Unleashed (A Sydney Rye Novel, # 1) Read Online Free Page B

minute. Let’s discuss it over the ‘who’s for’.” Hugh disappeared into the kitchen. “Who’s for” is what my family has always called hors d’oeuvres, as in “who’s for some hors d’oeuvres?” According to my grandmother, it is an established expression, but I don’t know anyone else who uses it.
    Munching on Gruyère cheese puffs and mushrooms stuffed with duck sausage, I explained about Charlene’s drastic change, her quick decision, and the sweat on her hairline.
    “Do you see what I mean by weird?” I asked them.
    “The whole thing is weird,” James said, then finished off the last of his drink. “I don’t think you should do it. You know that means cleaning up dog shit all day.”
    “But,” I argued, “it’s good money and I don’t have to deal with people, which we all know I’m not so good at.”
    “You’re fine with people,” James waved off my suggestion with a half-eaten mushroom cap. Hugh gave him a look.
    “I’ve got an envelope that tells me what to do.”
    “An envelope?” James raised an eyebrow.
    “Yes, an envelope that has all the information and keys I need.” I pulled it out of my bag. “So I start tomorrow.”
    “You can’t argue with that.” Hugh admitted, refilling James’s glass.

 
     
    My First Day
     
    If Joanne Sanders passed me on the street, she would not recognize me as the person who had eaten seven of her cheddar-flavored Goldfish. She wouldn’t know that Snowball, her Pomeranian, had welcomed me into their home by showing me exactly where she liked to pee under the kitchen table. Joanne Sanders would not know that I worked for her because Joanne Sanders has never met me.
    Snowball, a ten-pound white puff ball with dark, almond-shaped eyes, was crated in a black cage with a leopard-print cover when I walked into apartment G5 on my first day as a dog-walker. Snowball looked like the recently imprisoned queen of a very small, safe jungle. Her subjects, in the shape of stuffed lions, tigers, and elephants littered the living room carpet.
    Joanne Sanders, a broad woman in her forties, posed with friends, family, and Snowball in photographs displayed on the mantel of the fake fireplace. She had shoulder-length brown hair and bangs teased high above her brow. I could picture her behind ten inches of bulletproof glass sneering at me with gloss-encased lips for filling out my deposit slip incorrectly.
    I fed Snowball half a cup of kibble and a spoonful of wet food as my envelope of information directed. She ate it quickly while making funny little squeaking noises. Once she had licked her bowl to a bright sheen, we headed out for my first walk as a dog-walker.
    I steered us off of East End Avenue and onto the esplanade that runs along the river. The water reflected the sun in bright silver glints. I smelled oil and brine. We reached Carl Schurz Park and turned into the dog run for small dogs. The gate leading into the run reached only to my knees, as did the rest of the fence designed to keep small dogs in and big ones out. A sign on the gate read, “Dogs over 25 pounds not permitted.” Ten dogs under 25 pounds, and one who was probably a little over, played together in the pen. Their owners, in groups of three or four, sat on worn wooden benches and talked about dogs. Snowball ran to join a poodle growling at a puppy. They intimidated it behind its owner’s calves. Then the poodle, a miniature gray curly thing with long ears, mounted Snowball. I turned to the river and watched a giant barge inch by.
    “Hi.” A woman wearing a fanny pack, pleated khaki shorts that started at her belly button and ended at her knees, black socks (pulled up), and clogs stood above me.
    “Hi.” I said back, raising my hand to shield my eyes from the sun.
    “You’re new.” She wasn’t asking a question.
    “That’s right.”
    “Taking over Charlene’s route.”
    “Right again.” She sat next to me.
    “How long have you been walking dogs?”
    “Not