Agnes put on her heavy parka and grabbed Keaton’s leash. She could barely hear her golden’s paws on the hardwood floors as he ambled to the front door, and her sinuses had solidified into a dense blob. It didn’t help, either, that she’d run out of aspirin tablets the previous night, and her head felt like a crevice had formed in the middle of her brain. She hoped the January morning wouldn’t be all that freezing, but a blast of cold air pierced her face when she opened the door.
“Keaton,” she said – the dog’s name coming out Keatot – “you’d best be quick this morning. Mummy doesn’t have the energy for a run around Rittenhouse Square.” She could see Keaton’s normal morning walk, lifting his leg for ten trees before deciding to do his real business.
She’d thought about asking Norman to walk the dog, but didn’t dare. Ever since he’d found out about the piano competition, he’d walked around the house with a cloud over his head. If she’d asked him to do her usual morning chore, he’d have volleyed forth one of his snide remarks.
Another duty you’re failing to perform, Agnes. What’s next, the cooking?
Thank goodness for the piano. The competition was only four days away. She hoped she’d get over her cold by then.
No comments:
Post a Comment