New neighbors Andi and Hayden don't get off to the best start - and neither do their dogs. When the hostility between their pets, Bart and Rosie, leads to noisy barking, Andi and Hayden must solve their pet's tension or risk eviction from their apar...
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"Stay," I demand, pointing at Rosie.
I turn and walk toward my kitchen, but Rosie's nails clack behind me. The sound mirrors my footsteps.
Ever since I failed to give her her biscuit during this morning's breakfast, she's stayed marching by my heels. The only time she's given me space is when I showered, but that's only because I forcibly removed her from the bathroom and locked the door.
Rosie thinks it's a mistake that she didn't get her treat, but it was no mistake. It's punishment for last night when she ran out my door, bounced around the hallway, and darted into our new neighbor's apartment—an apartment so beautifully decorated and sparklingly clean (or that was clean, at least) that, in comparison to my mess of a place, the two spaces don't even look like they came from the same building despite the layouts mirroring each other.
Admittedly, part of last night's fault was on me for leaving the door open and leaving a bowl of jellybeans where Rosie could reach them. When I got home from work, I got distracted by a call and didn't close the door. I failed to realize that, but Rosie didn't. She dashed through the door, and I only noticed when reaching for an empty bowl of jellybeans amidst sudden hallway thumps.
Having your dog knock over your neighbor's plants, scatter her papers, and destroy her dog's toy wasn't the best impression—for me or for Rosie.
And, considering the woman is one of the hottest people I've ever seen, with big round eyes that mesmerized me despite their anger, I would have definitely liked to make a better impression.
Therefore, Rosie didn't get her dessert this morning. She hasn't understood that yet, but she will when I leave for work, and she's left without it.
Maybe I could have punished her more by taking away her toys or putting her in time-out, but holding off on giving her the treat and seeing her little smile was hard enough, and I don't know if I could handle much harsher punishment.
Ignoring the pleading dog at my feet and her high-pitched whines, I sift through the junk on my kitchen counter. After setting aside droves of miscellaneous fabrics and rolls of film tape, and narrowly avoiding multiple paper cuts, I see Michigan Commercial Lease Agreement in bold letters at the top of a document. I maneuver the short paper-clipped stack out from dozens of unorganized piles and looseleaf sheets.
The gentle morning light shines on the stack between my fingers. The luminance trickles through my kitchen window and hits the papers just right to create a blaring spotlight on the task I've been putting off. Mother Nature can be funny like that, using her divine powers to not-so-subtly remind me of what I need to do.
Over Rosie's squeaky whines, my phone buzzes, but the sound is muffled. I dig through the junk on the counter before finding my phone nestled between a scrap of hot pink fabric and one of Rosie's old collars.
Micah's name spreads on my phone screen. I sigh, rubbing my forehead in preparation for what's sure to be another person's reminder of what I need to do—just not acting as divine as Mother Nature.
