A low growl rumbled from her chest, and I swear I could see actual malice in those dark eyes.
“Hey there, Cuddles,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and friendly. “We’re friends now, right? I bring people packages. That’s a good thing. They might even have treats in them. You like treats, don’t you?”
She stood up, and her growl deepened. The ribbon of her pink bow fluttered in the light breeze that failed to cool my overheated skin.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the dog biscuit I’d started carrying specifically for situations like this. It was supposed to be foolproof, some expensive organic thing the pet store clerk had sworn would make any dog my best friend—or at least distract them long enough for me to drop a package on a porch and make my escape sans blood or torn clothing.
“Look what I’ve got,” I said, holding the bone-shaped baked good toward the gate. “Nice treat for a friendly dog.”
Cuddles lunged at the fence, her teeth snapping inches from my fingers. The wooden slats jerked and shook so violently I worried the whole fence might come down.
I jerked my hand back so fast I nearly dropped the package.
“Okay, message received,” I muttered, shoving the treat back in my pocket. “We’re doing this the hard way.”
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, brushed my damp hair back, and sucked in a deep breath. The package needed to be delivered. The whole “come rain or snow or . . . whatever” wasn’t my company’s slogan, but we sang from the same hymnal. This was my job—and I’d be damned if I was going to let one psychotic golden retriever defeat me.
I flicked the latch on the gate and stepped inside, holding the treat out for Cuddles to see before tossing it in a lazy arc toward the opposite side of the perfectly manicured lawn.
She tracked it with her eyes but didn’t run.
Her head snapped back toward me, the enemy crossing a very hard line.
She was on me before I could blink.
Her teeth clamped down on the hem of my pants, and she began pulling with the determination of a Marine desperate to survive training. I half walked, half dragged myself up the front steps, Cuddles hanging off my leg like some kind of furry, snarling accessory.
“Nice doggy,” I grunted, trying to shake her off. “Good doggy. Please don’t eat me.”
I managed to ring the doorbell and leave the package on the welcome mat, all while Cuddles maintained her death grip on my uniform pants. The fabric was starting to stretch in alarming ways. I could practically hear the stitches straining.
“Okay, delivery complete,” I announced to my canine captor. “Time to go home.”
I started backing toward the gate, but Cuddles had other plans. She released my pants only to leap up and sink her teeth into the back of my shirt, just below my shoulder blades. My whole body jerked back, and I felt the fabric give way with a horrible ripping sound.
“Cuddles, no!”
But it was too late.
She tore a massive gash across the back of my shirt, leaving me a fabric front and sleeves—and a well-air-conditioned, very-exposed back.
I shifted from fast-walk to panicked run, stumbling through the gate and slamming it shut behind me.
I was breathing hard, heaving like I’d just run a marathon with a truck strapped to my back.
Cuddles stood on the other side of the fence, her tail now wagging, looking incredibly pleased with herself. If dogs could smirk, she was doing it.
I slumped to the ground and lay against a nearby oak tree, immediately regretting the move as bark dug into the skin ofmy back. My shirt hung in tatters. Sweat dripped down my face. At a loss for anything more productive, I engaged in what had become a familiar stalemate with the evilest golden retriever in all of Atlanta.
“You know,” I said to her, “most dogs like mail carriers, especially this one. I’m nice and bring offerings. What’s your deal, Cuddles? Scarred by that stupid name? Wish someone would rip that idiotic ribbon off your head? What’s got your panties bunched so tight you can’t lick your own—”
She tilted her head like she was considering this information, then went back to glaring at me through the fence slats.
A car pulled into a driveway across the street, its growling engine drawing the dog’s gaze and then mine. Peering around the tree, I found Theo’s modest sedan, and my heart did that familiar gymnastic routine it had been practicing since our dinner. Through the passenger window, I caught sight of Debbie’s bright face pressed against the glass.
“Willie Wee! Willie Wee!” she shrieked, her tiny hands and nose pressing firmly against the window.
The car had barely stopped when the back door flew open and Debbie launched herself out like she’d been spring-loaded. She still wore her school backpack, pigtails bouncing as she ran straight toward the street.
