Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Boppity, you think you’re a German Shepherd, don’t you?” I ask.
She prances ahead, tail wagging sassily—a German Shepherd trapped in a Chihuahua body. I take a pic and send it to the dog chat captioned: Chihuahua Confidence Level—100.
So friendly.
I’m acing this return to friendship land.
Thirty minutes later, we’re back at Miles’s home, which is so delightfully quiet and free of roomie shenanigans that I could weep with happiness. I double-check the head-count as I lock the door behind us. “Everyone’s here.” I unclip their harnesses and set the gear on the dog shelf by the door.
A buzz from my phone distracts me—a photo from Miles’s mom of her hand holding a piña colada, the wide-open sea in the background, with a heartfelt thank you for the dog pics.
I smile. She’s loving her trip.
Miles sends a message just to me.
Miles: Thank you. Seriously, just thank you.
Sometimes text has no tone, but not this one. I can hear his gratitude, and it makes me feel shimmery.
After showering and applying a little makeup, I let the dogs out in the backyard one last time before gathering my camera bag so I can head out to a boudoir shoot. It’s Monday and I don’t usually do boudoir then, but with the team out of town, it was easy to schedule one for this morning.
But when I return to the living room, I only count three.
“Where’s Bippity?” I scan the room. No tawny, yippy pup cuddled with the others.
“Bippity?” My voice is light, but my chest tightens. I check the kitchen first—she’s not by the water bowl. I move to the little library. No tiny pup curled in the corner.
My pulse climbs as I race upstairs. “Bippity!” I call louder. Did I leave the balcony door open? The thought makes my stomach drop.
I fling open the bedroom door, relieved to see the sliding glass door shut tight. But still, no dog. Yanking the phone from my pocket, I toggle over to the dog GPS app Miles installed. As it loads, my heart pounds and I search the en suite bathroom. Then Miles’s walk-in closet filled with suits and dress shirts I should absolutely not touch later, then under the bed.
Nothing.
What if she Houdini-ed her way outside? What if she’s stuck somewhere?
In the app, I click on Bippity’s photo and then ask for her location. While it answers, I rush back down the hall, yanking open the guest room door. It protests with a groan, but I push it harder and hunt under the bed, then the closet, calling her name.
No luck.
The app brags unhelpfully: We found Bippity! She’s at home!
With an exclamation point, no less.
That’s good. Of course that’s good, but my pulse barely settles. I still need to find her and the app doesn’t pinpoint location to a room. After I dash downstairs, I check the backyard, pushing the door open in a nanosecond. No Bippity.
“Where are you, Houdini?”
But the dog still doesn’t answer, and my throat tightens with fear. I don’t want to do this, but I need help. I call Miles.
“Hey,” he answers immediately, the sound of traffic and voices in the background. French, I think, since he’s in Montreal. “I was about to call you.”
What? Why? “You were?” I ask, barely masking my panic.
“Yeah, sorry to be a spy, but I’m guessing you can’t find Bippity. I got a camera alert from the dog-cam in the living room, and you looked a little frantic.”
Relief washes over me, mingling with irritation. “Where is she?”
“Check the guest room.”
“I did! And the app says she’s in the house, but I can’t find her.”
He chuckles softly. “That’s her spot. The guest room. She likes to hide there sometimes. I should’ve told you—I’m sorry.”
My heart races as I tear down the hall and reach the closed door. Weird. I definitely left it open moments ago. “How can she close the door on herself?”
“It’s the angle. It always falls shut, so I keep it closed, but if she slips in while it’s open, she gets a room of her own.”
I twist the knob and shove the door open. “She’s not here!”
“Look between the pillows,” he says, unbothered.
“That doesn’t make any sense!” I grumble, but I yank the pillows off the bed—and there she is. A little tawny peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich between two big pillows.
“Little stinker,” I mutter, scooping her up and clutching her close. She licks my face, entirely unapologetic.
Miles laughs in my ear.
“You’re laughing at a time like this?” I snap. “You should’ve told me about the Houdini pup!”
“I was going to. I even started to yesterday, but then, well, my brain kind of drained out of my head when you grabbed my tie.”
“That’s not an excuse,” I say, but I’m already smiling as I carry her down the stairs.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, a smile in his voice. “But je ne regrette rien.”