My thick jacket gets tossed over the dining room chair, the gloves on the table in a heap with the hat. Frankie barrels out of the main hallway, and a chunk of cream- and brown-sugar-scented soap falls out of her mouth, landing on my carpet with a silent thud only my heart hears as it stops beating.
I freeze and then watch in slow motion as she bends down and picks up the chunk of soap. Her jaw moves up then down twice.
"Frankie, no," I yell and dash in her direction.
It does no good. By the time I’m able to pull open her jaws and look inside her mouth, the bar of soap is gone.
"Oh no. No, no, no." I jog to the bathroom off the master bedroom. "No, no, no."
I rip the curtain back. A few rings come loose, so it sags in the middle. There, on the edge of the tub, where my rather expensive, homemade, all-organic soap normally sits, is an empty space. It's cute little porcelain dish empty, the dish unbroken but laying sideways on the bathroom mat.
"Oh, Frankie."
A few seconds pass while I mourn the loss of my favorite oatmeal soap. The heavenly bar is only available during the summer farmer markets every Thursday in downtown Pelican Bay. Every fall, I buy two bars. It’s enough to get me through the winter months. Thankfully, Frankie caught me at the tail end of my first bar, so she didn’t ingest an entire thing.
Still, organic soap or not, it can’t be good for dogs.
Frankie nudges the back of my leg with her nose. She looks the same, but I can't get the unwavering thought I just killed Spencer’s dog out of my mind.
Dogs can't eat chocolate or onions, and I'm pretty sure soap is also on the list.
My back pocket vibrates, interrupting my moment of pure panic.
Until I remember it could be Spencer on the phone. Then I panic more.
Please don't let it be Spencer. Please don't let it be Spencer.
I breathe a sigh of relief when Regina's name pops up on the screen. As one of my closest friends from high school, it’s her duty to help me.
"Regina, I have a huge problem. I need your help." I forget all the niceties of hello.
"If you're gonna tell me you still haven't shacked up with the hot guy you've been spotted with onthreedifferent occasions, you're right, you do have a problem."
I am momentarily waylaid by her comment. "How do you know about that?" I haven't had a chance to update her.
"Girl, the whole town knows. I promised Pearl I’d call you and get an update for tonight’s phone call."
I cannot believe my best friend is about to sell me out for phone tree fodder.
"The phone tree. Really Regina?" Growing up watching our mothers waste hours on the phone updating their friends on town gossip, we always promised we’d never turn out that way. Funny how life works.
"Joslin, it's December. In Pelican Bay. What else am I supposed to? Now tell me about your new man."
"I'm babysitting his dog and she ate a bar of soap. What should I do?"
"Is dogs eating soap some kind of new euphemism for sex?” she asks.
"No! Focus, Regina. You take Mr. Pickles to the vet in town. What's his phone number?"
"Hang on." There's a rustling of papers on her end of the line. "I had to get a piece of paper and pen."
"I need the number to Dr. Pike. What do you need paper for?"
"I need to make notes so I don’t forget to tell Pearl anything.”
"Regina! This is serious. I need the number to the vet."
"I'm serious about wanting the sex update."
