Miguel looks around the backyard, then down at me. “Well, Harold, what the heck are we going to do now? I can’t even call Miriam to see if she’s okay.”
As it happens, I have an idea.
I don’t wait for him as I head back inside. “Where are you going?” he calls after me. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
I’m sure thereareeasier ways to do this, but I don’t have thumbs, so I stick my face in the bookshelf. It’s tight in there—so many books all crammed together—and my neck and back hurt. Honestly, even my snout’s sore.
“Harold!” he hollers when he spots me. “What are you doing?”
What does itlooklike I’m doing, Miguel? I am trying to save you!
He’s striding toward me as I finally free a book with my paw. I grab it between my teeth, trying hard not to slobber too much on the pages, and place it at his feet.
“What in the…” He takes the book from me, and I whimper weakly. He glances down at the cover, then frowns at me. “That’s not nice. Of all the things to bring me, you had to pick one of Amelia’s novels. Come on. I’m already hurting here.”
My dog, is he dense.
Miguel turns and surveys the bookshelf. “You’re not as smart as the average pig, Harold, but you do have a point. It’s time to pack up her books—they’re too painful to look at. I’ll get a box from the garage. That’ll give us something to do.”
That isnotwhat I was aiming for! The man may be determined to self-destruct—but not on my watch.
Oh, you lesser primate,I think when he returns with aweathered old box that smells of mold.Don’t you do it.I growl—just a tiny bit, but I need to warn him. I lift my head and make direct eye contact, daring him to challengeme.
With narrowed, unblinking eyes, he reaches for the novel he’s never read and grabs it with his stupid bendy digits.
Suddenly Miguel’s hand is not his hand. It’s that meaty mutt Amelia and I encountered that one evening, baring its fangs on the darkened street. And the novels are no longer the product of their author but rather my Amelia herself, on the verge of being attacked. Except this time, I will be the one saving her rather than the other way around.
I snap.
I’m already back to myself by the time Miguel yanks his hand away. He’s shaking it like he’s been burned, though it appears that’s also what a person does upon finding their flesh between a set of teeth. “What is goingonwith you, dog?” he asks, staring at me with bewilderment. “Haven’t you ever been told not to bite the hand that feeds you? It’s a good thing you didn’t break the skin,” he says, examining his palm. “That medication must be messing you up. Please remember I’m the one keeping you alive.”
I will myself not to cower, as I normally would, and attempt to raise my upper lip enough to tell Miguel that boxing up Amelia’s books will not be tolerated. Unfortunately, I’ve always had a bit of an underbite, so my attempt fails. I know this because he snort-laughs, then says, “You look deranged, Harold. That’s a mug only an orthodontist could love.”
I examine his grungy T-shirt and the smudge of dirt across his cheek, which he must have gotten when he was rooting around in the garage.Iam the deranged one in this situation?
“Okay, I didn’t mean that,” he says. “But I don’t get it. What is this about?”
I don’t know that I could explain it to him even if I could talk. Instead, I let out the sort of sigh I typically reserve for sunny spring days when I’m splayed out on the deck, knowing summer’s just around the bend.
And then I realize that I, too, must keep going. I must show him what needs to be done. I put my face back into the bookshelf and pull another novel out. It falls to the floor.
Miguel does not react. So, I do it again with the next book. Thud. Finally, he squats down beside me. “Careful,” he says, reaching into the pile. “I’m just taking one copy.”
Good choice,I think as he picks up a paperback; on its cover, a woman stares out at the water. Of course, there are no bad choices here, but that one speaks tome.
He’s still squatting beside me, and he thumbs through the book for a second before standing. As he begins to walk away, I’m conflicted. I don’t want to leave this spot, but I need to make sure he doesn’t take these copies anywhere near the trash or do something else he shouldn’t.
“It’s okay, Harold,” he calls over his shoulder. “I get what you’re trying to make me do. Now lie back down and relax. I’ll be right back.”
Something in his tone makes me believe him. Or at least I want to, and for now that will have todo.
He returns a few minutes later with his reading glasses. Then he drops his pants in the middle of the floor and plops down on the sofa. While I wish he’d stay clothed in case anyone swings by, at least I can keep an eye on him there. He lies longways and props himself up with some pillows. Then he opens the book and begins to read.
At once, his whole face is a frown.
This isnotwhat I was hoping for.
I watch and I wait. This is exhausting in its own way, so I lower my head for a little bit, and when I lift it again a while later, he’s still frowning…but not as much.
