Page 5 of Knot So Social

I twitch. “Sorry, mamma.”

She switches to Italian to give me another earful, her tirade turning back to her lack of grandchildren within seconds. That is my burden to bear, I suppose, being an only child.

Fox and Coyote, the Warkow’s guard dogs, trot past my open doorway, their ears pricked forward and their stride intentional.

I take a few steps out to see what’s caught their attention. A dog barks on the other side of the back fence and a small red form launches from the top of the dividing wall into the row of Japanese Maple trees.

One moment later, a shaggy golden furball sails over the seven-foot fence. The long-haired dog races over to the closest tree and sets his front paws up on the trunk, barking at the squirrel.

The Doberman Pinschers dash forward with vicious snarls, teeth bared. Whimpering, the golden retriever whips around.

My blood runs cold. “I have to go, Mame! Ciao. Mwah.”

I hang up and run as fast as my legs can carry me. “Fox! Coyote!” I add their German command to stand down, shouting to be heard above the barking. “Steh!”

Both dogs halt with their savage teeth mere inches from the retriever’s throat, growling in a way that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. The newcomer curls in a ball at their feet, yelping. My heart beats at double time. Was I too late?

“Zurück! Get back!” I order the guard dogs.

They quiver with low growls and for a moment I think they aren’t going to obey me. But then they back up, one slow step at a time. After a second glance at the pair to make sure they’re staying back, I drop down on my heels by the shivering intruder.

“Hey there, friend. What are you doing here?”

He lifts his nose and looks around before belly-crawling right under my knees. His coat brushes my skin, silky and emitting a coconut fragrance. Someone looks after him well.

In the distance, a door slams, followed by what sounds like a sob. Right, a lady no one’s ever seen lives next door, and a few times I’ve heard someone whistling like they were calling for a dog.

The retriever peeks out from under my knees, panting as he swivels from me to the guard dogs who nearly tore him to pieces. His pink tongue slides out over black lips before he sits up on his haunches and slaps his silky tail on the ground. He lets out a soft yip.

“Oh, so you’re a talkative one, are you?” I ask, reaching out to pat his soft head. A quick check of his collar reveals a phone number and a name, Mr Shares. What a strange name for a dog. But rich people like to do all sorts of things with their animals around here.

I take my belt off and slip it around the collar to form a lead. “Come on, Mr Shares. I think I better take you home.”

He trots happily beside me on the left side, tail wagging, as if he wasn’t a naughty runaway. It takes a good eight minutes to walk down the street and around the corner to the house that backs onto the Warkow property, given the size of these massive estates. But Mr Shares heels the entire way, clearly well trained.

Around the corner, Number Eight Leighton Drive carries the expected sophistication of this premium suburb, but the security looks even tighter. I’ve heard speculation from my landlords about the owner, who’s never been seen leaving her house. Only service vehicles come and go.

If Mr Shares’s adventure has given me a chance to sate some mild curiosity, then I’m happy to take it. Not that I can afford too much interest in people whose lives are so far removed from mine.

I press the buzzer on the locked gate.

The panel clicks. “Come back later,” a strained female voice says.

Maybe I should have phoned instead. “I can ma’am, but I think I have your dog here. Are you missing a retriever?”

She inhales sharply and the camera pans down. The beautiful dog paws at the gate as if demanding to be let in.

“Please come in,” the woman says.

The gates slide open, giving us entrance. I half expected her to tell me to leave the dog inside the yard, from how snappy she sounded at first.

The further we walk along the drive, the harder the dog’s tail wags. I lean down to ruffle the hair between his ears, and he lets out a throaty yip, hindquarters dancing in joy. I bet he’d love to play tug-of-war with a rope.

His manicured coat makes sense in light of the perfect arrangement of the yard. The trimmed hedges, clean fountain, and grass cut to the perfect height all speak of exacting attention to detail. And money, of course, to make it happen.

The double front doors swing open, revealing a beautiful woman in her late twenties or early thirties dressed in a smart business suit with a low-cut cream blouse. Her strait blonde hair hangs to her ribs, the locks swaying as she tilts her head to study me. A thick wooden-bead bracelet draws my gaze to her manicured nails.

Everything about this woman shouts professionalism and self-care.