Southern Discomfort
Page 21
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The following Saturday, I was still at the breakfast table when Dwight came by to pick me up. K.C. Massengill was having an end-of-the-summer weekend party at her lake cottage, and he'd been invited, too.
The puppy met him at the back door, yipping importantly like a real watchdog, but then spoiling it by wagging his little tail like a crazed metronome.
Dwight accepted Aunt Zell's invitation and sat down across from me with a hot corn muffin and a cold glass of milk.
"What'd you end up naming him?" he asked her.
"I just can't decide," Aunt Zell sighed. "I thought sure I'd find a name in Paris, but he's too American to be a Jacques or a Pierre, isn't he? I think I've narrowed it down, though. Copperfield, because he was orphaned, too. Or Mowgli. Which do you think, Dwight?"
"What about Q?"
"Short for Barbecue," he said innocently.
I about strangled on my coffee.
Aunt Zell looked at me anxiously. "You all right, Deborah?"
"Or Pork Chop's a nice na— Ow!"
Dwight suddenly reached down and rubbed his shin.
My sandals weren't designed for effective kicking, but it's like building a house: one does what one can with the tools at hand.
Table of Contents
Prologue
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2
3
4
5
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10
11
12
13
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