I crawl under the comforter. Cold dampness. The unmistakable smell of urine. One of the dogs I’m looking after peed in my bed. I am marinating in dog pee.
The satanic poodle stares at me. She’s laughing an evil laugh, and it all makes sense: why she didn’t piss during our walk, why she kept grinning at me all evening.
I sleep on the couch with the Yorkie on my chest. My heart is racing. Or is it the Yorkie’s heart?
The next morning the Poodle takes a steaming shit on the sidewalk, and I leave it there. I’m no longer a Christian.
A tanned woman rocking sculpted abs rollerblades past. The Yorkie yaps and the poodle lunges. Blood is drawn. She circles around and screams at me: What’s wrong with you? Control your fucking dogs!
They’re not my dogs. But I tell her they’ve had their shots in an ad hoc attempt to calm her down. I drag the barking beasts away before she has a chance to hassle me for my personal details. I fear being sued. I like my money.
In the elevator a heavily tattooed man pets the poodle. We stare at each other, unsmiling. He gets off on Floor 32. I get off on Floor 41.
In the middle of the night both the Yorkie and the poodle start howling at the front door. I peer through the peephole. Nobody’s there.
I bring out their favorite bag of all-natural liver treats. Hey! Look what I have!
My proffer falls on deaf dog ears. The relentless ferocity of their growling sends chills down my spine. I’m paralyzed by dread, yet calamitous curiosity compels me to take a another look through the portentous lens.
It’s the ripped rollerblader. I knew she’d come for me. Her eyeballs roll back into her head as she convulses, foaming at the mouth. I yell at her to calm the fuck down, but my voice shakes with penitent terror.
I lock the chain-door and run out onto the balcony, listening to the boding booms of her well-toned body slamming into cracking plaster. I scan the perimeter for an escape route, but to no avail. I’m doomed. The pavement will make me pay.