Page 31 of Roommate's Guide to Love

I can’t even say a hello back to my parents’ next-door neighbor, Mrs. Pacer, before she shoves a leash into my hands.

“Well who’s this?” I ask as a pogo stick of a dog jumps in front of me.

“That’s Richard. He’s my pride and joy.”

I choke on my own saliva. I’m all for naming pets human names, but Richard?

“Richard? You named your dog Richard?”

“Yes, after Richard Burton. He was my favorite of Elizabeth Taylor’s husbands.”

“Oh, well then,” I say, not knowing what else to say, so I lean down to scratch his head. “Good to meet you, Dick.”

“No! Not Dick!” she scolds me. “Richard.”

I nod and start pulling the dog out of the doorway. “My apologies.”

“Now, just make sure he gets some exercise and does his business.”

“Easy enough,” I say, swallowing the joke that I know is somewhere. “See you in a bit.”

I start walking down the sidewalk to the dog park that opened a few years ago. I put in my AirPods, figuring I can listen to my audiobook, but just as I do, I feel the leash pull tighter. Next thing I know, my arm feels like it’s being pulled out of its socket, sending my AirPods flying and nearly having me trip over my own feet.

“Richard! What are you doing?”

Once I get my bearings, I realize the dog is pulling at his leash and ferociously barking—well, as ferocious as a terrier can bark—at an unsuspecting golden doodle walking toward us.

“Stop,” I command, though I don’t know if little Richard here knows any commands. “I’m so sorry.”

The owner gives me and Richard a dirty look before walking away. Which, I get. “Come on. You’re giving me a bad rep on the first day.”

The next hundred yards is okay, until I feel the jerk of the leash again, only this time, it’s accompanied by Dick picking up into a full-on sprint.

Toward a squirrel.

“Richard! Dick! Stop!”

I do my best to pull at the leash, but it’s no use. The little fucker is strong. Before I know it, I’m in a full sprint, which is against everything I am as a person.

I don’t run. But it’s either run after Dick or explain to my parents’ eighty-year-old neighbor that I couldn’t keep up with her dog.

“Slow down, you asshole!” I yell.

I don’t think my words are going to work, but somehow they do. And since I clearly wasn’t ready, nor did I see Dick’s brake lights go on, the dog stops on a dime, but I don’t, sending me straight to the concrete.

I lie there for a second, mentally assessing my injuries. My leg hurts, obviously, since it was already injured from the furniture store of death, and I think my arm is scraped, but everything else feels okay. Dick slowly walks over to me, and for a second I think he’s going to check on me. Which would get him back on the good boy list.

But no. Not this dog. Instead of comforting me in my time of agony that he caused, he decides to hump my leg.

Because why not.

“Nope. Can’t do it.” I say, suddenly finding the energy to lift myself off the ground, nearly kicking Dick off my leg, and start speed walking back to Mrs. Pacer’s house with the horny dog in my arms.

“What’s the matter?” she asks as she curiously opens the door that I was pounding on.

“Sorry, Mrs. Pacer. Your dog’s a dick. Pun intended.”

I nearly toss the dog into Mrs. Pacer’s arms and make a beeline to my car that’s parked in my parents’ driveway. I don’t wave to my dad as he mows the lawn. I don’t stop to say hello to my mother.

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