writing doodle - Gabe's wife's backstory ... needs editing

"That has got to be the ugliest tattoo I've seen in quite a while, and my step son has some horrific things on his arms ..."

Gabe rubbed the scraggly Christmas tree with only three ornaments and a blanket around the base that had long ago been inked over his heart.  

"You should have it covered over," his companion said.

"Nope."  

Never. It was never going to happen.  He drew his knees up, clasped his arms around them, and lowered his face. Sure he'd covered over the tattoo of his second wife's name on his bicep, now it was an ugly tribal tattoo, but at least you couldn't read XXX on it anymore.  The one on his chest would stay like it was as a memorial of Suzanna Schmidt, the stories about a little girl that taught him how to live with his heart wide open.    A little girl he had never met and never would.

According to his uncle, the primary storyteller, a Charlie Brown Christmas was the most influential television special in Suzanna Schmidt's life.  Because of the love given to a scraggly tree, what people saw was a beautiful creation of nature.  It was never the fullest tree, the fanciest, or even the most symmetrical, but it was the most loved.  So from the time she was six or seven, she loved all things lopsided, poorly painted, neglected, or out of date.

When they were kids, you might say that Suzanna's life embodied the spirit of a Charlie Brown Christmas.  As she grew, she saved her pennies to buy partially completed craft projects at garage sales, because someone had loved it enough to start it, she could love it enough to finish it.  Many times the projects turned out a little tattered or uneven, but she completed them and loved them all the more.


She sought out kids at school who ate lunch alone, smiled and waved to everyone when she rode her bike.  After high school, she volunteered all of her spare time at an animal shelter.  Cleaning up the messes in the cages was not as much fun as working on obedience with the new arrivals, but she always did the necessary.  Always.

The stories ended abruptly when she was twelve eighteen/twenty-one/pick a number any number.  Depending on the teller, the ending changed.  She died in a bicycle accident delivering flowers to a nursing home.  She was beaten to death by bullies who had harmed a younger child at school.  She got on a school bus; no one saw her get off and she wasn't there at the bus yard.  No one ever saw her again and she became small town legend.

It was a high standard; putting others first.  Leading with the heart.  Doing what was right.

He'd heard the stories from the time he was five until he was a pre-teen. Later he heard the stories being told to his nieces and nephews.  But now the stories were more grandiose, more important, somehow more significant.

When Gabe was seventeen, one of his sister's friends had been invited to the prom by Tom Kennedy, the biggest jerk in the school.  He asked six other girls from other schools to go, knowing all of them would accept and he would be able to choose the prettiest one.  Sarah wasn't pretty but she was smart, funny, and nice, geeky around the edges, but nice.  When he found out that Tom had asked Lacy Ravenscroft as a joke, he tried to get her to agree to go with him.  He couldn't convince her; instead, he waited around the night of the prom and when her date didn't come, it took him two hours to convince her to go bowling with him.

Five years later, when he married ABC (or same as above - who knows), it was a small wedding in a bowling alley. In lieu of presents, they asked money be given to 123 charity instead.  They had their lives ahead of them, that was all the celebration they needed.

Who would have believed that same disease would kill her six months after they wed?

writing doodle - as yet untitled - dog park dad

Keeping Victoria, Ruth, Amy, and Ginger straight was a challenge, manageable, but a challenge.  The players have been known to change, but pattern will always be the same: blond, brunette, redhead, and some kind of streaky thing, lather, rinse and repeat.  Ok, so sometimes I'm not so great at names.  Probably this is why they all get some kind of a diminutive when we are together; anyone can be sweetie or honeybunch.  I have a friend, who shall remain nameless, but his mother calls him Gus, who only dated women named Linda; didn't matter what they looked like as long as their name was Linda.  He never wanted to call out the wrong name either in passion or in anger. His collection of Lindas past was a motley crew at best. How his current wife's name turned out to be Pam is beyond my understanding.

When the smallish bundle of fur moved in with me, I had no idea Red didn't share.  She was more possessive than Victoria, Ruth, Amy, and Ginger combined.  When they all had PMS, there was no chocolate, and not enough sugar in the house.

I had heard that an alpha bitch could be territorial.  For some reason, I thought it had to do with her puppies, toys, and, possibly, her food dish.

In this case, not only was I wrong, but it had been spectacular.  She could have given my second wife lessons in h ow to be suspicious.  Whenever I went somewhere with new or different smells, I was sniffed slowly and methodically from stem to stern.  Perfume rated extra time playing before bed. Different soap or shampoo and she wouldn't look me in the eye.

When Tammy, or was it Amy, came over to watch a movie, Red, who had never so much as been on the sofa before, at least to my knowledge, sat between us and wouldn't be moved.  We moved to the floor to let the dog have the sofa, she joined us for a few minutes.  When I turned off the additional lights in the house, the dog was gone, presumably to her kennel.

Red found the pharmacy bag, opened the box of condoms, and chewed on the packaging destroying most of them.

The one night I stayed over with Veronica, or was it Victoria, I came home to massive destruction.  New blankets, new sheets, and new underwear all required before the weekend was over.


Manny encouraged me to go to the dog park. Said it was a panacea and that all would be forgiven.  He has a thing for forgiveness and confession.  Me?  I'm claustrophobic and have no intention of hanging around a broom closet telling a man anything important.  A broom closet with a cutie with cleavage, that's a horse of a different color.

The dog park isn't the worst place I've ever been.  A lion's share of the people walk around talking into their cell phones ignoring their dogs.  It is the six and seven year olds who engage with everyone's dogs.  Red apparently likes kids and likes other dogs; female dog owners are not on her list of people to meet.

After about a month, I know a herd of dogs that Red approves of, the owners only by sight and not by name.  No one knows me either.  I'm just Red's dad.

I miss my sex life.

writing doodle - as yet untitled - misc spot

"There's only room for one bitch in my bed." I cringed as I said the words.  But I meant them.  Despite the fact that Audrey was fun to go to a game with or fun to play games with, she was flighty, ditzy, and didn't listen.  Ever.  I tried for two weeks to gently break to her that our non-exclusive relationship was not only going to remain that way, but that we were no longer even close enough to be non-exclusive. Considering I only knew her for three weeks, this disentanglement was excessively long, even for me.  "And you're not the bitch I want in my bed."

"What's she got that I haven't got?" Audrey asked.  "Gabe, I'm waiting."

She pouted, stomped her feet, and her boobs jiggled.  Usually the jiggle could turn the tide in her direction, but I was going to remain firm.  Not that she couldn't get me firm, but well, you know what I mean.  Resolute.  That's it.  I was going to remain resolute.  Both me and my Johnson.  Not a problem.  If only she'd worn a bra when she was stamping her feet, it would have been easier to remain firm.  I mean resolute. Decided.  Determined.

"I can't afford the upkeep," I said.  Going into the non-relationship, non-commitment, I knew that much of Audrey had been enhanced, I just had no idea quite the degree until she asked me to kick in.  She said it was for my enjoyment and since I benefited, I should participate in the overall cost.  Fifty bucks wouldn't have bothered me; the cost of a decent meal and a couple of beers.  No big deal.  When the tally came to six hundred fifty dollars, my mouth went dry, my wallet snapped shut, and my penis shrank.  Three sizes.  Then she said it didn't include clothing, special lingerie, or toys, I about flipped.  Sure Toys for Tots at Christmas, no problem.  But why the hell does she need an Xbox anyway?

I am not now, nor have I ever been a tightwad when it comes to important things.  I helped my sister pay for daycare when she had to change jobs and took a paycut.  I bought my former mother-in-law tires for mother's day because "XXX look up the Michelin ad for this space" ... For Christmas I co-sponsored my nephew's Little League team.

"I can afford her upkeep."  No fancy gym membership.  No wardrobe to replace each season.  No hairdresser to send to Europe by my tips alone.  No fashion trends to watch or be quizzed on later.  Simple.  Easy.  Frugal.

"Right.  That's what they all say. What about?"

I needed to get a better line. Something more effective than ignoring her phone calls, selling my car, changing jobs, or moving.  I considered writing her a check to cover this month's beauty routine, but if I paid and didn't receive the benefits, why would I pay and not receive the benefits? Peace of mind.

"No.  It's been lovely.  But our time is over." I placed my hand on her head and forced it out of my car window.  "You know better than to violate the restraining order."

Red let her presence be known at that moment by placing her head on my shoulder and her paw in the middle of the steering wheel.

Could I do better than my Irish rose?  Probably, but the loyalty of my Irish setter was at that time priceless.

writing doodle - unrelated location - as yet untitled

ok - incredibly messy - but working on getting words out ... a blank page can't be edited or corrected ... sad but true.

~~~

attempting to put my nose back to the grindstone

There was no comfortable position except standing or sitting, all I could do was pray my back wouldn't get tired.  Problem was, my feet hurt after being on them for close to eight hours and unless I was in a brace of some kind, my posture was going to fail in the chair and I was going to slump and touch something.

If that happened, I'd no longer be tired, just cranky and in a lot of pain.

Never again.

Never again will I refuse pain medication when it is readily and freely offered by the emergency room physician.

Sure, my shoulder has been dislocated before.  I was younger then and I had a woman/girlfriend who would take care of me when I got home.  At least that had been the plan. Turned out the last time, she was taking care of someone else and in the biblical sense, so I was on my own then and pretty much now.  

Red broke through the screendoor and escaped at the same time the plumber showed up to fix the slow drain in the bathroom.  Turned out that Strange and Sons Plumbing was related to Strange and Sons Rentals, my landlords, only everyone I've met so far named Strange is a woman.  And the one I have run into, today, literally, seems a little too familiar. 

If there is a god, she isn't the woman who had a thing for electrical tape, bungy cords, and whipped cream.  It took nine months for the hair to grow back and my memory is still sketchy.

Then again, there probably is no god because she is the one who took me to the ER, sat with me until Manny could pick me up.  Seems that there is a policy about adult supervision after some procedures are done, for now Red is still growing and won't count as an adult for quite some time.

I had hooked my fingers in Red's collar and was walking her back to the house when she saw a pigeon and took off after it.  I felt like something out of a slapstick comedy, but it didn't feel funny.  She dragged me about five feet, broke the collar, and then walked back to the house leaving me bruised and bloody on the sidewalk.  I admired the leaves on the tree above me, tried to get my breath back, and definitely recognized the pain in my shoulder and back.  My shoulder had only just healed a month before Red adopted me and the doctor didn't want to go through this again.

Neither did I.

He used horrible, terrible, and terrifying words:  consent forms, needles, surgery.

I gladly give consent to any number of things. Fun things.  Happy things.  Once in a while necessary things.  Not life changing things, not unless it is life threatening.

Needles.  Never do I volunteer for needles, my most recent tattoo is an exception.  A portrait of Red on my forearm.  Once I put the name of the woman I thought was the one over my heart, I got the ring back within a week.  I figure Red is stuck with me for the duration.  Besides, she can keep a secret even if she can't keep to her own side of the bed.

Surgery? Not unless someone is dying or there is absolutely no other alternative.  With a little PT, I could avoid surgery.  Again.

writing doodle - as yet untitled - no idea where it fits

Three days, fifteen condos, apartments, guesthouses, trailers, and shanties, and finally XXX found the only place Big Red and I could possibly call home.

The two bedroom bungalow had a small yard in back and white picket fence in front.  There were a couple of mature trees, some rosebushes that had seen better days, and enough room to rough house in the backyard.  If it had been two stories, it would have been the Mayberry ideal, but one floor I could definitely work with.  There was still an old rotary dial phone with the longest cord I'd ever seen sitting on the kitchen counter.  I picked it up, no dial tone.  Heavy enough to use as a weapon, it would be well worth keeping and no one would assume anything.

The house came with the barest of basics.  The refrigerator was just this side of a college beer cooler.  The stove had two burners that worked and two that took up space.  The oven had a series of cast iron skillets in it, no telling if it worked or not.  The showerhead was handheld, if I didn't like it, I could always submerge myself in the minuscule 1950s tub.  The whole place had linoleum  not the vinyl stuff from the 60s and 70s, but from the 30s or 40s complete with what looked like divets from a woman's high heeled shoe.  

Sure it was ugly, the floors all looked like they belonged in a service station, but they would be low maintenance and until we got all the way through the puppies, low maintenance was good.

The landlord didn't care about the dog's size or breed.  Apparently didn't care whether or not I painted, but wanted approval on wallpaper.  No loud parties, hey if a party of two gets too loud and the cops are called, I would be proud and she should at least be smiling, not a problem.  All utilities were on me, as I expected.  And the landlord could enter if I either granted permission or gave 24 hours notice.  Typical.

writing doodle - as yet untitled - continued from the middle

My great-aunt Edna used to tell us about her mother's childhood during the depression.  The family lived near the railroad tracks, the house had a small farm, and they marked their house so men riding the trains looking for work or a place to start over and who needed something to eat or a safe place to camp could stay the night.

There were plenty of nights when the family ate thin soup because it had been stretched to feed three or four additional mouths.  The thinnest and the sickest men stayed in the garage and had to work on the place for a couple of weeks.  Some of them painted out buildings, others milked, some helped get in the harvest.  While they regained their health and their dignity, the family didn't have to hire extra workers for the farm.

My grandmother and her other siblings refused to talk about what the family did during that time.  Only  
aunt Edna used to tell this story because she wanted us to know that you don't talk about doing good, you do it and you kept your mouth shut.  And you hoped like hell nothing would befall you or your family that would make you reliant on the kindness of strangers.


Sometimes the men would arrive with the basic ingredients for Stone Soup and they just needed one more ingredient to fill their bellies.  They never left her table hungry or without a little something in their napsacks for later.

The recipe for stone soup is easy: one pot, some water, a stone, and whatever you can borrow from someone else.

That is what the interior of the guesthouse looked like, a decorator's version of stone soup.  Decent enough bones, but nothing went together.  It's not like I hoped to walk into a place that had all hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances, perfect energy efficiency, and low e glass windows.

Everything except the appliances was pretty close to original, those were almond 80s vintage.  Functional, overstuffed, and ugly, like so much of the 80s.  The rooms all had some kind of a border at the top, chickens or roosters.  Probably someone didn't have enough cock in their life, or it was a reminder to eat only white meat.

The place was offered either furnished or not; cheaper if I took it with the furniture.  Since all I owned was a coffee pot, a king sized bed, a flat screen TV and a couple of tables, short term it would save me money and I could decorate as I went and put the original stuff in storage if necessary.

writing doodle - as yet untitled - no idea where it belongs

I might have more ex-wives than most of my friends, three and a half, but who's counting?  The half, well, she's always been a little tough to explain.  That said, I've actually maintained civil relationships with them.  Just because we weren't destined to remain married doesn't mean we shouldn't be friendly; I don't extend that to babysitting the kids they've had in subsequent relationships.  There's only so kind I want to be.

When Cassandra and I were married, I put her through yoga school, massage school, and finally real estate school and helped her start her business.  A lot of house painting and carpet cleaning were part of helping her help her clients sell or rent their homes.  Not seeing her on weekends or most evenings just kind of went with the territory, the nature of the beast, you know?  But there are only so many open houses and private showings at eleven o'clock at night I was willing to accept as 'normal' because guy got off after the swing shift.  Not only did he finish work, he and Cassandra got off and did some swinging of their own.

All of that said, she always found great deals on houses and apartments in good neighborhoods.  So when Big Red and I had to move, Cassandra was a no brainer.  Besides, she was single again and I was sure we could work out her commission in my favor.

All of the high end condos either wanted incredibly high deposits because of Big Red or they turned me down completely.  There were some great bungalows, but they had no yard to speak of and were nowhere near a dog park.

"This is it?  Really?" I asked.  Even though I'd been committed to either an apartment or a condo, this was so much better.  I loved the house.  It was two stories, clapboard, very traditional, colonial feeling almost.  The neighborhood was a little dicey but it was in one of those historic neighborhoods where most of the houses were in some phase or another of renovation.

"The answer is yes and no," Cassandra said.  She took the keys out of the ignition and undid her seatbelt.  "There's a guesthouse in the back.  That's what is for rent."

I couldn't get out of the car fast enough.  If the house in the back was anything like this, Red and I found our new home.  She would have the safety of a fenced yard, a quiet street and we would be walking distance from a dog park.  Red wouldn't have to sleep on top of the laundry basket or on top of me; this was going to be fabulous.  Studio apartments are lovely things, but I lived in one for far too long.  When you can do everything except use the can from your bed, your living space is just too small.

"I want it."  There was no doubt in my mind.  Absolutely none.  I knew what I wanted and this was it. Freedom, space, and potentially even enough parking to buy an old KLR650 from Manny.  I'd done most of the work on it and it was a beater, but I resented leaving it at his place since my old complex didn't have sufficient parking.

"You don't know the price and I can't let you sign a lease until you've at least seen inside."

I flew up the sidewalk, up the stairs to the front porch of the main house, and peered through the window next to the front door.  I might have seen more if the curtain hadn't been closed.

...

writing doodle - as yet untitled - not in an order, but the muse wants to talk

a shoe eater from my past

"You sound like a woman moaning over your shoes like that," Manny said. He opened the cabinet next to the sink where I keep my stash of junk food.  I only restock it once a month so I can maintain my diet, but yesterday was the day to stock and I had gone a little wild at the grocery.  He pulled out a can of Pringles, popped the top, and poured about half the can into his hand.

"Leather is expensive," I said.  "And this isn't the first time."  It was, in fact, the third time this week I ha come home to discover someone had gotten into the closet and consumed the left work boot.  Always the left and always a new pair of boots.  Pretty soon I was going to resort to ebay to find replacement shoes.  Wonder if anyone ever sells just the left boot?

"You could try blocking the closet door," he said.

Right.  The last time I did that, yesterday, she ate the pillows on the bed and had eaten all four corners on the comforter.  I was lucky she hadn't gotten to the mattress.

I raised a bottle of water to my lips and shrugged.

"What about consequences?" he asked.

I shrugged again.

"Come on, you of all people know that there have to be consequences."  He stared at me like he'd never seen me before.  "Reward and punishment?"

I took a big gulp of water, recapped the bottle, and shoved away from the kitchen counter.

He heaved a sigh so loud you would have thought his wife had announced they were going to visit relatives for fun. For a month.  His.

"How are you going to be the alpha in your own home if you can't periodically step into authority with, how big is the dog?"

"Forty pounds."

"Kind of small for six years old, isn't she?"

"Not six years old, six months old." Turned out that when I adopted the dog a little less than a week ago, her owners lied about how old she was, how much training she had had, and the state of her overall health.  The bitch was in heat and neither one of us were sleeping.  "She's getting spayed tomorrow." Provided she wasn't already pregnant, then life was going to get really interesting.

To make matters worse, after the third day, I found a notice on my front door.  It was a Notice to Quit, also known as an eviction notice.  I'd lived in that complex for eight years.  I'd been an exemplary renter. Turned out that in previous years the owner didn't care about animals on property, but the last lease I signed had a no pets clause.

When I called the office, I stated my case.  I'd been clear and concise.  None of it mattered.  The landlord wasn't going to budge.

"But-"

"No but about it, Gabe.  It doesn't matter how long you've lived here or how wonderful you've been in the past."


"But-"


"Either the dog goes or you both do."


"But-"


"You've got a week.  Well, six days to make a decision."

"What about a deposit?"

"A week, Gabe.  I'm sorry it has to be this way."

"Me, too.  I've really liked living here."

"Your father and I will miss you, dear, but times are changing. Will we see you at dinner on Sunday?"

No. "Sure, Mom."

writing doodle - as yet untitled - continuation

Three days after Big Red, and I moved in together, I heard her barking all the way in the parking lot.   She was announcing to the world I was home, she needed to pee, and dinner was late.  I’d just like to know who names a dog Mandy Manilow anyway?  I tried out several names, and for now it was Big Red, tomorrow it could be anything else.  My ego wanted to think she was excited I was home and she could devote herself to me, if only for a little while.  The reality was more like it had been over ten hours since she had the chance to relieve herself and she was getting a little desperate.

If only it hadn’t been past midnight, I wouldn’t have felt so guilty.

The key wasn’t quite in the lock when I found a sheet of paper that had been taped to the door now fluttering in the breezeway. It looked like a form letter and the apartment manager had probably taped one to each door in the small complex.  The notice, most likely of parking lot resurfacing, was something I could read and ignore later after I attached Red to her leash and I took her on a constitutional.

“Who’s my precious girl?  Who’s Daddy’s big girl?” Ew.  Ok, so I swore years ago that I would never, ever, speak in baby voices to any animal.  It was my personal standard, one I swore I would uphold my entire life.  I’d made an oath, a troth, to that effect when I was sixteen.  I broke my word in under three damn days.  As long as no one heard me, it didn’t count.  Did it? I was still good.  Hell, I was better than good.  I was amazing.  Provided I didn’t get caught.

writing doodle - as yet untitled - Gabe

example of not a free reign

So, it has been a bit since I've let the muse have reign ... don't know where this is headed ... but does it really matter?

~~~~~~~~~~~

I gently cupped her face and stroked her cheek.  Her brown eyes made me want to stay with her and cuddle, and I never, ever cuddle.  She leaned into my hand and breathed deeply as if in attempt to make her point.  She wanted to be with me and wasn’t shy about letting me know. 

“Sugar, you have to remember what I said.  Right?”  I searched her eyes to see if she understood what I said.  It was obvious she didn’t so I continued.  “I told you I really didn’t want a relationship. I’m just not in a place where I can do that right now.” I didn’t want any kind of relationship, serious or casual.  Why did everyone I knew go for that like it was the brass ring?  When did my friends all decide that monogamy and marriage were important? Whatever happened to variety? Choices? Freedom? Sewing wild oats? Hell, most of them gave up oats because they were all on God damned low carb diets so they could impress women with their six-packs; that a lot of them had their six-packs well hidden beneath pony keg of blubber was beside the point. 

Still nothing.  Not a sound.  Just a fucking look of hope mingled with what could otherwise be mistaken for love or possibly adoration.  My eye twitched.  I didn’t have time or desire for love and now wasn’t a good time to start something with consequences.  The redhead before me had already had consequences, bad ones and long reaching.  The price was high and I didn’t want to pay it.  Not today.  Not now.  Not for her.  Maybe in a couple of years, or in another decade.  Maybe. 

How did I find myself in this mess?  Easy.  My best friend’s wife, Jessie, is the one put me in this position, and payback was going to be hell.  Not only had she put me in this position, but she was behind me pushing, goading me into spending more time with the petite redhead before me.

“I don’t have the time,” I said.  This time I hoped that both of them were listening.  “There’s someone who will fill all of your needs. I’m sure of it.” I dropped my hand to my side and started to walk away.

Jessie grabbed my wrist stop me from leaving the room and said, “Gabe, you sound just like Manny before.  Always time and energy to sleep around.  Never time to get serious about anyone.”  She glared at me, then she glared at her husband.  “Manny, you tell him that this will complete him.”

“Honey, this isn’t some lame romantic comedy and it sure the hell isn’t a remake of Jerry McGuire,” he said.  Thank you very much for intervening, even if it isn’t enough and he wasn’t sounding convincing even to me.  “He gets to make up his own mind about adopting your sister’s Gordon setter.  Besides, he doesn’t even especially like dogs.”

Nope.  I’ve never felt the need to trap anyone into a relationship with me: female, animal, or mineral. It didn’t mean that I haven’t done the whole commitment thing in the past.  I’ve been married and more than once.  As they used to say, “Been there, done that.” Well, I’ve been there, done that, own the t-shirt, and had it so long there are holes in the seams and you can barely read what was written on the front: Chump.  At the present moment, I preferred to be monogamous one night and one woman at a time.  Nothing beyond the disposal of the condom and cab fare home.  Once in a while, breakfast at her place, never at mine. 

This.  This was going to be something completely different.  This reeked of what my last wife wanted: regular meals together, routine, jewelry from time to time, and snuggling in bed – with her.

“Come on, Gabe. After I fixed you up with Adele and you both had a miserable time, you gave me a list of what you said  you wanted.  This is the perfect compromise.”

Before Jessie, bless her meddling little heart, could tick off the list, I did it for her.  I even counted off the points on my fingers so she knew I’d paid attention to what I’d said to her.  For all of the times she has tuned me out in the past, this one time she had to not only listen but take notes.  “Healthy, a natural beauty, meaning no botox, silicone, or hair dye; an athlete who also likes to hunt and fish, and a girl who won’t be spending huge amounts of money on trivial bullshit.”

“All of her shots are current.”

Perfect.

“She won’t control the remote, whine about a bad hair day, talk incessantly about her cramps, argue politics or money with you,” she said.

“Sweetie, you’re laying it on a little thick.” Thank you, Manny.  “This is a lifetime commitment and he doesn’t have to do this.”

The dog in question, bumped her head beneath my hand and looked up at me.  Her eyes were pleading and my defenses started to drop.

“Trial period?” I asked. The answer I wanted was a definite no so I could walk away with no guilt and nothing hanging over my head.

“Sure.  If things don’t work out, I’ll adopt her.”

Damn.  I might have believed Jessie if I hadn’t see her hand move behind her back and notice that she crossed her fingers.

“Tell me again why your sister can’t keep her,” I asked.  Nothing had been spelled out and I deserved to know, at a minimum, if there was a big problem that no one had thought to tell me about. 

Manny took a deep breath and said, “Denise has three kids under the age of five. And she’s pregnant.”

I might have made a different decision if I had asked if Denise was pregnant or if the dog was.  Turns out it was the dog.