I have so much to tell you, but don’t feel you have to read this all at once. Tell you what, I’ll take my time writing it, you take your time readingit.
Flo puts down the pen and massages her hand. She could write more, she really could! But here is the doorbell and she goes to see who’s there. It’s Denise, her next-door neighbor.
“I hate to bother you,” Denise says, and Flo opens the door wider and gestures for her to come in. But Denise says, “Oh, I’d love to, but I’m in the middle of a recipe and I’m out of one of the ingredients.”
“Would I have it?” Flo asks.
“Sumac?” Denise asks.
“Say what?”
“Sumac. It’s a Middle Eastern spice. Kind of tangy.”
“What are you making?”
“Oh, just some chicken dish. That’s all I ever make is chicken anymore. I’mtiredof cooking.”
“Me, too,” Flo says.
“Well, you’re entitled,” Denise says, and Flo knows Denise means by virtue of Flo’s age. She considers telling Denise The News, but elects notto.
“Can you watch Champ while I run over to the grocery store?”
“Course I can.”
“I’ll go and get him,” Denise says. “Thankyou.”
Flo knows Denise’s dog doesn’t like to be left alone anymore and she’s glad she can babysit him. He has been a friend of hers since the day he came home as a six-week-old befuddled little speck of white. They’ve gotten old together; it wouldn’t surprise Flo if they could share some of theirmedications. Sometimes of an evening they’re both sitting on their front porches and Champ will look over at Flo and she thinks he’s saying a mouthful in a gaze. Oftentimes, the dog will amble on over and sit by her and they’ll have a conversation, each commenting in their own way about what they see. Champ might see a squirrel run up a tree and tense up, but he just doesn’t have it in him to run after anything anymore. But “That’s the way, Champ,” Flo will tell him. “You watch him!” She likes to think that preserves his dignity. Sometimes Champ seems to think he sees things that are nothing at all, and Flo tells him the same thing, “That’s right, you watch, now!” And he does, his gaze steady, his bearing as proud as a marble lion. Flo likes to give Champ potato chips, just a couple. It makes her laugh to hear him crunch them exactly like a person.
Here comes Champ now, held in Denise’s arms and carefully deposited in Flo’s front hall. “I’ll be back soon,” Denise says.
“Don’t rush,” Flo says.
She closes the door after Denise and looks down at Champ staring up at her with his cloudy eyes. She pats her leg for him to follow her into the living room, but he stands firm. “You want to go on the porch?” she asks him, and there goes his tail moving back and forth like a windshield wiper.
“Okay,” she says. “Let me get my sweater.”
Outside, Champ thumps down at his place near the top step, one of his paws crossed over the other as elegant as Alistair Cooke onMasterpiece Theatre. Flo sits in the rocker and moves back and forth. Nothing like a rocker, really.
“Champ!” Flo says.
He turns toward her.
“Would you like to come up here and rock with me?”
Champ cocks his head like she’s asked if he wants a cookie, but makes no move to getup.
She pats her lap. “Come on up, it’s nice.”
Now he looks away. Not interested. Well, you can’t expect someone to like something just because you do. Especially if you’re a dog who sees another dog walking down the sidewalk who apparently needs a good dressing down.
Champ rises up on stiff legs and goes to the edge of the porch step. He barks—one, two, three times—and then watches through squinty eyes as the dog and the owner keep walking.
“Good job, Champ,” Flo says. “I agree that dog was up to no good. I always did say you can’t trust a wiener dog. They rely too much on their cuteness, and next thing you know they’ve dug up all your dahlia bulbs.”
Champ puts his muzzle on his paws, closes his eyes. Denise told her the other day that mostly what Champ was now was a rug, but she said it with deep affection.
“Are you bored, Champ? Do you want to go for a walk?”
