toss and tug” with a big knotted rope, and Leo was honing his claws on a landscape timber backed by purple and orange Jolly Joker pansies that slow-danced in the breeze.
I leafed through the magazine until 8:30, then dialed the Dorns’ number and counted thirteen rings. No Greg, no “leave a message after the beep.” The dogs bounded over when they saw me hang up, panting and wagging and eager to slobber on my clean sweatshirt. I blocked with a bent knee and a firm, if frantic, refrain of “Off! Off!,” saving myself from drool and paw prints but slopping tea all over myself.
The dogs suddenly spun toward Goldie’s yard, ears alert, Pip’s fully erect and Jay’s folded over about a quarter of the way from tip to base. They blasted over to the fence and shoved their black noses into the space between the pickets. Jay’s short little nub directed his fanny in a wriggle, and Pip’s long, lush plume swung back and forth.
“Good morning, Mr. Jay! And good morning to you, handsome boy. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name already, but I haven’t forgotten your toast!” Jay has a morning ritual of fence talk and toast with Goldie. Not a leftover morsel, mind you, but a fat slice of Goldie’s home-baked flavor of the week, toasted lightly and polished with a thin gloss of jam made from one of Goldie’s raspberry vines. This morning she brought two slices, neither of them for me. Maybe I should slobber and wriggle my fanny too.
Leo stopped his claw sharpening and studied the goings-on at the lot line. He trotted over, leapt to the top of the fence and onto the ground beyond, and began meowing and rubbing against Goldie’s legs. “Ah, Leo! Good morning to you. Come on, we’ll get you a fix, too.” I hauled myself out of my chair and walked to the fence, watching as Goldie and Leo strolled through one of the herb beds and selected a tender new sprout of catnip. Leo never helps himself to Goldie’s cat-drug stash, but waits for her to serve him
“His breeder let him get into that condition?”
“Oh, no! She sold him as a puppy. The people who bought him decided four years later they didn’t want him. Thank God they brought him back to the breeder. She was furious about the shape he was in, but thankful they didn’t just dump him somewhere. I saw him a couple days after she got him back, when she had me take some photos of her other dogs, and I couldn’t get him out of my head. I’d just lost my old Aussie, Rowdy. It took me a month to talk her out of Jay.”
“Some things are meant to be.” He stood up and I found myself falling again into eyes so brown they made my mouth water. After maybe a minute, maybe a month, Tom asked, “Have you heard any news about Abigail?”
Earth to Janet. “No, nothing, except that they aren’t sure what she died of.”
“Not bee allergy?”
Giselle was watching us from across the ring. She stopped when she noticed me noticing her.
“Apparently not. Actually, I wondered about that when the epinephrin didn’t work. It should work really quickly, as I understand it. And besides …”
“It should have,” Tom cut me off. “But I suppose other factors could affect how well it worked. I know just enough about commercial drugs to be dangerous.”
Commercial drugs , I wondered. As opposed to what?
16
I had Tuesday morning free, so after I fed the dogs, Leo, and myself (in that order) and pooper-scooped the litter box and the back yard, I settled into my new green Adirondack-style chair that sat outside the ring of shade from my enormous red maple. The chair is actually periwinkle blue, but it’s made of recycled milk jugs, so I love it double. I wrapped my fingers loosely around my mug and inhaled the musky sweet steam of blackberry sage tea and savored the moist heat against my palm. I had the latest copy of Nature Photography , the membership roster from Dog Dayz, and my cell phone. Jay and Pip were playing “toss and tug” with a big knotted rope, and Leo was honing his claws on a landscape timber backed by purple and orange Jolly Joker pansies that slow-danced in the breeze.
I leafed through the magazine until 8:30, then dialed the Dorns’ number and counted thirteen rings. No Greg, no “leave a message after the beep.” The dogs bounded over when they saw me hang up, panting and wagging and eager to slobber on my clean sweatshirt. I blocked with a bent knee and a firm, if frantic, refrain of “Off! Off!,” saving myself from drool and paw prints but slopping tea all over myself.
The dogs suddenly spun toward Goldie’s yard, ears alert, Pip’s fully erect and Jay’s folded over about a quarter of the way from tip to base. They blasted over to the fence and shoved their black noses into the space between the pickets. Jay’s short little nub directed his fanny in a wriggle, and Pip’s long, lush plume swung back and forth.
“Good morning, Mr. Jay! And good morning to you, handsome boy. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name already, but I haven’t forgotten your toast!” Jay has a morning ritual of fence talk and toast with Goldie. Not a leftover morsel, mind you, but a fat slice of Goldie’s home-baked flavor of the week, toasted lightly and polished with a thin gloss of jam made from one of Goldie’s raspberry vines. This morning she brought two slices, neither of them for me. Maybe I should slobber and wriggle my fanny too.
Leo stopped his claw sharpening and studied the goings-on at the lot line. He trotted over, leapt to the top of the fence and onto the ground beyond, and began meowing and rubbing against Goldie’s legs. “Ah, Leo! Good morning to you. Come on, we’ll get you a fix, too.” I hauled myself out of my chair and walked to the fence, watching as Goldie and Leo strolled through one of the herb beds and selected a tender new sprout of catnip. Leo never helps himself to Goldie’s cat-drug stash, but waits for her to serve him
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