How to Ruin Series Part 29

We arrive at the dog park and Mutt can't contain himself. As soon as I close the gate and unlatch the leash from his collar, he romps toward his dog buddies to play.

Mr. Obermeyer, the grumpy old man from the fourteenth floor of our building, sneers at me. "Keep that dog of yours away from Princess."

Princess is Mr. Obermeyer's champion poodle. He hates Mutt. That's just fine because I hate poodles named Princess.

"Don't worry, Mr. Obermeyer," I say.

Why the old man even hangs out at the park is beyond me. He doesn't talk to anyone, except to balk and tell people to keep their dogs away from his pampered pooch.

"Look, there's Mitch!" Jess whispers, then hides behind me.

I look over at the other end of the park and see Mitch. "Let's go talk to him."

"No! Amy, you knew he was gonna be here. Admit it."

It gets to be a problem when people call you out on your pa.s.sive-aggressive behavior.

"Jess, he's your boyfriend." Okay, Mitch used to be my boyfriend, but that's another story. I'm not into him at all.

Besides, I'm content with my non- boyfriend. Well, sort of. I hate the "non"

part of it. I wish Avi didn't have me promise not to make any formal commitment to him and vice versa.

Jess peeks over my shoulder. "Don't you see who he's with?"

I crane my neck. A flurry of red hair attached to a long-legged girl comes into view.

Roxanne Jeffries.

I hate Roxanne Jeffries almost as much as I hate dogs named Princess.

She's smiling at Mitch. The ho. "Jess, get your a.s.s over there," I order, then move out of the way.

"He's smiling at her! Roxanne doesn't have crooked features, just a crooked personality. Do you think he asked her to the Valentine's Dance?"

"No," I say. "He's your boyfriend.

What's making you all insecure? You've got gorgeous straight hair I'd die for, perfect features, and perky b.o.o.bs. Now go over there and claim your man."

There's no way we can stay undetected.

Mutt is the biggest, fluffiest, friendliest dog in the place. In fact, everyone in the neighborhood knows Mutt. And everyone in the neighborhood knows Mutt is my dog.

Mitch, who thinks he's too cool to wear a jacket in twenty-five-degree weather, has already spotted my beast and waves to me.

"He sees me," I tell Jess.

"s.h.i.+t," Jess mutters into my back.

Okay, I've had enough. "He can't ask you if you don't talk to him." I start walking over to Mitch, a.s.suming Jess will follow. "Hi," I say to Mitch and Roxanne.

Only now I look back and realize Jess hasn't followed.

Mitch gives me a half wave. "Hey, Amy."

Roxanne, bundled up with a scarf, leather gloves, and a new winter coat I heard she got at Barney's and cost over five hundred dollars, doesn't greet me with a hey, h.e.l.lo, or even a hi. Instead she says, "Your dog is humping Zeus."

I look over at Mutt. She wasn't kidding; he's humping Mitch's black lab like there's no tomorrow. "He's showing Zeus who's the alpha male," I say matter-of- factly.

Roxanne gives Mitch a disgusted look.

Mitch laughs.

Mutt hops off Zeus, then takes a huge, steaming dump. Seriously, before I had a dog I would never have thought I'd be okay picking up raunchy, hot steaming dog p.o.o.p with a plastic bag being the only thing separating me and the excrement.

"Where's Jess going?" Mitch asks.

I quickly scan the dog park and catch sight of Jessica's retreating back. She's leaving. "Come on, Mutt!" I order, then run toward the gate. Mutt is preoccupied with sniffing a pug's b.u.t.t. d.a.m.n. I open the gate, say, "Mutt, treat!" and he comes faster than a horse at the Kentucky Derby.

I have the warm p.o.o.p bag in one hand and Mutt's leash in the other. The problem is that, instead of stopping so I can put on his leash and dump the p.o.o.p, Mutt flies right past me, through the open gate, and onto the crowded Chicago street.

"Mutt, get back here!" I yell at the top of my lungs. I swear, when I catch the beast, he's toast.

You'd think my dear dog would listen to me. But no. He's bolting so fast I imagine him singing "Born Free" like I heard on one of those animal shows.

I run about two city blocks which, I might add, are way bigger than any suburban blocks. And my b.o.o.bs are flapping together, which is not a pretty sight no matter what your gender is. I'm panting and it feels like my lungs are running out of air and shriveling up. I still see a blur of white puffy fur and a wagging tail, but it's getting farther and farther away.

I give a little curse to the snow that melted and is now frozen ice on the sidewalks. I'm slipping and sliding in my boots, which I picked out for fas.h.i.+on and not traction, while trying to avoid the barricades in front of most buildings. If you live or work in Chicago, you know it's a hazard just walking down the streets in winter when ice melts off the tops of the skysc.r.a.pers. Ice falls to the street and the people below are targets. Once I got tagged by a chunk of ice from a building.

Luckily, I put my head down so I only had a huge lump and serious bruise on top of my head. If I was looking up ... well, let's just say I would have either died or my nose would have been broken. I'm careful to look straight ahead and ignore the sounds or warnings of falling ice.

"Mutt!" I scream, but in my state of decreased lung capacity it comes out as a squeak.

I'm about to give up when I see Mutt halt. Thank the Lord. I slide up to the person who stopped him.

A teenager, wearing a geeky b.u.t.ton- down plaid s.h.i.+rt and corduroys, is kneeling down and holding Mutt's collar.

"Is he yours?" he asks while pus.h.i.+ng his gla.s.ses high up on his nose as I come to a halt.

I'm huffing and puffing, but I manage a yeah.

Before I can catch my breath and formally thank the guy, he stands up and says, "He should be on a leash, you know.

It's the law."

"Thanks for the tip," I say between puffs, then reach out and clip Mutt's leash on.

"Seriously," he says. "He could have been hit by a car."

"Seriously," I say. "I know."

The guy steps toward me. "Do you realize how many dogs are hit by cars or end up in shelters because of careless owners?"

Is this dude kidding me? The last thing I need is a lecture on dog safety. I wave the p.o.o.p bag, which is still in my hand, at the guy. "Listen, I am not a careless owner.

Careless owners do not carry p.o.o.p bags.

And, as you can see, my dog is safe and sound."

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. "Don't get all angry with me.

I'm just a concerned citizen."

"Whatever. Thanks for catching my dog," I say, then walk toward home with the p.o.o.p bag still in my hand.

"Arg!" Mutt barks as we walk.

I look down at my dog and give him my famous sneer, the one where my lip curls up just the right amount. "You are in so much trouble."

My dog farts in response. It's a steaming one, too. Yuck.

Talk about pa.s.sive-aggressive.

2.

G.o.d talked to Moses (Exodus 3:4).

Does G.o.d still talk to people?

And how come when I talk to G.o.d, he never seems to answer back?

On Sunday I drive to Mom's new house in Deerfield with Mutt. Since I moved in with my dad, I visit her on the weekends. Mutt springs inside the house before I even open the door all the way.

"Arg! Arg!"

I don't need to guess where Mom is. Her little shriek alerts me she's in her kitchen.

"Amy!"

Here she goes. "What?" I say extremely unenthusiastically.

"Did you have to bring the mutt?"

"Mutt, Mom. His name is Mutt." Okay, so he's also technically a mutt.

"Arg!" Mutt responds.

"Why does he bark like that?"

"I already told you, he's got a speech impediment." It runs in the family. My dad can't say the "th" sound because Israelis don't have the "th" sound in their language.

I'm used to it, though, and I don't even hear his accent. It's the same way with Mutt.

"Maybe he's got something wrong with him," she says, backing up. "Did he get all his shots?"

I roll my eyes. "And you call me the drama queen. He's perfectly healthy."

"Just ... let him outside, okay? Marc is allergic."

I feel bad leaving Mutt in the cold, especially because I got him in Israel and he's used to the heat. But, hey, he's got a fur coat on so I shouldn't worry. Right?

"Mutt. Out," I order while I open the back door. He doesn't seem to mind going outside, actually, and bounds out the door.

To be honest, I think Marc is allergic to the idea of having a dog around. He's a clean freak. And Mutt is a s...o...b..ring, shedding animal.

I turn around and find my mom staring at my chest.

"They're looking a little saggy lately. I think it's time to go buy you new bras."

"Mom," I say, horrified. "My bras are fine."

"When was the last time you were fitted properly?"

Oh, no, here we go again. As if I'm going to stand inside a dressing room and have a lady come in, size me up, and watch/help me shove my b.o.o.bs into bras.

Once my mom made me go to one of those specialty bra boutiques. It was the most embarra.s.sing moment of my life. (Okay, so I've had a ton of embarra.s.sing moments in my life, but that one is high on the list.) "Can we not talk about my b.o.o.bs, please?"

Great. Now O Holy Allergic One is walking into the kitchen. I hope he didn't hear the convo about my saggy b.o.o.bs. "Hi, Amy," he says.

I mumble a "hi."

He leans over my mom and kisses her.

Eww! Seriously, if he starts making out with her I'm outta here.

"Ah-choo!"

"Oh, sweetie," Mom says (not referring to me). "Amy's dog was in the house."

"It's okay," he says.

Kiss-a.s.s.