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Shut Him Up
ENDED UP DONE with him and driving his Volare out of town on account of dog chow.
Chuck Wagon dog chow, back there in the trunk with the tire chains and the flat jack. Up front, just me squinting at open road. Red leather seats'll be kissing nobody's butt but my own from now on. Only me from here on out, me by my old single woman self. Screw and bastard and the Siberian husky he loves.
Something Siberian shouldn't be forced to live at the seashore, especially something with fur. Fur's good for an igloo but forget fur on the beach. Itchy dog always scratching away at a beach of grit.
Forget fetch.
Catching a breath's enough for a hot husky. Sorry for the dog, going along with the game, snagging sticks for his master.
Master my ass.
Man can't hardly handle his own damn ass. Nevermind him trying to understand his dog by hanging out and doing dog stuff. Buys a book instead and reads about dogs.
One look at the dog says the dog's got more on the ball than the author of the dog book or the master who paid $19.95 to memorize it. Sit up, roll over, beg, the dog gives in but...