Doggy Tales

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Ivan Biendino had an itch to scratch, and this was the only way to get relief. He drove north on US 301, away from Tampa. He didn’t care what the hell Jeremy Bruin thought. He needed it. Running on a fucking treadmill and listening to canned nature sounds on an iPod like Jeremy did not give Ivan what he craved. Maybe Jeremy had calmed his inner beast, but Ivan’s still wanted playtime.

Fucking pussy. “Go run on the treadmill,” he says. I’ll shove that goddamned treadmill up his ass if he doesn’t leave me alone.

Only a little after eight on a Tuesday morning, Hillsborough River State Park wasn’t busy. He paid the entry fee and drove until he reached his favored parking area, pulling his silver Ridgeline truck into a spot that would remain shaded for a couple hours yet.

If he had more time, he’d drive up to Withlacoochee State Forest, or Silver Lake, or even Ocala. Unfortunately, Jeremy had ordered him to have his ass back in the office by noon. He locked his truck and looked around. Still relatively desolate. A few early joggers and bikers, but where he was going there weren’t exactly any trails.

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