Carmela, my friend the basset hound, and I were in a deep discussion over shoes. I’ve been looking for a pair of cocoa brown spectator pumps the same shade as her ears and for the life of me, cannot find them. If only I could just take her to Bergdorf’s like a big swatch, but apparently Carmela’s fall schedule is pretty well booked.
He was a sweet little thing dressed in jeans and a hoodie, mini Chuck Taylors gracing two frisky feet. Why they noticed us, I really can’t say. I mean, haven’t they ever seen a five foot eight woman draped on a sidewalk asking a hound dog if she could turn to her left before?
Carm and I shook our heads as if to say, they just must be out-of-towners. Perhaps this sort of thing doesn’t occur in Duluth.
I knew the kid had been around animals the way he romped over but didn’t lunge after Carmela. He gently opened his palm to let her make the first move, which naturally she did like any other woman who loves having her paw kissed. As a matter of fact, the way she wiggled and rolled her eyes was making me quite ill. I mean really Carmella, I finally had to say, “Get hold of yourself.”
After petting Carmela for a good couple of minutes…scratching her ears…rubbing her head…watching her swoon and sway like a tipsy cannon, he turned to his father and said…