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I was raised on a steady diet of sarcasm and muttered obscenities generally uttered by one of my three idiot older brothers. Because I am the youngest, and female, woe to the moronic mutterer if my very Italian mama heard them utter so much as a mild oath in front of me. The wooden spoon would appear like a Jedi lightsaber, suddenly glowing in my mother’s hand, and before my brothers could make a break for it, whack, whack, whack!
“Ima so ashamed!” Whack. “You no see little Sophia standing righta there?” Whack. “You gonna give her a filthy mouth!” Whack, whack.
An Italian mother was generally stereotyped as being the scariest, most loving, smothering, guilt-inducing person in your life, and my mother was a spoon-wielding, arm-waving, pasta-pushing cliché. I had no idea what emotional scars my brothers carried from growing up, but I somehow got the guilt. Probably from my brothers getting whacked all the time.
Hence, I learned at an early age to drown out the guilt with cannoli and to drink copious amounts of espresso just to keep calm.
My name is Sophia Zinelli, and as you can tell by my name, I’m Italian. Possibly a nut job. My hair is long, dark, and wavy and my eyes are green. I have a master’s degree in business and I run my family’s five-star Italian restaurant (Try The Veal) in Atlanta, but I can’t cook unless it involves microwaving a root vegetable or setting popcorn on fire.
Also I’m dating a world–class kinda-sorta, blackmailer. Well, mostly I’m avoiding him. He insists on a date and I make up how I’m too busy. Although he did manage to wrangle me into a movie last night and actually tried to hold my hand. I dropped the ice cubes from my empty soda in his lap and he didn’t even holler. The lousy rat. The least he could do was make me hate him. Or mildly dislike him. Which I SO don’t.
And I make lists. I’m a master list maker. I make lists to make lists. Maybe it’s some genetic mutation since I’m sure no one else in my psychotic pain in the ass (must find a kinder adjective for my family, lest they think I don’t love them) Italian family is as list-crazy as I am. The one thing I know with absolute certainty is that stealing a dog was not on my list. Let alone stealing a pain-in-the-butt German Shepherd. But steal him I did. It wasn’t easy either since he’s noisy and bossy and well, big. Not exactly the kind of dog you can toss in your purse and go about your business with.
Top of my list? Don’t fall in love. Unless it’s with a dog.
#IAmADogNapper
#WouldHaveBeenEasierToRideAT-Rex
#IWantMyHandcuffsInPink
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Fourth of July fireworks were finally over, and I was lazily scrolling though the world of Facebook (meme, meme, political rant, photo of someone’s dinner, Happy 4th Of July! meme, life hack) when my phone rang loud enough to vaporize most of the hostility left over from my date with Jack O’Donlan (the blackmailing, duck-smelling, hamster-humping, two-faced sheep-poking dog of a hunky ex-pro football player turned small town sheriff). All I could think was, no, no, no, crap timing! I mean, come on, life hack going on here. I was just about to learn how to clean a toilet with a cola product. Cola.
The Mission Impossible theme song blasted from my phone again and I hit the little green answer button, and HOLY MOTHER OF ALL THINGS HOLY. I never knew my best friend, Chandra, had the lung capacity capable of launching a thousand ships. Into freaking orbit.
“Sophie, thank God! You have to do something! Or ... or call someone or go get your brothers, or maybe your nonno!”
“Wait, what?” Chandra wanted me to get my mobbed-up Geritol-glugging grandpa? Out of bed in the middle of the night? Uh oh. My eyes went to slits. “Where’s Mike?”
Mike is Chandra’s husband and a Delta pilot who is probably much too nice for whatever it is she’s about to ask me to do.
“Snoring. Now listen. You know that German Shepherd on the property behind me? The one that just mysteriously appeared a few weeks ago? Well, the idiot mean owners were drunk earlier and throwing firecrackers into that poor dog’s cage. I’ve been watching from the back room and the lights in the house just went out. Sophie, that sweet dog is terrified. He’s barking and whining and crying and howling, and oh my God, Soph, please get your nonno!”
I could hear Chandra holding back tears and I felt anger and outrage for the dog tighten my throat. “Have you called animal control?”
“Four times in the last week! They haven’t done more than knock on the door. Maybe the horrible people paid them off. I don’t know, but those owners are cruel, Soph. Animal control says they’re busy, they’re full, they don’t have room, and the dog isn’t close enough to death to warrant a pick-up.”
“What!” Oh boy. My Italian temper was going to hit DEFCON ONE any second now.
“If he’s not close to death now, he will be soon. Those horrid people are killing him. If he barks, they yell at him and kick his cage which is so small that he can’t stand up or turn around and he’s lying in his own poo! His own poo, Sophie! He has to do his business where he is, and I don’t even know if he has water. He’s going to die, Sophie. You have to help, please.”
Of course I would. The question was, should I get my nonno involved?
“Those people don’t want a pet, they want ... I don’t know what they want. They either stole him or bought him, maybe to breed him. Or maybe they’re running some kind of dog fighting thing.”
“What!” Oh, jeez. I definitely couldn’t get Nonno into this. He’d wind up in jail for murder.
“I know! They could be hurting him, Soph, making him mean. He’s not fluffy and gorgeous anymore. He’s...he’s thin and covered in poo! And now he’s probably scared to death. I mean, firecrackers in his cage! Who does that? Oh, my God!”
Loud wails pierced my skull.
About two more minutes into the phone call and I was ugly crying right along with Chandra.
Between sobs and snot, we finally hatched a plan. We were going to steal a dog. So what if I lived in a one-bedroom apartment above my family’s restaurant (Try The Veal). It didn’t matter that I didn’t have a big yard. Or that I’d never owned a dog before. This dog needed help and I was going to get him and teach him what life was like under loving and kind circumstances. I could do this.
As I clicked off with Chandra, I was suddenly nervous. What if we got caught? Did I have enough bail money in my bank account? Would I look good in prison stripes? Or would I be stuck in that horrid orange jumpsuit thing?
Then my conscience smacked me with shame. None of that mattered. I had a dog to save. Still, the word poo spun dizzily in my head. Forget stripes, I was pretty sure I was going to need a HAZMAT suit. Not that I owned one, but still. Poo. Gah.
Forget the poo, Sophie, and get moving.
Right. I threw on a black top, black jeans, and black sneakers. I stuck a black ball cap on my head and thought about grabbing disinfectant wipes. (Hey, I’m Italian, black is natural and clean is second nature, hence the toilet cleaning hack.) Instead, I grabbed my phone and tossed it into my purse. I dug out my keys, locked up, flew down the stairs, locked up again (the outside door this time), and headed out to my car.
My car. Oh. Oh crap. German Shepherds were not cutesy little dogs. How was I going to fit a dog the size of a small tank into my Honda Civic?
You’ll manage. Cripes. Just GO already.
It took me just under fifteen minutes to get to Chandra’s. I whipped into her driveway, careened to a stop behind her SUV, and shoved the car into park.
She lived in a two-story, red brick home in an upscale neighborhood. She met me at the door.
Together, we slipped into her garage so we wouldn’t wake her husband or toddler.
She whispered, “Now what?
I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have much experience with dogs. Let alone one that was the size of a Smart Car and covered in poop. “Um, shampoo?”
“I’ve got that, along with a bunch of towels, outside on the patio by the hose. But I mean, how do we get him?”
“Right. Well, um. We’ll need a collar, a leash, a flashlight...” I trailed off at a loss.
“Don’t have, don’t have, and I have one out already.”
We stood there looking at each other. Suddenly Chandra snapped her fingers and I squeaked like a high-pitched fart. “What?”
“I know what we can use! Cami’s stretchy headband! And pantyhose!”
“And meat! Do you have meat?”
“I have hot dogs.”
“Perfect. I’ll grab the food, you get the rest.”
Five minutes later, armed with our loot, flashlight guiding the way, we crept quietly to the back of her neighbor’s property.
“Um, Chan?” I whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Why is it so quiet?”
We both stopped short. It was quiet. “You don’t think the dog is—?” She made a slicing motion across her throat.
“No! He’s probably just sleeping or something. All that barking must have worn him out. Jeez.” I stuck my hands on my hips, forgot I was holding the hot dogs and smooshed at least two of them into wiener goop. I pointed at the house, which was about fifteen yards away. “The lights are still off, that’s good. Where’s the dog?”
Chandra shined the flashlight to her right. “There.”
I could barely make out a rectangular shape. “Why is he so far from the house?”
“Because these people are mean, they’re awful, they’re complete douche-bags. I’m telling you, they hate this dog.”
In the middle of the quiet I heard a small whimper. “Crap, turn off the light, he’ll see us!”
“And? Good grief, Sophie, unless he can work a cellphone, I don’t think he’s gonna call the cops on us.”
“No, but he could start barking again. Then those people will hear, then they’ll come outside, and then they might just pop a cap in our ass. They could be Very Bad People. Not just assholes.”
“Come to think of it, I think they speak like Russian or something.”
My voice hit high C. “You’re just NOW telling me this!”
“Come on, we’d better hurry.”
I scrambled behind Chandra and we both stopped when we came to the edge of the property. Chandra was right. The dog was caged in a chicken-wire coop that he couldn’t stand up in, turn around in, much less think poopy thoughts in. My blood started a slow boil.
The dog whimpered again. As we slowly approached, the smell hit and Chandra gagged. Flies swarmed the dog’s ears, his face, the entire pen. “How’s it locked? Should we have brought tools, bolt cutters?”
Chandra chanced a quick look with the flashlight. “Just a flip lock.”
“Okay, stay here and keep a lookout.” She passed me the headband and pantyhose. I was starting to wish I had some Kevlar gloves. “Does he bite?”
“No idea. I could probably spout some statistics for you.”
“Shut up.” I baby-stepped up to the cage with a hot dog leading the way. I stuck it through a hole in the side, and cooed, “Hey, big guy, you’re such a good boy, you’re not going to bite me are—”
GULP.
And the hot dog was gone.
Oh boy. I got another weenie out of the bag and flipped the latch. “Come here, sweet boy. It’s okay, I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
The dog eyed me, not at all sure whether to believe me. I didn’t blame him. And that’s when I took the biggest gamble of my life. I got down on my knees, hot dog in one hand, headband and pantyhose in the other.
“Sophie, I wouldn’t—”
“Shhh.”
The dog crawled to me, gave a small whimper and lunged. The hot dog disappeared at the same instant I squealed, jumped to my feet, and ran for it. I may have peed my pants a little. I know I said a few Our Fathers and threw in a Hail Mary even though my breath was coming hard.
The dog chased me. Chandra chased the dog. The flashlight made disco lights in the trees. I hit the door and prayed I wasn’t about to become dinner. The dog stopped, tongue lolling, head titled, eyes narrowed in concentration on the leftover hotdogs in my hand.
I tossed him another one and he caught it on the fly. Gone in one gulp. That made three weenies down, five to go.
Chandra skidded to a halt just behind the dog. “Are you hurt? Are you okay? Is he going to eat us?”
“He seems...nice. But really hungry.”
“And smelly. Oh. My. God. Bath. Bath now. Back patio.”
“I know where it is. How is it you’re so wimpy about poop? You’ve changed, like what, a million or so diapers?”
“One child does not a million diapers make. Plus, kid poop and dog poop? Not even close.”
“Oh, pfft. Poop reeks. All poop. And I’ve smelled Cami’s poop. Not exactly daisies and unicorns.”
“Whatever. Let’s get him closer to the hose.”
“I don’t suppose you happen to know his name?”
“It never came up, but by all means, let’s ask.”
I gave Chandra the squint eye. “Since when did you get so smarty pants?”
“Parenthood.”
“Oh, right. Well, let’s pick a name while I give him a bath.”
She eyed the dog who was still eyeing the wieners. “You want to change first? I can get a pair of Mike’s boxers and one of his old college T-shirts for you.”
“No, surely washing a dog can’t be that hard. But, uh, maybe your rubber gloves? And what do I call him? I can’t just keep waving wieners around.”
“He’s your dog now, you think of a name. I’ll disqualify the bad ones.” She grabbed a pair of yellow rubber gloves off the patio table and tossed them to me.
Then her words hit my brain like I’d just made inmate of the month. “My dog? What do you mean MY dog?”
“I already have children. Mike and Cami.”
I heaved a sigh. I had a dog. I could practically feel my ankles swelling. My breasts became sore, I felt a mood swing coming on, and had a great urge to pee.
I was a mom. A mom.
Cripes. I had no idea how to be a mom. Especially a dog mom. Although I do have three older brothers, which must be close to the same thing.
“I don’t suppose you have an Idiot’s Guide to Canine Motherhood on hand?”
“In my hip pocket.” Chandra had the hose on and baby shampoo ready. “Steer him a little closer.”
Ha, steer. Like he’s a boat. Hmm. He’s big like a boat. More like a tanker. Anyway. I kept my eye on the dog. He kept his eye on the food. I moved closer to Chandra, he moved closer to me. So far, so good. But...
I was going to have to somehow get him to stay put and not make a break for it once the water hit. I quickly fastened the pantyhose to the headband. Then I peered at his head and neck area to see if it was possibly a Poop Free Zone. I didn’t see anything, so I held the hotdogs just out of reach and eased the headband over his head.
The dog sat on my foot. “Is he mocking me?”
“Probably,” Chandra said, and laid a thick line of shampoo down his back. “Apparently holding something up high at the front end makes the back end go down.”
“Good to know.” I looked at the nearly empty shampoo bottle. “Shouldn’t he be wet first?”
“I didn’t want to squirt your shoe with the hose. Although, thinking about what’s probably on your shoe now that his butt’s been sitting on it—”
Water immediately sprayed my foot. The dog’s butt made lift off. I tried not to fall over the dog, over-compensated and, arms flailing, sat down hard on the cement. The wieners went willy-nilly into the air, the dog did a Michael Jordan and caught them on the fly just as Chandra let go of the hose with a surprised shriek. I still had the make-shift leash in my hand and somehow I found myself dragged halfway across the yard before I realized my butt was now possibly covered in dog poop and baby shampoo. I dug my feet in.
Catching my breath, I sat there too stunned to move.
The dog shook the bag of weenies between his teeth. Then had the audacity to give me a big toothy grin. “He’s laughing at us!”
“At you, maybe,” Chandra said, and stomped on the hose to keep it from doing a deranged twerk. “Honestly, Soph, you overreact worse than Captain Kirk.”
I threw my hands in the air like I’ve seen my nanna do a million times. “Che palle! I think I might have just come down with Post Traumatic Bath Disorder.”
“Uh, huh. Except that he hasn’t gotten a bath yet.”
This was true. I picked myself up and trudged back to the hose with the hairy beast trailing behind me. He dropped the wieners at my feet, tail wagging, tongue lolling. I gave him the stink eye. “Ha, you wish. Maybe after you hold still, and maybe if I’m not covered in poop, then, and only then, will you get the rest of those hot dogs.” I moved the bag of weenies aside. The dog’s gaze shifted to the water and he glommed down at least a gallon straight from the hose.
When he finished, Chandra eased the water down the dog’s back. “He really needs a name. You have to start training him right away and he can’t learn if he doesn’t have a name.”
I rubbed the shampoo into his fur, more than glad for the gloves. “Yeah, well, Good Boy is out for now. Fido, Rover, Spot, Brutus, Rufus, Butch, and Bowser are no good either. Probably gonna have to go Italian to make my family happy.”
“And here I was thinking something like good old Max would work.”
“I guess Dirty Rotten Wienie Gulping Butt Dragging Poor Mr. Poopy Pants is too long.” My conscience made an entrance and I sighed. This dog had been seriously mistreated and deserved something other than my flippant remarks just because he’d managed to drag me halfway across the yard. “Okay, Maximus it is, and Max for short. Perfect.”
The dog farted and slithered onto his back.
“I’m not sure if that’s a form of protest or agreement.” I slathered shampoo onto his belly.
“He didn’t flip you the bird so I think you’re safe.”
Soaping his belly, I cooed at him, “Max, does that feel good? Are you going to be a good boy? Are you a sweet puppy? You’re a good puppy, aren’t you, Max?” My hands went lower, and suddenly I heard a small yelp. “What? What just happened?”
“He’s male and I think you just groped him.”
“Oh! Oh, euww. Er, I mean, so sorry, Max!” Definitely time to turn him over. “Here we go, Max. Up and at ‘em.” I nudged, pulled, heaved ho, and nothing.
Soapy dogs, I was finding, were snot slick. And large, slippery dogs with huge teeth could turn over when they darn well wanted to. I wasn’t forcing the point and Max wasn’t budging.
Paws sticking straight up, Max twitched and made a pitiful “aaa-roooh” sound. He glanced at me and wiggled upside down. Another “aaa-roooh” with an added foot twitch. Like the death throes of a bad actor.
I bit the inside of my cheek and wondered if this dog was conning me. “This is not Game of Thrones, you are not going to die.” I stood up straight and eyeballed Chandra. “Tell me again why I’m doing this.”
Chandra shook her head at me. “Oh, no. Uh uhhhh. You aren’t bailing on him.”
“Of course I’m not. I never bail. I am not a bailer. But he,” I jabbed my finger in Max’s direction, “is playing us.”
“Half the hair on his ears is missing. Probably fly-bitten. He’s got a sore on his left front leg. His ribs are probably showing under all that hair. He’s hungry and he’s just been abducted by strangers. Possibly for the second time. He’s probably just testing you. Making sure you’re a good forever human.”
“He’s being sarcastic about it.”
“I think he likes you. You saved him. Look, he’s giving you the adoring puppy dog eyes.”
He wasn’t even looking at me. He was eyeballing the smooshed wieners. With longing, and yes, maybe even adoration. “That’s his con. He wants more hot dogs.” I followed Max’s gaze to the bag of hot dogs. “We may need more food.”
At the word food, Max shot to his feet.
“Looks like he knows what that means. Probably because he’s half-starved. Poor baby.” Chandra pointed the hose and I scrubbed while she rinsed.
I had no idea German Shepherds had so much fur. Two layers. And under it all, I could feel his ribs. Which made my heart break even more and I swore to myself that this dog was going to be the most well-fed dog that ever lived. I would love him and spoil him and take him with me everywhere. He’d have the best doggie bed ever made and as many balls and toys as he wanted.
I felt like I should cue dramatic music, raise a fist in the air and do a Scarlett O’Hara speech. I could probably even manage it in Italian.
Suddenly I felt Max’s stomach go, he gave a full body heave and then let out a long, “Glrrrrrp.”
I took a quick step back. “Was that a wiener burp? Is he gonna hurl?”
Chandra leaned over and looked at his face. “I think that might be his pre-sneeze face.”
And then....gllluurrkkk...up came the wieners.
We both eyeballed the glop like this was some sort of a Kodak moment. I patted Max’s head like a proud mom. “No half measures here. He barfs like a boss.”
Chandra hosed the mess off the patio. “Yeah, he should’ve had us hold his beer first. That’s the Chuck Norris of puke.”
Max suddenly got a crazed look in his eye, braced himself, then launched off the patio like a deranged fighter pilot. He sailed over a chaise lounge, surged past Mike’s rock garden, romped around Cami’s jungle gym, zipped through the sandbox, leaped over a hydrangea hedge, threaded through two pine trees and an oak, flew over the fire pit, sprinted through a straightaway, hit a wet spot, his butt went sideways on him and he careered around a brick fire pit, galloped straight at me, then stopped, plopped his butt on the ground and gave me a psychotic grin.
I stood there gob-smacked. “Forget Chuck Norris, I think we may need some holy water.”
“Maybe those weenies gave him the meat sweats and he had to run it off.”
I knelt down to hug him. “Maybe he just likes being free.” Max licked my face with one long swipe. That was my first doggie kiss, ever. I kissed the top of Max’s head and tried not to inhale.
“At least he doesn’t smell like a bad egg sandwich anymore.”
“No, more like a gentle bouquet of dumpster diving mixed with old dentures and sweaty gym shoes. My nose hair is melting.”
“That’s what we call wet dog smell. You’ll get used to it.” Chandra patted me on the head much like I’d just patted Max.
I gave her the squint eye. Max slurped me on the face again and I instantly forgave both of them. “Now that he’s clean, what’s next?”
“Take him to Bailey. He needs to be seen by a vet. Plus you’re going to need dog stuff. Like baby stuff, only for a dog.”
I felt like Police Chief Martin Brody in Jaws. “I’m going to need a bigger boat apartment. I’ve seen all the stuff Cami has. I may need a warehouse.”
“Ha. Ask Bailey, she’ll know.”
“Uhh. About that.”
“What? About what? Bailey? She’s the best vet in the world, she knows everything.”
“Not about Bailey. About getting a dog the size of a small horse into my Honda. I may need Crisco.”
“Pfft,” Chandra said. “Grab a wiener, his leash, and I’ll show you.”
I did as she said and for the first time noticed just how beautiful Max actually was. He was black and tan and had expressive eyebrows over soft brown eyes. He trotted next to me at the end of his makeshift leash, happy, prancy, then saw the car and stopped cold.
“Ride, Max? Want to go for a ride?”
Chandra had the back door of my Civic open and turned. “Come on, Max, here we go!”
He didn’t budge. In fact he had all four feet planted in resistance.
Puzzled, I looked at Max and then Chandra. “I thought dogs were supposed to love car rides.”
“Maybe he has bad memories. Maybe he just needs incentive. Toss a small piece of weenie into the back seat. Not too much, because you know. Gak.”
I tossed an inch of hot dog into the back, it hit the window and plopped onto my pristine cloth seat. Still, Max didn’t move.
“Maybe he wants the radio on. Or the air conditioner.” Chandra moved to the driver’s door, opened it, and Max went airborne. He landed in the driver’s seat looking positively euphoric.
I sighed. “Typical. He’s finally reached the Promised Land and now wants the car keys.”
Chandra stood hands on hips. “He’s not old enough to drive. Move him over.”
I pointed to the back seat. “Max, get in the back.”
Chandra said, “No, no, no. Use your MOM voice.”
I cleared my throat. “Maximus You Weenie Gakking Zinelli! Backseat! Now!”
Max hunched his shoulders and scooted himself into the back seat with a sneer.
“See? There ya go. You’re a natural.” Chandra pulled me in tight for a hug. “Thanks for saving him.” I hugged her back and got in the car.
#IAnsweredMyPhoneAndGotADog
#MaybeSwearingWillHelp
#BetterBuyMoreWine
#GonnaHaveToGetSomeBalls