"Really? Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. She'll be right as rain in about thirty minutes or so. You should even be able to continue using the soap."
“Um… Okay.” That’s never going to happen.
I lighten the death grip on Frankie's collar and sit on the couch beside her. After garnering a few more reassurances from the doctor, I hang up the call and take my place watching Frankie. The two brown tuffs of fur above her eyes definitely remind me of horns in this moment.
She doesn't move.
I stare into her eyes, but she doesn't look sick or gag.
Leaning forward, her mouth is inches from mine, but there’s no evidence of bubbles forming.
Deciding I have a few minutes, I make a quick trip into the kitchen and grab a brown sack and a bowl of water. When I get back to the couch, Frankie hasn’t moved—a concerning sign.
"Do you want some water?" I ask, leaving the water dish under her nose. She doesn't take the bait.
Seven and a half minutes pass this way—me gently coaxing Frankie to drink some water and her turning her nose up in return. I consider calling the vet again, the phone poised in my hand ready to go, when Frankie makes her first move. She sits up on the couch, the front of her body lurching forward as she gags.
And gags.
I snap open the brown paper bag and hold it close, hopeful I can get it under her in time. Frankie nudges it away with her nose and gags again. I match the sound. She jumps off the couch and dry heaves on my floor. At least she got off the couch, I suppose.
With the bag under her nose, I get down on my knees to coax her. “Come on, Frankie. Look at the bag.” She twists her head away. “No, Frankie, the bag. Do it in the bag.”
She’s having none of it and scoots away, forcing me to follow by walking on my knees.
“Frankie.”
I follow her around, all my attempts to keep the brown paper bag under her mouth thwarted when she continues to move away. It’s like she doesn’t care about my carpet at all.
When it's all said and done, there is a soapy pattern drizzled from the living room couch to the kitchen. I'd never seen a dog walk and throw up at the same time, and I hope to never see it again. If I hadn't paid someone for the house, I’d seriously consider setting it on fire and starting over. Insurance policies should have a clause for dog puke.
It took a good five minutes for Frankie to work the soap out of her stomach and then another three for me to practice my breathing so I didn’t upchuck, as well. After she's had a drink of water and taken her place back on the couch, I decide it's safe to start to clean up.
Half the trail of dog puke is cleaned up when my phone rings, stopping my progress. If Regina has called me for another update, I'm going to start shopping for a new best friend.
I answer without looking at the screen. "Regina, now is not the time. You'll be the first to know if I sleep with the hot guy."
A deep laugh stops me from immediately hanging up. Regina definitely doesn't have the Adam's apple to go with that laugh. "I hope I'm the guy you're planning to kiss and tell about."
Oh shit.
"I wasn'treallygoing to tell her." I lie. I wouldn't plan to at least, but she is my best friend—she'd work it out of me.
Spencer is silent for a minute. With the phone still glued to my ear, I worry he’s hung up. I’d be more upset, but there isn’t time. After the dead body yesterday and the trail of dog puke today, this is just another blip on the radar of events that go bat shit crazy in my life.
"This is something we’ll definitely need to talk about. I'm on my way back to your place now. I should be there in about twenty minutes,” he says, still laughing.
Twenty minutes? Crap. I’ve only cleaned halfway to the kitchen, and that took over an hour. Soapy dog puke isn’t the easiest thing to get out of carpets. I’m gonna need to clean double-time to get it done before he gets here.
“That’s great. I’ll see you then. Gotta go. Bye.” I disconnect the call and throw it to the side. My arms burn while working to scrub the floor to the kitchen.
There isn't even time for a sigh of relief after I drop the washcloth in the kitchen sink. Almost as if the event was timed perfectly, the dishcloth makes contact with the base at the same time my doorbell rings.
Frankie runs to the front door, jumping and barking, happy to have her owner home. It’s like she’s forgotten all about the horrifying incident that will haunt me for years to come.
Without wasting time, I open the front door while mentally organizing my notes for explaining Regina’s nosy questions.
