Worm

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Like most days, it began badly.

Before Charise left for work, she told Tony to remember to walk Stevie. To take him out for a brisk run through the park to get his heart going and his blood pumping because it was good for his health and longevity. Not Tony’s, of course—hell, he was just her husband—but the dog. Stevie. Which was a perfectly gay sort of name for a dog as far as Tony was concerned, but then again Stevie was perfectly gay sort of dog: half-Pomeranian and half-poodle. Something dog-loving Charise called a lapdog and something Tony himself called simply embarrassing.

Lapdog? No, it’s a boot-dog. In that when it starts yipping in its gay little voice you give it a kick.

Charise did not find that funny at all. She also didn’t find it amusing when he asked her to get rid of the ugly little carpet-crawler and get a real dog: a Lab or a collie or shepherd.

No, she scooped the little mutt up and kissed its homely pushed-in face. “But mama loves her little puppy, her little baby, her little Stevie-weevie.” Kiss, kiss, smooch-smooch. Jesus. It was enough to make you fucking sick.

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