My Sweet Annie

5

 "Well," I said, putting the car into park behind my grandmother's car, a silver 2000 Cadillac DeVille. "Here we are."

Porkie looked at me from the passenger seat with his watery eyes, his leash still attached to his collar and tangled around his paws. He seemed as uncertain of me as I was of him, but at least only one of us smelled like dog.

"Want to go inside?" I asked.

He made no answer, but when I opened the car door, his little curly fry of a tail began to wiggle, and he climbed clumsily over the center console and onto my lap. I winced under his sliding weight and lifted him up and out of the car, afraid he'd bust a leg if he tried to jump.

I got out of the car, watching the dog snuffle around the leaf-littered yard, his tail still wagging. Weeds peeked out of the garden beds that lined the front porch, evidence of the weeks during which the place had gone untended. We made our way around the house. Just as we reached the back yard, Porkie squatted to do his business, and I politely looked away. From where I stood, I could see the small shed where Gran kept her gardening tools and lawn mower. It was the same dusty gray-blue as the house with the same cranberry shutters. Just outside the door, next to the stoop, was a cement donkey with one ear broken off. It was still hitched to a cart filled with brown tangles that must once have been flowers.

A gentle tug on the leash brought my attention back to Porkie. Sniffing and snorting, he led me back up to the house, taking me to the steps of the back porch, which would lead us into the kitchen—but I stopped him.

"I need the keys, doofus," I said.

He looked at me, clearly confused, and he didn't want to come when I started around the building. After a moment, with a snort that sounded like annoyance, he followed.

I grabbed my purse from the car, along with Porkie's bag of sundries, and then I let us into the house from the front.

As soon as we were inside, Porkie took off, his leash slipping through my fingers as he tore into the house. He thundered through the living room on stocky legs, racing through the entry into the dining room and through the open kitchen door. I could hear his claws as he investigated the kitchen. Then he came back my way, trotting into the living room. He paused there, his ears perked, and then started into motion, lowering his head to sniff along the rug.

That's when I realized Porkie was not just excited to be home.

He was excited to see Gran.

***

Now that I had managed the "kitchen affairs," which was how I thought of my review of the fridge, freezer, and pantry, I had to deal with the lawn and the yard. I had literally never run a lawnmower in my life. When we'd lived here, either Mom or Gran had done the yard. When Mom, Tim, and I moved away, we lived in apartments with maintenance people. Or in houses, a couple times, with Mom's husband and then a boyfriend, both dyed-in-the-wool lawn-mowing men.

I briefly considered going out to the shed to see if I could figure out the lawnmower, but a mental image of myself lying weakly in the yard, minus a foot, while Porkie sniffed at a spreading pool of blood convinced me it wasn't a good idea.

"Hello." A gruff male voice answered my call.

"Yes, hello. Is this Mark?" I asked. "With the lawn care?"

He chuckled. "Yup. This is Mark with the lawn care. What do you need?"

"My name's Tabitha and I've just..." ...moved in? "...come to stay at a house near Myrtle. It's been a while since the yard's been done, and I found your number online. Are you taking new clients?"