Read Online Must Love Dogs by Claire Cook, Carrington Macduffie - Free Book Online Page B

instead of my contacts. Let’s see, what else? The best time to reach me is in the evening. I love Chinese Checkers. And pizza with everything but anchovies. I hope we can get together and talk soon and see what kinds of things besides dog-loving we might have in common.
    I played John’s response four more times, and by the last time, I was able to mouth the words right along with him. I picked up the cordless phone, changed my mind and put it back down. I turned back to the television. The Bradys’ pay phone had just been delivered. It might not be the best episode, but at least with
The Brady Bunch
I could count on a happy ending.
    *
    “Do you remember what Johnny used to call his penis when we were kids?” I asked Carol.
    “Mr. Murphy,” Carol answered. She really did know everything. “Mom was so worried, don’t you remember? She kept asking him if there was a real Mr. Murphy and if he had ever done anything to Johnny. And Johnny would say, ‘No, just
my
Mr. Murphy.’ And when we were all crammed into the car, taking a trip somewhere, Johnny would say, ‘Mr. Murphy has to go to the bathroom. Right now.’ And we’d all crack up and get in trouble for making him cry.”
    “Was Johnny the one who sleepwalked into the kitchen one night and peed in the refrigerator?”
    “No, no, no. That was Michael.” Carol looked at Michael for confirmation. Michael’s hazel eyes and crooked smile came from our mother’s side of the family.
    “No way. That was Billy. I never would have peed in the refrigerator. Not my style at all.”
    “Don’t you mean
Duckie
never would have peed in the refrigerator?” I asked, thrilled to have some good ammunition.
    Michael leaned over to whisper in his puppy’s ear. “Don’t listen to her, Mother Teresa. She’s delusional. I have not a single childhood memory of a penis named Duckie.”
    It was Sunday night and we were leaning against the kitchen cabinets in our family house. “You can’t keep calling her Mother Teresa, Michael. She needs a real name,” Carol said, leaning over to scratch behind the Saint Bernard’s ears. The six-month-old puppy collapsed on her back on the worn linoleum. Michael and Carol and I knelt beside her.
    “Mother Teresa
is
a real name. And it’s loaded with good karma.” The puppy was taking up most of the kitchen floor now, her legs spread wide and the hind two twitching. Six hands scratched her belly. A thick stream of drool ran from one side of her mouth.
    “She’s going to need all the karma she can get, after that stunt with Dolly’s feather boa,” I said. Carol got up, tore a square of paper towel off the roll, and came back to dab at the corner of Mother Teresa’s mouth. In an instant, the paper towel disappeared.
    “Mother Teresa! Drop it. Drop it now.” As the puppy began to choke, Michael scooped his hands under her and, bending at the knees, tried to lift her to a standing position. Carol and I moved quickly to either side of Michael. “One, two, three,” urged Michael and we lifted the puppy to her feet.
    She was still choking so I straddled her from behind and executed a flawless Heimlich maneuver. The angle was different but fortunately the process was pretty much the same as with preschoolers. A wad of gummy paper towel shot across the room and stuck to a lower cabinet. A quick shudder passed through the still-baggy skin of the puppy’s body, and then she flopped back down to the floor and spread her legs. Michael and I knelt down again and started to scratch. Carol cleaned the paper towel glob off the cabinet.
    “Say thank you to Auntie Sarah, Mother Teresa.” Michael buried his head in the fur at the nape of the puppy’s neck. Her eyes glazed over with love. The black dots on the white fur around her nose looked like painted-on freckles.
    “That’s two strikes for you, dog,” I scolded. “Wasn’t that unbelievable when she bit off the end of Dolly’s boa? All of a sudden I looked down and she had a mouthful