#81: Fumbling

"Tiggy had never been the family dog," Grace said with a hint of venom.

The vet remained focused on elongating Tiggy's rear leg as if this was a canine pilates class.

What Grace meant to say, if the truth were to be told, was that she's over caring for an elderly dog, tired of waking up in the morning to the smell of smeared dog shit across the enclosure and knowing that Peter wouldn't clean it until after she's gone to work, which means, she has to eat her breakfast outside, and the mornings are getting brisk, and it's just time.

But, you can't say these things because Tiggy is a living sentient being, an infant, unable to articulate thoughts, but still capable of making it clear that she doesn't, and never has, liked her, despite all the sacrifices she's made for this damn dog.

The warning signs were there, from the third date, when she went home with Peter. As they kissed against his apartment door, already ripping at each other's clothing, she knew that they'd fuck against whatever they could the moment they were inside. As Peter fumbled for his keys in his front pocket, she was fumbling with his zip.

As soon as the door closed, Peter disentangled himself from her and bent down to caress a puppy.

Grace recalled trying to feel turned on by Peter's sudden ability to nurture someone else, to see him as a potential father to her kids, but she didn't, she couldn't. He was about to caress her inner thigh when he broke away from her.

Yet, here she was, eleven years later, still hoping that she might be Peter's everything and in order to be so, she must telepathically signal to the vet that the family wouldn't really mind if it was time to put Tiggy down.

The vet gave Tiggy the all-clear, meaning she'd still be there to greet Peter when he returned from his interstate business trip.