Page 19 of Just a Plot Twist
She yawns, stretching herself out in an indulgent down dog pose. She’s not one bit sorry.
“Showing off how flexible you still are, even in your old age?”
Yep. That’s us. Just an old guy striking up a conversation with a geriatric dog.
When I’m satisfied the rest of the house is clean, I flop down on the sofa, exhausted. Indie and Dax are at swim practice right now, so I can’t pick them up until noon. They’re going to go nuts when they see the dog, which makes me smile. They’ve been asking for a dog for years, but I’ve been waiting for life to settle before making such a big commitment.
I consider stopping on the way to the aquatic center and getting a red ribbon to tie around Cinnamon’s neck.
No, I definitely can’t do that because then they’d think she’s a gift for them. A permanent gift.
“You’re nobody’s gift,” I tell Cinnamon’s smooshed-in face. Her big, dark eyes stutter blink as I tap her on the nose. “I don’t like you, but I can admit the kids are gonna think you’re cute,” I tell her begrudgingly. “You’re a deceptive little beast. A bundle of trouble.”
She yawns and slobbery saliva drips out of her mouth and onto my lap. Nothing new. If I changed my clothes every time she slobbers on me, I’d have to do twice as much laundry.
“Whatever,” I growl, but Cinnamon doesn’t get what I’m laying down here. She doesn’t know she’s a pain; she’s just interested in the fact that I’ve gotten her leash out of the bag. She waddles over to the door to the garage and paws at it.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I tell her. “I’m not dumb enough to leave you here on your own if I can help it, you rascal.”
I grab her bag full of stuff and find clean rags in case she has an accident in the car. Should I pick up some doggy diapers? Hopefully these issues are just because she’s anxious about being with a new person.
One can only hope.
Thankfully, right as I’m leaving, I remember to check if she needs a drink of water before we go. Cinnamon’s high maintenance in many ways, but one of the most time consuming is that she doesn’t drink water out of a bowl like a normal dog. She has to have running water, which means she waddles to the bathtub and stands there until I turn on the cold water, pick her up, and hold her while she drinks from the faucet.
It’s ludicrous.
The swimming center is thirty minutes away, and by the time we get there, I’m as anxious as Cinnamon is. She does not like the car. She whimpers and scratches at the doors and leaves smudges on all of the windows.
Every last one.
I park the car and bring her in with me. We’re early enough to watch the kids in the pool for the last part of practice. Thankfully, the partition makes it so neither of them can see Cinnamon, and I ignore the annoyed looksfrom a couple of the parents waiting here for their kids. It’s not ideal, but I’m not leaving her in the car until we figure out this bathroom situation.
Indie comes around the corner, wrapped in a huge, pink swim towel, pool water still dripping down her legs. She comes to a stop and squeals.
“Daddy, a dog?”
Her long, dark blonde braids have come loose, part of her wet hair plastering against one side of her face. She smiles her gap-toothed smile, and bang, right on cue, I melt.
“We’re just dog sitting for a couple of weeks. This isn’t permanent.”
Indie kneels down in front of Cinnamon and holds out her closed fist so she can smell her. Once Cinnamon is ready, Indie wraps her arms around Cinnamon’s neck and nuzzles her face against hers. “I’ll love you ‘til the day I die.”
“’Til the day you die? I said two weeks! You can love her for two weeks and then she goes.” This was exactly what I was afraid of—that the kids would get attached to her. Still, I can’t completely refrain from smiling.
“Goes where?” Indie asks.
I don’t have the heart to say “the pound,” because truly, I’m not going to let that happen. I can’t do that to this dog. I’m hoping someone can find a suitable home for her before then.
“To a new family. We’re just her foster family right now.”
“A dog?” Dax, who is thirteen, comes bounding towards us like he’s five again, with his wet slides slipping off his feet and his hand clutching his sagging swim trunks to his waist. He’s shot up the last several months, his baby chub thinning out so that now all his clothes are too short and a little baggy. He’ll probably end up being taller than me when it’s all said and done.
“We’re dog-sitting,” I’m quick to add. “She’s not ours.”
“She drools a lot,” Dax says, but he’s grinning as he says it. I grin back, ruffling his dark, wet hair.
“Which is why you better grab your duffels so we can go. I think some of the parents are worried I’d let Cinnamon in the pool.”
