Spottie’s black spots are falling off from an allergic reaction. The vet proclaiming: “This is a very rare condition in Dalmations.” Like that would make me feel better.
On the patio next to the pool, our trainer, Ralph, is bent over studying the round pink flesh spots that used to be black dog hair. He throws up his hands having a conniption. “If we don’t get them back he’ll be disqualified!”
“Well you’re the trainer, Ralph, what have you done to my prize dog?”
“He sure won’t be weeening any prizes this time.” Though it’s muttered sotto vocé, Italian style, I don’t want Antonio’s point of view.
“Stick to cleaning up the rose garden!” I yell.
Antonio flicks those Sicilian eyes. But he doesn’t pick up his trowel and leave, either. Once you hanky-panky the gardener, there is no going back.
Rubbing the dog’s head I say, “What do you think, Spottie?” His tail wags.
“We can’t very well paint him,” says Ralph.
“Paint heeeeem!” Antonio holds his stomach rolling with laughter.
“Take a hike, Antonio!”
“You cannot speak that way to me.”
“I weeeel tell your husband.”
“He would never believe you.”
“He weeeel. When I tell him about your double neeeple.”
Ralph’s head jerks. “Your double what?”
“It’s a small mole, that’s all.”
“Double neeeeeeeeeeeeeple,” Antonio sings out across the patio.
Then Spottie runs around in circles from the fun.