Standing By

True Colors

(Kirstie)

Finding my keys quickly for once, I let myself in. I yawned for about the thirtieth time that night. God, I was so tired. I just wanted to crawl in bed and sleep for a week. Sleep right through New Year's Eve and New Year's Day, I didn't care. I threw my things down haphazardly on the table, an abandoned TV dinner box skittering off and falling on the floor. Oh well. We'd pick it up later.

"Ra-ooof!" somebody whimpered from just the other side of the door.

I slung it open, wondering what the hell the dog was doing in the laundry room. I had their kennels in there but rarely used them—probably should when I'm driving around with them, but I just don't. I hoped Olaf hadn't tried to eat the dryer lint out of the wastepaper basket again.

I gasped when I found my poor doggie shoved into an old kennel about six inches too small for her. "Snowball!" I yelped, dropping to my knees to rescue her. I undid her latches and freed her, promptly knocked over and bathed in doggie kisses. "Poor baby." I buried my face in her fur. "What were you doing in there, baby girl?" I wished to goodness she could talk. I was going to have a go at Jeremy tomorrow morning. Dunno what he thought he was doing, shoving her in a too-small kennel that had been in the garage. No excuse in my mind to do that. If he was having an issue disciplining her for something I didn't even know of at that point, there are other resources than squishing her where she didn't even fit.

Snowball bounded off into the kitchen, took a messy drink of water, then looked at me, towards the family room, back to me, and then to the family room. I frowned, getting the inherent feeling that she was trying to tell me something. I started following her into the family room, where Olaf let out his own series of yips. Oh hell no. He better not have. I flipped the lights on angrily. Sure enough, poor Olaf was also shoved into a kennel by the window—at least it was big enough for him and he wasn't inhumanely cramped. I unhitched the door and let him out and was again kissed from head to toe. He issued a quick bark then ran over to the rug in front of the couch—the good rug—and lifted his leg.

"No!" I ordered him sharply. "No!"

The dog deliberately disobeyed me and let loose. I bounded over the couch and had his collar and neck in my hands in seconds before he could get away. I placed that defiant nose directly into his puddle. "No! No! Bad dog! Bad dog!" I lifted his wriggly face to mine and wagged my finger in his face. "No, Olaf! Bad dog!"

He whimpered and I took his collar and paraded him to the back door, nudging him out. Granted, he probably didn't need to go anymore, but he did need to be shown where to go when he needed to pee.

When I turned around, Jeremy about gave me a heart attack coming back up behind me, arms crossed. He coughed a couple of times. "I'm fed up with your dogs."

"I know. I saw him do it there and I scolded him, shook my finger in his face, and put him outside." I shook my head, wondering what had gotten into him. He hasn't done this in years.

He leaned against the counter. "Where have you—" Ah-ah-choo! Grabbing a paper towel, he wiped his nose. "Where have you been?"

"Working." I sighed. "Lots of material, new material we got to get ironed out."

"For over twelve hours?" he snapped.

"Yes, Jeremy, over twelve hours." I opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Dasani. "We've got an eight-song set, four songs we're doing with Home Free, and one of theirs we're learning."

"How long this going to go on, Kirst?" he whined. "I feel like I'm always playing fourth fiddle to your music, to your band, and especially to Mitch and Scott."