I shrug. “Only Grumps knows.”
When the intruder in his territory doesn’t make an aggressive move, Grumps sneaks down the few steps to snuffle George’s shoes. He gives another growl.
“Is there anything I should do?” George asks.
“To win his favor?” I lean a hip against the brick column. “Try squatting. He doesn’t like being so much lower than people.”
Without hesitation, George sinks down to his haunches. The move startles Grumps, who hops back a few steps, growling as he goes. But then George extends a hand, and my dog considers the offering, eventually sidling up to sniff the relaxed fingers.
George risks a scratch to Grumps’s neck.
A successful endeavor.
“I did it.” He keeps his voice low and grins up at me. The pride in his face at having briefly won the reluctant acceptance of my dog has me wanting to dive in and kiss him again.
But I hold myself back so as not to ruin the moment.
“Look at that,” I murmur back.
Eventually Grumps loses interest and chases after a squirrel that dared to venture into our yard. George straightens, and I can’t help watching the way his legs flex with the move. I never knew I had such a thigh fixation. George Bunsen really brings it out of me.
“We need you to change a light bulb while you’re here. You ready to use that superior height for good?” I ask, reminding myself that I can’t stare at him all day.
“Lead the way.”
I call Grumps as we head inside, and the dog comes barreling toward us, letting out a series of warning barks as he aims for George’s calves.
“What is he doing?”
I glance down in time to see Grumps lunge at the man only to bounce back. “Headbutting you. It’s his go-to battle move. Be afraid.”
“Does this mean I didn’t earn his approval?”
“You did. But that was, like, sixty seconds ago. He’s got a goldfish memory.”
“But he likes you continuously, right?”
“Yeah. I’m one of the chosen few.”
George slides an arm around my waist and leans down to kiss my shoulder, sending a flock of goose bumps racing over my body. “Sounds like if I hang around him for a while, I could be chosen, too.”
“That’s quite a commitment.” My voice has gone breathy.
“But worth it.”
Grumps headbutts George again, huffs in celebration of his victory, and trots off to reclaim his reclining throne. We follow after him like the peasants we are.
“This way!” Marge sings out, and I lead George into the back sitting room that connects to the sunroom where Mom has her forest ofplants. Here, the ceiling rises high above us with another dramatic slope in the roof, and a simple round chandelier hangs from the center. In the light fixture is a dead bulb.
“It went out yesterday,” Marge explains. “I was going to try getting it myself, but I’m vertically challenged even with the assistance of a ladder. Do you mind?”
George stares up at the chandelier for a stretch, and I wonder if he’s admiring the architecture of the room. The place is beautiful. It was one of the first spaces we redid because Mom was going to be spending most of her time in it. Marge and I used long-handled rollers to repaint the ceiling a bright white that reflected the exterior of the house.
Then we thrifted like pros to fill the space with cozy rugs and chairs and even a chaise longue. Because firewood is expensive and we never have the time to chop it ourselves, we tend to burn candles found at Goodwill and yard sales in the fireplace.
George clears his throat. “Where’s the new bulb?”
Marge hands it to him, an eager smile on her face.
