Who: Michael Langdon and Mallory What: Reunited and it doesn’t feel so good Where: Rosewood Park, Summerbridge When: Noon, Sunday Rating: Probably not too high. There’s an adorable dog involved, after all. Status: In progress
Jim Moriarty’s dog was wearing a blue plaid sweater. He smelled like the best doggy shampoo money could buy, and he was so small that Michael could easily hold him under one arm, and did so as he trekked across the park he’d agreed to meet Mallory at. He didn’t want Fenrir’s paws to get dirty and he inwardly scolded himself for not having purchased him boots to go with the sweater. Was that going too far? He was sure it was a thing people actually did. Once, while walking Fenrir down the street, he’d met a woman who said her dog owned her own wardrobe, and when Michael had looked down, sure enough, the Boston Terrier had been wearing a dress. It had been one of the most hideous sights he’d ever seen, but instead of grimacing, he’d put on his best fake smile and agreed that yes, she was certainly a great beauty.
Unlike the terrier, Michael considered Fenrir to be adorable. Before he’d met Jim, if you’d asked him what sort of dog he’d want to own, if he owned a dog, he’d not have told you that he wanted a toy Pomeranian. He’d have chosen something much bigger, something intimidating, like a Rottweiler or a Caucasian Shepherd or a hellhound.
Yet, here he was, on a brisk noon walk through Rosewood Park, with a tiny black dog crawling halfway up his shoulder to get a better view. Fenrir’s mouth was open, tongue lolling out, practically smiling. He was comfortable with Michael’s arm around him, for Michael always ran warmer than what would be considered normal, and Fenrir was more than happy to share that warmth on such a cold day outdoors.
He settled on a bench near the lake, beside a huge, leafless oak tree. He plucked Fenrir from his shoulder and placed him on the ground. The dog looked up at him, cocked his head first to one side and then the other, turned around in a circle, sat, stood up again, and made a running jump back up onto the bench. Michael repeated himself (setting the dog on the ground) at least five times before giving up with an exaggerated sigh, accepting that Fenrir wasn’t going to leave his side.
“Fine. Be lazy. Get fat.”
He waited for Mallory on the bench, with Fenrir on his lap, a hand on the dog’s head, absently petting him into a sleepy state of calm.