This was the day of the fire alarm, and instead of a knock at the door there was a voice on the intercom (We have an intercom?), intoning that the alarm would sound in 10 minutes. So Zing and I fled. We walked far and fast — both of us had fun, and Zing was almost running sometimes. I still can’t run, maybe never will again, because it hurts, but I can walk exhilaratingly fast. Zing was kind of humoring me when he appeared to run. (We used to do that Tuesday and Thursday mornings in the Phipps woods.)
Because of the disruption, Cassi the dog trainer didn’t come, but she did call and suggest I acquaint Zing with the sound of his crate/house door locking. Click. Yesterday the sound made him shiver. So today we romped on the floor in front of the crate, and I laid traps of treats inside. After he finally got coaxed inside, we played some more and then I gently, silently, closed the door. Many treats and door openings and closings followed, and finally I clicked on the lock. Zing trembled at first, but then he got a treat. Click. treat, etc. I tried to make the click nearly silent. He seemed at ease with the sound. Tomorrow we’ll see what happens when Cassi comes. I told her today that Zing is perfect except for his inopportune barking. Perfect.
Tonight I took him with me to get dinner at the food trucks parked at the museum. Bread and goulash, which tasted a lot like Mom’s oxtail soup, but with paprika. On the way back we picked up the mail, and there was a big yellow envelope addressed to me from the HOA. I tried to act nonchalant, but my oh my was I worried. A summons? An eviction? A fine? I wondered where I would live next, and how much money I’d lose selling my condo so swiftly. It did seem a rush to take me to court without much discussion or even a direct threat. I needed a lawyer. Zing needed a lawyer.
Somehow in the elevator’s zoom to the twelfth floor I managed to rip open the envelope without spilling the goulash in my shopping bag. (the red felted one you made me, Mary.)
There was a fat clutch of papers, with a letter on top. Dear Kathleen Turner: it read.
Just as the elevator door opened I read the rest. Enclosed is your financial report for this period…
“We’ve made it another day,” I told Zing, and he wagged.
Love,
k
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