Page 6 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
I sigh, rubbing my head absently as we pass theWelcome to Sunshine Springs!sign. Sunshine Springs is my home now, small and quaint but picturesque. We have bright blue skies and crisp air, farmland and then the Tetons framing the distant horizon, with vibrant yellow wildflowers springing up in patches along the roads. There’s a farmers’ market in the town square every weekend, with flower stands and baked goods and produce. Every year we have springs like the one we’re having now, full of singing birds and watercolor days where the murky sky bleeds into the horizon and the air is scented with the warm, gritty smell of rain-soaked pavement. Even the winters here hold their own kind of beauty—a landscape layered in white and golden brown; still, frozen, crystalline nights.
This little town holds my life, including the people I love the most. My best friend, Gemma—my twin brother. My little shop and its staff.
My life is here, and for the most part, I’m content.
So what is this nagging feeling I can’t place? What secret have I forgotten?
And why was Soren the person I called when I needed help?
FOUR YEARS AGO
IN WHICH HEIDI ACCIDENTALLY COMMITS A CRIME
How many dogs is too many dogs?
If you had asked me that months ago, I would have thrown it out as a trick question. There’s no such thing astoo many dogs.The limit does not exist.
But that was before, in the past. And Past Heidi did not know what Current Heidi knows: that the limit very much does exist.
And it is seven.
Seven dogs is too many dogs.
For the most part, I believe in mind over matter. I can do anything I decide to do. And if some of these pups were smaller, it wouldn’t be a problem. If I were walking Pomeranians or Dachshunds or Chihuahuas. But I’m not. I’m walking two Golden Retrievers, four Labradors in a spectrum of colors, and one large Poodle.
In fact, let’s be more accurate: these dogs are walking me. Becausemind over matterdoes not apply to instantaneous muscle growth, or to instantaneous dog-hypnosis skills.
My hands are turning red, rubbed raw by the plethora of leashes removing layers of skin and cutting off my circulation. The Poodle is a complete hellion, an escape artist if I’ve ever seen one, and her pull is surprisingly strong as she attempts to run. I underestimated her—probably because of her ridiculous name, or maybe the stupid little poof of fur on top of her head—but I’ve seen the error of my ways. My leg muscles are now getting in a solid workout, and I’m walking with my body tilted backward at a weird angle to balance out the pull. I’m sure I look exactly how I feel: like a woman in over her head, on the verge of swearing off any and all future pets.
I can’t feel my fingers.
When I began offering a dog-walking service a few months ago, I didn’t think it would become too much. Dog walking doesn’t look difficult. You put them on the leash, you walk them, you return them to their homes. Easy. Plus I was desperate for money, willing to scrape the bottom of any barrel if it meant I could eke out the final funds to start my bookshop. I hung fliers in the nicest neighborhoods in Sunshine Springs—all two of them, streets lined with giant houses and luxury townhomes—and before I knew it, business was zooming my way.
But I’m finally ready to admit that I bit off more than I can chew, what with the other part-time jobs I work on top of this one, and now here I am: being dragged down the sidewalk of a fancy street by two Golden Retrievers, four Labradors, and a Poodle from hell.
“Noodles,” I snap at the Poodle. She’s making a weird gurgling sound as she continues to pull on her leash. It could not be clearer that she’s strangling herself. “Cut it out. You’re going to get hurt.” I amthiscloseto turning around and taking her back to her cul-de-sac mansion.
Noodles ignores me, though, which is not surprising in the least. She always ignores me. The other dogs are decently well trained, but all it takes is one bad egg to rile the rest of them up.
Noodles is that egg.
My legs burn as the Poodle and her accomplices drag me up a hill that looks deceptively climbable. The incline can’t be more than twenty degrees, but I feel like I’m walking up a freaking mountain. Despite the cool crispness of the spring morning, I am for sure rocking pit stains, and I think there’s a pool of sweat in my belly button.
Can’t check on that, of course, due to the leashes I’m clutching desperately with both hands.
My breath is coming in sharp, irregular bursts, tearing at my lungs and the back of my throat, but I muscle my way to the top of this stupid hill anyway. I’m trying to channel my inner warrior—someone I should not have to channel for a mere dog-walking job—but she seems to have fled along with the top layer of skin on my hands. I settle for channeling my inner survivor instead, the one who chantsJust one more stepover and over.
“Noodles,” I say through gritted teeth. “If you do not cut that out this instant, I am going to turn you into Poodle stew. Stoppulling—”
But Noodles, it seems, is about as done with me as I am with her.
And though I will deny it until I’m blue in the face—which may very well be soon, the way things are going—it’s almost a relief when her leash slips out of my sweaty, cramped, wildly grasping fingers.
For exactly one second, I allow myself to fantasize. I imagine that Noodles runs away, bolting as fast as her long legs will carry her until she’s nothing but a black speck on the horizon, and I’ll never have to see her and her head poof again.
Then I pop that fantasy bubble, wrangle my inner survivor, and kick my butt into gear.
“Noodles!” I shout, running after her. The rest of the dogs run with me, a swarming mass of legs and wagging tails and lolling tongues. It’s chaos, pure chaos, but all I can do is keep running, because I need this money. “Noodles!” I yell again, trying not to trip over my own feet or any of the dogs. “Poodle stew, Noodles!”
