Holy shits.
My heart thumps as a brown and white beast clambers to get his feet under him while trampling my gut. Slobber smears my chest.
Too bad that’s the first saliva I’ve had on my tits in fuck-knows how long.
Ew, and it’s slimy.
A bark rings in my ear as the dog jumps over the sofa and onto my table in pursuit.
I jump from the couch, sprinting to the kitchen, where mayhem reigns.
The cat makes her way around the countertops as the wiggly-butted boxer chases her from surface to surface.
Canisters scatter and roll. Paper napkins flutter. And my thawing hen slides across the counter like a shuffleboard puck going for the goal.
I dart across the room.
Too late.
The pullet takes flight across the kitchen—apparently feathers aren’t necessary after all.
Hands out, I launch into the air. The slippery hen evades rescue, landing on the floor with a thud, skidding between the mutt and me on its way toward the door.
The dog loses all interest in the kitten as he snatches the bird. The whites of his eyes show as he watches me, all the while dodging my flailing grasp.
Oh, hell no. Not my chicken.
I block the exit, arms wide. “Oh, no you don’t.”
He readjusts his grip on my dinner. His big paws slide on the linoleum as he tries to plow past me.
I get hold of his collar, hooking my fingers under it. “I’ve got you now.”
Fucker’s a freaking diesel truck.
He pulls me down, but I hang on for all I’m worth. Too much has been taken from me lately to lose my lunch to a mutt.
I manage to flip over and get one leg on either side of him, feet braced against the doorframe of the kitchen’s entrance for leverage. Like a cartoon, his legs are in motion, but he’s going nowhere fast. Until he manages to get his front paws to the place the linoleum meets the carpet.
He gains traction. He strains against his collar, whipping his head left and right as I try—and fail—to grab my chicken with my free hand.
Suddenly, the tension between the beast and my grip is relieved when the leather snaps. The brown, bobbed tail and sinewy hind legs make tracks through to the living room.
I scramble to my feet and follow.
By the time I get into the other room, all that’s left to show there was a strange pooch mauling my buttered and seasoned roaster is a busted out screen, a kitchen catastrophe, and my poor, shell-shocked kitty staring down from the top of the refrigerator as though she expects the hellion to return any second.
I lean out the window, hands on the sill, yelling to the sky, “Whoever owns that damned dog owes me a chicken dinner!”
Adam jogs over from his yard, a mangled poultry carcass wrapped in an old towel in his hand, a grin peeking out from under all that facial hair. “So this is yours?”
I glare. “Who does that brute belong to? Did you see? I’ve got a thing or two to say to them about keeping their mutt in their yard, rather than turning him loose on the neighborhood where he can rain down chaos and terror on unsuspecting homeowners and tiny kittens.”
Adam tucks the turbaned chicken behind his back and rocks on his heels. “That’d be Spike. He’s my mutt. Sorry.”
My nostrils flare, and my teeth grind.
“That’s all you have to say? Sorry?” I brace my knees against the window frame and lean out to poke him in the chest. “He stole my dinner, not to mention the mess he left me to clean up. And my cat—my sweet kitty is going to need extensive counseling and will probably still suffer PTSD. And God help you if my computer is broken—that’s my freaking living.”
“The cat? PTSD?” His brow wrinkles. “Seriously?”
A brown and white streak passes behind Adam.
Adam stumbles forward, then catches himself against the siding of my house with his empty hands.
Ears back, my dinner firmly clamped between his jowls, towel flapping behind him, Spike makes tracks between the houses.
Adam calls after him, “C’mon, Spike. You’re not helping!”
I lean further out of the window as the ass-end of the dog skids around the gate into Adam’s back yard.
Adam turns to me with a half-shrug. “Well, it was already ruined anyway. Right?”
“You. And that mutt. Ugh!” Fury wells in my chest.
Intending to slam the damned window and show him what I think of his freaking critter, I move to duck backward through the opening.
A crack accompanies a sharp pain lancing the back of my skull.
“Aw, fuck.” I press my hand against the throb. “Damn.”
I open my eyes, wincing as I check for blood.
Adam reaches for me. Before I can dodge his palm, he pushes my head down until I’ve cleared the danger zone and am completely inside. I stumble backward a step or two.