The Wicked Flea

the dog group, which is to say, about half the length of a football field. I relaxed. Even if Zsa Zsa decided to tackle Rowdy again or to go after Quest, we’d reach the Bronco before she could get to us. In passing, I noticed a runner whose route would intersect Sylvia and Zsa Zsa’s. Someone had mentioned that Zsa Zsa pestered runners. I couldn’t remember whether she chased them, jumped on them, nipped at their heels, or irked them in some other way. This runner, a dark-haired woman, moved with speed and energy; she looked more than capable of outdistancing a dysplastic dog. Besides, even from afar, she somehow radiated an air of taking no grief from anyone, human or canine. She wore black, a bulky black top and, in defiance of the cold weather, black stretch shorts.
    Ceci spoke. “I can’t decide whether to tell Althea, because, you see, in some ways, Althea is quite worldly, if you know what I mean, and in others, she is really very sheltered, living as she does in a world of books with all that Sherlock Holmes make-believe and so forth, not to mention that I am her junior by more than a few years, and once a little sister, always a little sister no matter how many years pass and how much water runs under the bridge, don’t you think?”
    The language-processing centers of Ceci’s brain must be larger and more complex than mine. Even before my concussion, my mind would digest the first half of one of her sentences and then choke on the final half. “Tell Althea about what?”
    “The man!”
    “Douglas?”
    “No, no, the one in the ski mask. And trench coat.” Ceci lowered her voice. “That silly man who, uh, shows himself. To women.”
    Before I report what happened next, I want to make it clear that the moment Ceci raised the topic of telling or not telling Althea about the exhibitionist, I turned my eyes from the field to Ceci, and thus was not watching Sylvia, Zsa Zsa, and the runner in black. Ceci wasn’t looking at them, either; she was looking at me. In other words, I didn’t see what happened and have never said otherwise. Ceci didn’t see what happened, either; she couldn’t have. Neither of us looked in that direction until we heard shouting and barking. When we did, we stopped, turned around, and saw the source of the hullabaloo. The first thing I noticed was that Sylvia was, for once, holding Zsa Zsa’s collar. Specifically, Sylvia was bent over a little and grasping the collar in her left hand. With her right, she was jabbing a fist at the runner in black, who stood a foot or two away from her. I had the impression that Sylvia was gesturing. It’s possible that Sylvia’s fist made contact with the runner’s body. I was too far away to judge accurately. Zsa Zsa was certainly barking, and the women were undoubtedly shouting at each other. I made out only two words: you and dog.
    Sylvia, Zsa Zsa, and the runner were closer to the big group of dog walkers and dogs than they were to Ceci, Quest, Rowdy, and me. By the time I turned to watch the dispute, some members of the dog group were rounding up their animals and putting them on leash. A few people, however, were heading toward the scene of the altercation. Pia must have gotten there first. She was followed closely by Wilson, who had had Llio on leash to begin with. Noah was another speedy arrival. His dogs, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Jonna, got along well with the other dogs and showed no desire to wander from the group, so he probably felt comfortable in taking his eyes off them.
    “There goes Noah!” Ceci exclaimed. “He’s our mayor, you know. That’s what we call him. The mayor of the dog group. He’ll get things straightened out, but doesn’t Sylvia look furious! And that other woman, whoever she is, is really quite, quite angry, and what do you suppose happened? I’ll bet Zsa Zsa chased after her, and then she said something not very nice to Sylvia, and...” By this time, Ceci was eagerly heading toward the quarreling women, her progress impeded by Quest, who shared none of his owner’s inquisitiveness about the drama. “Quest, do stop being a mule!” Ceci commanded.
    In contrast to Quest, Rowdy was almost uncontrollably eager to get to the scene of the conflict. Human discord would’ve been of passing interest to him, but in his ears, Zsa Zsa’s insistent barks demanded his intervention. Malamutes are convinced that the world is run, if you can even call it that, by a bunch of spineless incompetents with no