March Ginnah Howard The minute Bertie dragged the shampooer out of the closet to take to the Grumbach’s, the damn dogs started: Dart’s skinny little legs tore round and round the table, yip-yipping like a maniac, his toenails scratching at the linoleum; Hurley bounced on the back of the armchair, pulling down the chenille cover she’d just straightened. Even Delilah joined the hullabaloo, her beagle bawl adding to the clamor. “Pipe down,” she yelled. “Do we have to have a damned uproar every time I have to go someplace? YIP, YIP, YAP, you want to send me to the loony bin? Then who’d feed you?” The yowls dwindled. All three dogs regarded her. “Thank you,” she said. Leaning the shampooer against the sink, she scooped up Dart in one hand and Hurley in the other. “In you go,” she said as she stuck each of them in his crate. Their bulgy eyes bulged with indignation. “Yeah, I know, but look what happens if I leave you out. Fights, into the trash, mess and mayhem.” Delilah circled her beanbag chair and then plopped down, her graying muzzle coming to rest on her paw. “That’s right; not my sweet girl, Delilah. You know how to behave.” Bertie pushed a couple of logs into the stove and closed the damper a tad. Outside the day was gray and drizzly. The fifth month of winter, ye gods; you had to be some kind of a masochist to live in these hills. What could she have been thinking when she left Long Island to come here ten years ago? Another mistake. She opened the door to feel the temperature and that sent the two Chihuahuas into another fit, their shrill barks filling the cramped kitchen. “Cool it, I’m only going to the Grumbach’s,” but she yelled without conviction while she pulled on her heavy coat. She made one final check, stroked Delilah’s head, took up the shampooer and her cleaning bag and closed the door with her last shot, “Miserable as you are, you can count on my return.” Miserable: her brother’s term for Dart and Hurley. How can you keep those miserable excuses, those hairless little fiends? And she always gave him her standard reply: How she’d take her dogs for the company of most people any day. As her car pulled out of the driveway, she could still hear the faint sound of their yaps. The road was slippery. Oozy mud pulled at her wheels. She couldn’t decide which she hated more: March or November. She was glad the Grumbach’s was the only place she had to do today. If she could win the lottery,
Volume 13, Number 1
SPRING 2001
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