I was walking down the stairs, marveling at how pretty much everyone in the 1960s loved various hues of brown tile, when she stopped me.
“My dog is not for sale!”
I looked down. A portly black terrier with bushy eyebrows was staring at me; tail wagging lazily.
“I… Ummm… Well…”
“I said she’s not for sale!”
The woman’s eyes were void of color – a cataract-blue that made her words feel like the threat of a spell.
I stood there, taking in the full crazy that was this octogenarian. Her leopard print shoes and leopard print handbag were in varying states of decay.
I bent down and pet her dog. A thick film of dust and dead skin coated my hands.
“Yes, but how much would she cost?” I said, checking the dog tag. “Want to come with me, Biscotto?”
The woman jolted to life like a child that wasn’t expecting to be called on in class.
“What?”
“I said I want to buy your dog. She’s very nice. How much money would you like for her?”
She leaned in, pointing to her ear.
“I didn’t understand you.”
I stood.
“Oh I know you understood me, young lady. And one of these days you’re going to sell me that dog…”
She smirked.
“Say thank you for the snuggles, Biscotto,” she said, wiggling the leash. “And goodbye to our friend here.”
Then she walked away.
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