9780008390662

snickers
While I watch from my perch on the back of the couch, Julia passes by on the
sidewalk. George asked her to keep her dog-walking route close to home, in
case the weather changes.
She’s wearing a shiny purple raincoat and leading three dogs: a goofy mutt
named Winston, a timid dachshund named Oscar Mayer, and . . . her.
Snickers.
An old nemesis of mine, Snickers is a fluffy white poodle with delusions of
grandeur. A big, snooty, pain in the puffball.
Ooh, that pooch drives me crazy.
Our mutual dislike goes back to my early days as a stray. Snickers was a
fancy, pampered, sleep-on-a-pink-satin-pillow kinda gal. Her owner, Mack,
ran the mall where I lived with Ivan and Ruby.
That’s where I first encountered Snickers. She teased me mercilessly, and
beneath the fuzzy facade, I always suspected there was a little, I dunno, spark
there.
Anyways. After the mall closed down, Snickers, being Snickers, landed on
her feet. Mack married an older widow lady with more money than sense,
and she dotes on that ridiculous poodle. Mack’s too lazy to walk Snickers
himself, so he hired Julia to do it.
“Lookin’ good, Snick baby!” I call through the open window, and she gives
me her curled-lip, squinty-eyed face, which, come to think of it, is pretty
much how she always looks.
As usual, Snickers is dressed to the max. She’s wearing a pink poncho, a