Just One of the Guys(56)

“Dear God,” Ryan says.

I stare open-mouthed. “Um…I think I’d better…that’s…that’s my dog.”

“Dear God,” Ryan says again.

I’m already weaving my way through the restaurant toward the bar. People are either laughing or frowning as Buttercup continues to serenade me. The maître d’ and two servers are pointing and talking.

“I’ll take care of this!” I tell them. “She’s mine. She must have tracked me here. She’s part bloodhound. She’s in heat.”

“Thanks for sharing,” the maître d’ says.

As I burst out of the restaurant, Buttercup decides she’s not ready for capture. She leaves the window, tail whipping, and trots away from me, boxers gleaming, and stops to sniff a tire.

“Buttercup…here girl!” I call, trying to sound relaxed and happy to see her.

Just then, a pickup truck comes around the corner. Matt’s behind the wheel, while Trevor leans out the window, calling my dog’s name. Both of them are contorted with laughter. Buttercup trots a few feet farther away. “Buttercup!” I croon. “Come on! Cookie! Salami! Want some salami? Huh, girl? Come on, Butterbaby!”

Ryan comes out of the restaurant. “What is she wearing?” he asks.

“My brother’s underwear. Um, let’s just try to catch her,” I say.

Matt pulls up to the curb and gets out, wiping his eyes. “Sorry, Chas. She escaped.”

“Yes, I got that.”

Trevor gets out, too, staggering, wheezing. “She found you,” he manages. “She loves her mommy.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, though I can’t help grinning. “Don’t chase her. Just pretend you have a cookie or something.” Buttercup stops twenty feet ahead and stares at us suspiciously from her yellow eyes. Her tail wags tentatively, but her shoulders are tensed for flight, possibly for the first time in her young life. “Very slow, boys, very casual.”

“Roger that,” Matt says. “Come to Daddy, sweetheart.” We start creeping down the sidewalk. Quite a crowd has gathered at the window of the restaurant as people watch to see the capture.

“Butterbaby! Come on, honey!” I call. She sniffs the sidewalk and flops down, apparently done for the night. “I’m so sorry about this,” I say, glancing at Ryan. He’s staring in consternation at my dog.

“Not at all,” he murmurs insincerely.

“Who’s my pretty puppy?” Matt says, pretending to hold out a treat. “Do you want a cookie?” She lets him approach. Trev, Ryan and I hold back. Just as Matt reaches out to grab Buttercup’s collar, she twists away, lurches to her feet and makes a dash for freedom. “Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” She heads toward the three of us, then dodges out into the street.

“Grab her, Chas!” Matt yells, but my dog darts past me with surprising agility, past Ryan, past Trevor, who just misses her, and continues down the street. From behind her, I can see the red splotch of blood on Matt’s underwear.

“Holy crap!” I blurt, bursting into laughter. “Come on!” I start running. Buttercup is a half block ahead, and I’m laughing so hard it hurts. “Buttercup!” I call in between gasps. “Come to Mommy!”

Matt crosses the street to try to flush our dog toward me, but she’s too far ahead. Behind me, Trevor is staggering unhelpfully, laughing so hard he can barely remain upright. A passing car slows down, and Buttercup shifts to Matt’s side of the street, stopping to sniff a parking meter. Her big ears prick with sudden alertness, and I glance up ahead. “Shit! Catch her, Matt!” I yell.

Up ahead is a tiny Yorkshire terrier on a leash, being walked by a rather plump man.

“No, Buttercup!” Trevor calls. “You’ll kill him, girl!”

My laughter goes silent, tears streaming down my face. “Buttercup! Salami!” I manage, clapping my hands, trying to get my dog’s attention. It doesn’t work.

The Yorkie owner is peering into the window of an antiques shop and doesn’t seem to sense the imminent danger posed to his tiny dog.

“Mister! Hey, buddy!” Matt calls. “She’s in heat! Pick up your dog! Pick him up!”

Puzzled, the man obeys, just in time, then recoils when he sees Buttercup charging.

“Buttercup, no!” I shout.

“Aahroorooroororooo!” she bays, ignoring me. Intent on her would-be mate, she leaps against his owner.

“Aah!” he cries. “No, doggy! Bad doggy! Get down! No! Down!”

Trevor glances down the street and runs across, hauling Buttercup off the man and his hapless dog. Buttercup goes limp, glancing back balefully as Trevor drags her away from her true love.

“That dog should be leashed!” the Yorkie owner spits.

“You’re absolutely right. We’ll tell the owner as soon as we find him,” Trevor says, throwing me a grin. “Are you all right, sir?” He sticks out his hand. “Trevor Meade, Eaton Falls Fire.”

“I’m fine,” the man replies. “Thank you for stopping that hideous animal. Puffy, are you okay?” He drops a kiss on the Yorkie’s head and glares at me.

“Ma’am, you say you know this dog’s owner?” Trevor asks me with a conspiratorial wink.