Dog

I didn’t stop to close the door. I was thirsty. Parched. And only Mom’s homemade lemonade was going to fix that. I reached out to open the fridge…and stopped.

There was a note on the door, with my name on it.

“Michael”

Oh no. It wasn’t Mom’s chicken scratching. There were loops and swirls everywhere. That could only mean the note came from one person: Ms. Franzese-DuPont.

I was supposed to watch her dog while she was away.

“Michael, just a few instructions regarding Bruce.”

You would think that with a name like Bruce that his dog would be large and menacing, a fanged bull dog, or a muscle bound German Sheppard. No, Bruce was a Chihuahua.

The note continued. “Bruce eats breakfast at 7:30 am, sharp. Dinner, at 6:30 pm. In his kennel, at 8:45 pm.”

Good grief. It was a dog. Why did it need to be feed at such specific times?

“Stick to these strict rules, and all will be well. No matter what he does or says, he is not to be trusted or left alone outside his kennel. Sincerely, Ms. Franzese-DuPont.”

There was no way I was going…wait? No matter what he says?

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