Stepdog by Mireya Navarro

but not much about the tall and pretty thirtysomething woman who owned her and who now seemed to be studying me from head to toe. Mattie’s mom wanted Jim to pick up her mail while she was out for a few days. I could not believe my eyes. Eddie almost knocked her down as he greeted her effusively, temporarily forgetting about Jim as he jumped up toward her ample bosom. He wagged his tail so hard his butt swung side to side. She seemed to have expected the reaction and bent over to scratch him as Jim introduced us.
    Hmm.
    â€œDid you date Matilda’s mom?” I casually asked Jim later.
    â€œNo, she’s just a neighbor. She picks up my mail when I’m away and I pick up hers.”
    â€œAre you sure? Because Eddie sure likes her.”
    â€œShe gives him biscuits on our walks.”
    Okay.
    Jim eventually fessed up to more than neighborly dealings. Apparently, at some point between the dog walking and mail exchanges, the two had been an item. So it seemed Eddie had made himself somewhat useful. At least he could raise red flags for me as I entered Jim’s social circle. Good boy, Eddie.
    The good vibes didn’t last long. On a typically gorgeous Southern California Sunday afternoon, we all crammed into Jim’s Volkswagen Passat station wagon and headed for Will Rogers Park ten minutes away. We hiked and played Frisbee. Eddie sat out the latter, since he wasn’t a fetcher. Jim had once asked a dog trainer at the pet store how to get his dog to fetch.
    â€œOh, it’s easy,” the guy said. “Take something like a tennis ball and just put some gravy on it and let him get the ball and then call him back and he’ll bring the ball back to you. He’ll learn in no time.”
    Jim went home and slathered a tennis ball in some greasy leftovers and let Eddie sniff it. He went to the backyard and threw the ball. Eddie ate half of it and ripped the rest to shreds.
    Eddie was a fighter, not a fetcher, as he promptly showed me. On our way back to the car, we came across a brown and black border collie wandering among the picnickers on a big lawn off-leash. We tried to scamper by, but the dog came at Eddie and Eddie at him. It was one of those scary growling moments. Cute Eddie was transformed into homicidal Eddie. Half his face had receded to bare an array of very yellow teeth and he didn’t look so harmless—or attractive—anymore.
    â€œEddie, Eddie!” the kids called out in vain as the dogs squared off.
    â€œCan you please put your dog on a leash?” Jim shouted at the owner as he grabbed Eddie and picked him up in his arms.
    Really. There were dog signs everywhere. The guy gave Jim a fuck-you look, as if saying, “What kind of jerk are you that you think I need to follow the rules?”
    â€œI’m just trying to walk my dog,” Jim said. “Could you please restrain yours?”
    â€œIt’s a Sunday. Chill out, dude,” the guy said.
    â€œChill” and “dude” are not calming words. Jim started to get as flustered as his dog.
    â€œDo you see what’s going on? It will not be good. I’m just warning you.”
    â€œOh, he’s the nicest thing in the world.”
    At that point, somebody yelled, “Yeah, buddy! Put your dog on a leash!”
    The guy finally grabbed his dog and turned to Jim. “He’s got cancer! Leave him be!”
    So much for Sunday relaxation.
    We all went back to the car, with Eddie supposedly banished to the trunk area of the station wagon but managing to make his way to the front, past the kids, to pant next to Jim’s ear and close enough to my own to make me cringe. His breath was like a gust from a warm oven, but it didn’t exactly smell like croissants. Jim offered ice cream, and the kids focused on that. But I was focused on what had just happened. I wasn’t thrilled that Jim had picked up Eddie in the middle of the brawl. What if the other dog attacked Jim too? I