happened at the house, the question of going to the police was raised again. Anita exited at the next off ramp and pulled over.
“Let’s assess our situation,” she said. Did she really say that? (I couldn’t believe she said that.) Roundtree’s radio popped and crackled softly behind her. You’d think he’d have a decent antenna on this thing, I thought. This car probably only cost about a billion dollars. “The dog,” Anita continued. “Why do you think they need the dog?”
“I’ve thought about that,” I said. “Hackman said they didn’t need the dog alive, so maybe he thinks she ate something. I mean, when we walked inside she was in the hall closet, which must have been new because obviously she’d been living on whatever scraps were laying around the house until then, and when those ran out she was resorting to anything chewable—pizza containers, potato-chip bags, mail . . .”
“Maybe she ate an important letter,” Roundtree surmised.
“I doubt it,” Flo responded, lifting Trixi, who wriggled like a darling, yipping little squid. “Look at her, she’s half the size of a hamster. The only reason she didn’t starve is probably because of how little food she needs.”
“Well,” Anita said as she shifted the car back into gear. “Guess we need to feed her some canned pumpkin.”
“What? Why?” I asked.
“Child, seriously, have you not heard of the effects of canned pumpkin on the canine intestinal system? Three bites of this stuff and whatever’s inside that fluffy little mutt will come shooting out like liquid lightning.”
Roundtree groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
CHAPTER 7
Forty-five minutes later we were in the parking lot of the nearest Kroger. Flo and I sat on the Humvee’s open tailgate sucking on popsicles to soothe our smoke-sore throats while Roundtree had found another Starbucks and was off ordering another ridiculous $8 concoction. “I can’t watch this,” he’d grumbled as he left.
Anita was in the backseat gently feeding Trixi another plastic spoonful of canned pumpkin. The poor pup was so starving she hardly needed coaxing. The can was twice as big as she was, but she was halfway through it and still eating when the stuff started coming out the other end. Luckily Flo had thought to buy pee pads and line the seat before Fifi Trixibelle’s feasting began.
“Who wants to dig through the poo?” Anita asked, offering a plastic spoon in our direction. Flo and I looked at each other expectantly. “C’mon, you’re the flight attendant,” I told her. “You dig through crap all the time.”
I was hardly exaggerating. It’s stupefying all the stuff flight attendants are trained to deal with in the course of their professions. Flo alone has encountered enough heart attacks on her flights to fill an ER ward. People were constantly fainting, vomiting, explosive diarrhea-ing, and dying onboard planes inflight. Because where did they have to go up there? It’s not like each airplane had an emergency room like they probably should, though recently the airlines had added defibrillators on each of the planes in their fleets and now flight attendants were required to complete annual training on how to use them. I was only bringing this up to demonstrate that Flo had a lot more experience with handling bodily fluids than I did.
“Fine,” Flo grumbled, then snatched the spoon from Anita’s hand and began her task. It didn’t take long before she found something. “Uh, what’s this?” Flo asked, lifting the spoon so Anita could get a better look. Roundtree, who was a few steps within reaching the car on his way back from his Starbucks mission, immediately turned around and began walking in the opposite direction.
“Looks like a piece of a postage stamp,” said Anita. “Dogs like to eat the sticky stuff on the back sometimes.” I smiled in agreement.
“You sure know a lot of trivial stuff,” Flo told her.
“I like surfing the Internet at work
“Let’s assess our situation,” she said. Did she really say that? (I couldn’t believe she said that.) Roundtree’s radio popped and crackled softly behind her. You’d think he’d have a decent antenna on this thing, I thought. This car probably only cost about a billion dollars. “The dog,” Anita continued. “Why do you think they need the dog?”
“I’ve thought about that,” I said. “Hackman said they didn’t need the dog alive, so maybe he thinks she ate something. I mean, when we walked inside she was in the hall closet, which must have been new because obviously she’d been living on whatever scraps were laying around the house until then, and when those ran out she was resorting to anything chewable—pizza containers, potato-chip bags, mail . . .”
“Maybe she ate an important letter,” Roundtree surmised.
“I doubt it,” Flo responded, lifting Trixi, who wriggled like a darling, yipping little squid. “Look at her, she’s half the size of a hamster. The only reason she didn’t starve is probably because of how little food she needs.”
“Well,” Anita said as she shifted the car back into gear. “Guess we need to feed her some canned pumpkin.”
“What? Why?” I asked.
“Child, seriously, have you not heard of the effects of canned pumpkin on the canine intestinal system? Three bites of this stuff and whatever’s inside that fluffy little mutt will come shooting out like liquid lightning.”
Roundtree groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
CHAPTER 7
Forty-five minutes later we were in the parking lot of the nearest Kroger. Flo and I sat on the Humvee’s open tailgate sucking on popsicles to soothe our smoke-sore throats while Roundtree had found another Starbucks and was off ordering another ridiculous $8 concoction. “I can’t watch this,” he’d grumbled as he left.
Anita was in the backseat gently feeding Trixi another plastic spoonful of canned pumpkin. The poor pup was so starving she hardly needed coaxing. The can was twice as big as she was, but she was halfway through it and still eating when the stuff started coming out the other end. Luckily Flo had thought to buy pee pads and line the seat before Fifi Trixibelle’s feasting began.
“Who wants to dig through the poo?” Anita asked, offering a plastic spoon in our direction. Flo and I looked at each other expectantly. “C’mon, you’re the flight attendant,” I told her. “You dig through crap all the time.”
I was hardly exaggerating. It’s stupefying all the stuff flight attendants are trained to deal with in the course of their professions. Flo alone has encountered enough heart attacks on her flights to fill an ER ward. People were constantly fainting, vomiting, explosive diarrhea-ing, and dying onboard planes inflight. Because where did they have to go up there? It’s not like each airplane had an emergency room like they probably should, though recently the airlines had added defibrillators on each of the planes in their fleets and now flight attendants were required to complete annual training on how to use them. I was only bringing this up to demonstrate that Flo had a lot more experience with handling bodily fluids than I did.
“Fine,” Flo grumbled, then snatched the spoon from Anita’s hand and began her task. It didn’t take long before she found something. “Uh, what’s this?” Flo asked, lifting the spoon so Anita could get a better look. Roundtree, who was a few steps within reaching the car on his way back from his Starbucks mission, immediately turned around and began walking in the opposite direction.
“Looks like a piece of a postage stamp,” said Anita. “Dogs like to eat the sticky stuff on the back sometimes.” I smiled in agreement.
“You sure know a lot of trivial stuff,” Flo told her.
“I like surfing the Internet at work
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