. . . and now Iggy doesn’t get out much. I went over to our side window. And there he was at his side window!
Iggy stared at me. I stared at Iggy. After a bit of that, he turned and trotted away, wagging that stubby little tail of his. A few moments later, he returned. Now he had something in his mouth. It looked like … oh, no, was that possible? Iggy had a whole package of bacon? And I didn’t?
Iggy stared at me. I stared at Iggy. I recognized that wrapping, mostly see-through, with a gold band at the top: we had the same kind – excellent bacon, farm-fresh and organic, according to Bernie – in the fridge. I wanted bacon real bad, and not just any bacon, but Iggy’s bacon. He just stood there, the package in his mouth. Mr. Parsons appeared in the background, approaching Iggy slowly, on account of his walker. Iggy didn’t seem to be aware of Mr. Parsons at all: he was too busy making sure I got a nice long look at that bacon. And now Mr. Parsons was right behind him. Grab that bacon, Mr. Parsons, quick! Mr. Parsons reached down to grab the bacon, but not quick. Iggy saw his hand at the last moment and booked; also not quick, but quick enough. Mr. Parsons stumped after him, both of them vanishing from my sight.
I went into the kitchen and stood in front of the fridge. We’d worked on doors, me Bernie, and there were now some I could open, but fridge doors weren’t among them. So I just stood there. I could hear Bernie singing in the shower, some of his old favorites: “Born To Lose,” “An Empty Bottle, A Broken Heart, And You’re Still On My Mind,” “Death Don’t Have No Mercy In This Land.” He was in a good mood.
– from The Dog Who Knew Too Much.
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