Chapter 9

Saturday, late morning, September 8th {Bob}

She was waiting by her car, that odd look still on her face.

"I try to park where no one will dent my truck," I panted at her. My eyes bounced down and up three times before I got control of them.

"Good idea," she said, looking past me at my mostly blue S-10 pickup, with the white hood, and yellow driver's door. I hadn't done anything about the rust over the fender wells, and figured it was smart to wait to make everything the same color when I got that fixed too.

We went in and she led me right to the dog door section. There were eight or ten different ones, and I was soon glad she was there. I had no idea if Bandit was small, medium, or large, and didn't know if magnets were the best closure, or heavy rubber. She peppered me with questions about Bandit and whether the dog door was going to be installed in a wall, or an exterior door of the house, and then pulled a box off the shelf.

"This is what I think you need," she said, handing it to me.

I took it, and the box dropped two feet before I got control of it. It weighed at least twenty pounds, and she'd handled it like it was a box of Kleenex. She didn't need any big guys in orange aprons to protect her.

"Okay!" I said, brightly, staring at the box. "Thanks!"

"You think you can install it okay?" she asked. "I could help, if you like."

"You're kidding!" I sighed.

"Why would I kid you about something like that?" she asked, quite seriously.

"Well ... I mean ... you're just so..." I had been about to tell her I thought she was pretty, and something in my brain screamed at me to shut the fuck up! "busy," I finished weakly.

"Actually," she said, tilting her head sideways, like she was a scientist, examining a new species, and not quite sure how to classify it, "I have a couple of hours free right now."

Two hours. Two hours doesn't sound like much, and it really isn't, in the grand scheme of things, but this woman ... this perfectly normal woman ... was actually willing to spend two whole hours with... me!

"Okay!" I said hastily, again worried that she'd come to her senses and decide to spend those two hours in some other way. "I'd really appreciate that!"

"Why don't I just follow you home?" she asked.

Follow me home. I had this sudden vision of my mother, standing at the counter, baking cookies, and I walk in and this woman, whose name I still don't know walks in behind me, and I'm saying "Hey Mom! Look what followed me home! Can I keep her? Please?"

"I'm Bob!" I yelped, sticking my hand out. The weight of the dog door in just one hand was a little too much, and it dropped to the floor with a thwap.

"Chris," she said, with the cutest little giggle I'd ever heard in my entire life. She grasped my fingertips with hers, and then let go and looked down at the box on the floor at my feet. "You want me to carry that for you?"

I was stung. Have a woman do man's work?! Ridiculous! I felt my face flush as I bent over.

"It's okay," I mumbled.

"Where do you live?" she asked. "In case we get separated."

When you live alone, and never call yourself, or send yourself anything, things like your address and phone number settle into a part of your memory that's waaaay in the back, back there with geography, and world history, and all that other stuff you learn in school that you don't use every day. I finally stumbled through remembering my own fricking address, and she nodded. I couldn't believe she was still there. Then I turned to pay for the dog door before I forgot to do that and was accused of trying to shoplift it.

In fact, though, she followed me home. I think I spent more time looking in the rear view mirror than I did looking at traffic in front of me. I still have no recollection of driving home, or the route I took. When I got out, and looked for the dog door, I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. I had the receipt in my pocket, but there was no box anywhere in the truck, front or back. I realized I had left it on the counter at Petsmart.

I wanted to crawl under my truck when I saw her get out of the Camry, holding the box under her arm. She walked toward me, and her breasts jiggled under her shirt. I'm telling you, I was a mess. So I turned around and hobbled toward my front door, key sticking out in front of me like it was a door finding device, while I tried to adjust my swelling penis into a position that wouldn't be quite so obvious.

I forgot all about Bandit.

Bandit is kind of territorial. He doesn't much like anybody, as far as I can tell. I think some of it comes from the way he was treated before I found him. He was in pretty bad shape when he ended up on my porch, and it took me a month or more, and a couple of trips to the vet to get him fixed up. Anyway, the rare visitors I did have usually required that I lock him in a bedroom so he wouldn't scare the crap out of them. He was fine on walks, because then we were in neutral territory, but around the house he was very protective. When I opened the door he shot past me, barking madly.

I whirled, terror in my heart. My stupid dog was going to attack the only woman on the planet who was willing to spend more than three minutes with me voluntarily. It's a good thing I wasn't holding that stupid pet door in my hands, because I'd have dropped it again. Bandit was in a full run, barking madly, and Chris was dropping into a squat ... where he would be able to get to her face!

Chris had a smile on her face, and said, "You must be Bandit! What a cute dog!"

Bandit skidded to a stop, just inches from her, and the half of his tail that he still had started whipping back and forth.

"Well, come here, you big, handsome thing!" cooed Chris, extending her hand.

He didn't even sniff her. His whole back end started wagging and I swear he dipped down on his front paws like he was bowing to her.

She ruffled behind his ears. Nobody was allowed to touch his ears! Not even me!

"Aren't you just the cutest thing in the world," she said, in baby talk.

Bandit peed. I mean it! Just like he was a puppy, instead of four years old, he dribbled like he couldn't control his bladder. The whole back of his body was shaking back and forth, and his back feet were dancing all over the place.

"We got you a present," said Chris, standing up. "Let's go inside and get you all fixed up, okay boy?"

Bandit commenced jumping then, leaving the ground to go two feet straight up in the air. I expected him to do a back flip, like those circus dogs, but he didn't. He was yipping and jumping and trying to wag his tail all at the same time. I'd never seen him like this. It was crazy.

"I think he likes you," I said.

"Of course he does," she baby-talked to my smitten dog. "He's just so handsome and smart, and he knows I like him too."

Bandit finally realized I existed. He looked over at me, ran over and humped my leg.

Saturday, late morning, September 8th [Chris]

When Bob walked away without his door, the cashier started to call out to him, but I grinned and told her I was with him and then picked up the door and carried it out. I called out to him a couple of times, but he kept moving along to his truck without responding. Giggling, I put the door behind my back seat and waited for him to pull out so I could follow.

I was familiar with the section of town he lives in because on Sunday mornings I pick up three grandma types, who can't drive, and carry them to church. And I was a little concerned when we went beyond where we should have turned to get to his house. Then, I remembered the OCD I'd noticed earlier and realized he probably had a certain way to go home and happily followed him a mile and a half out of the way.

Most of the houses in this area are between forty and fifty years old and look really nice. The red brick house Bob stopped at was around forty years old with a beautiful magnolia tree monopolizing the front yard. His hedges needed trimming and there was crab grass that needed tending. Otherwise, the place was immaculate.

Bob's face turned red when he saw me carrying the door and he turned and practically fled to his front door. He was so cute. So was the little terror who came bounding out of the house the minute his owner opened up the door.

I've never been afraid of any dog and, following my usual procedure with a small dog, I squatted and began talking to him like he was my best friend. Dad taught me well too, because it worked with Bandit just like it had worked with most other dogs I'd had to face without any time to prepare.

Saturday, late morning, September 8th {Bob}

Once we got inside I looked around hastily. It wasn't too bad. There was a pair of socks on the couch, but the rest of the place was relatively neat. The kitchen wasn't bad either. For once, Bandit hadn't gotten up on the counter to dig into stuff.

My kitchen, which is what had the back door in it, didn't have any extra wall space on the back wall. The sink faced the back yard, and there was a window above the sink, but the only place I could put the dog door was in the back door itself. Luckily, it was a six panel solid wood door that the previous owner had gone to the expense of putting in, and the new dog door was about the same size as one of the lower panels.