The Wicked Flea

decided to use Llio’s surprise arrival to remove Rowdy from the melee. “Douglas, stay out of it,” I hollered. “You’ll just get bitten.” With that, I let the air horn fall to the ground, clenched Rowdy’s leash in both hands, and applied all my strength to it. Just when I began to fear that Rowdy would slip his collar or that the leash would break before I could budge him, the pressure on the leash eased, and I called, “Rowdy, leave! This way! This way! That’s my boy! That’s my good boy!” Now that I’d succeeded in getting his attention, I made a fool of myself keeping him focused on me. Whistling, clucking my tongue, and babbling lunatic verities about what a great dog he was, I took the risk of bolting from what was now a two-dog fight.
    Rowdy could have veered around and jumped back in, or Zsa Zsa could have gone for him again. But my gamble paid off. With Rowdy bounding at my heels, I dashed up a little slope to a spot where two waist-high boulders leaned into each other. Pulling and cajoling, I managed to get Rowdy behind the rocks. Exhausted, I rested my weight on one of them. At a guess, only two minutes had elapsed since Zsa Zsa had appeared through the trees and attacked Rowdy, perhaps thirty seconds since Llio had joined the brawl. I felt as if the fight had started hours ago. My arms and legs were trembling. Exertion and relief had me panting like a dog. Rowdy was breathing far more lightly than I was. If I’d had a tail, it wouldn’t have been wagging, but his was zipping back and forth. His ears weren’t tom or bleeding, and neither was his face, which, in fact, wore a smug, obnoxious smile.
    A short distance downhill, the remaining combatants were alarmingly quiet. Zsa Zsa, back on her feet, was circling the blood-spattered Llio, who, I suspected, would’ve been content to call it quits. Douglas stood only a yard or two from the dogs, his body tense, his face contorted with what I felt sure was agonized indecision about how to rescue Llio. Without human intervention, the lull in the hostilities would’ve reached a natural end either in Llio’s quick and probably successful flight or in Zsa Zsa’s renewed attack. The young, strong corgi seemed to me to have an excellent chance of making a swift escape. Catching Douglas’s eyes, I was trying to signal him to do nothing, when screams broke the silence.
    “HELP! HELP! HELP ME!” The woman came flying out of the woods. “He’s going to kill me!” she shrieked. Even in a state of obviously genuine terror, Anita Fairley-Delaney looked as if she were posing for the kind of fashion magazine in which the typical model is five feet ten and evidently suffers from selfinduced colitis while also incubating the Ebola virus, but is gorgeous anyway. You know the type? The mannequin’s eyes are dissipated and her combined pallor and rigor suggest that she recently died of fright. Who cares! She’s got hollow cheeks, incredible bone structure, mile-long legs, and great hair, and she really can wear outfits so grotesque that no normal person would be caught dead in them even on Halloween. In fact, Anita wore a full-length black coat piped in red, slim black trousers, and shiny black high-heeled boots. Her entrance was stagy, but there was nothing fake about the panic in her voice. “Help me!” she screamed at Douglas. “He’s trying to kill me!”
    Yes, who?
    Almost immediately, Wilson answered the unasked question by emerging from the woods in pursuit of Anita, who, in spite of the dress boots, had been too fast for him. At the sight of Wilson, Anita renewed her shrieking and tried to take shelter behind Douglas. Wilson, meanwhile, was hurling invectives at Anita and pleading with either Douglas or God—I honestly don’t know which—to save Llio from Zsa Zsa.
    “Never mind your fucking dog!” Anita bellowed. Her self-confidence restored by Douglas’s presence, I suppose, she added, “I just want my money back! Just give me back my deposit and you’ll never see me again!”
    “Llio!Llio!” Wilson wailed. “Her ear! Look at her ear! Goddamn you, look what you did! This is all your fault!” I assumed for a second that he meant Zsa Zsa. The object of his rage was, however, Anita. Stamping his foot and pounding the air with his fist, he demanded, “What’d you have to kick Zsa Zsa for! Zsa Zsa wouldn’t’ve done this if you hadn’t kicked her, goddamn it! Llio’s a show dog, for Christ’s sake! And you’ve wrecked