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head.
    â€œLulu?” she called again. Geoff rolled his eyes upward. He looked like a helpless fish.
    â€œI’m fine, Mrs. Lauterman,” I called upward, hoping that no more lights would go on in the complex. “Thanks for caring.”
    Mrs. Lauterman was very interested in my non-life. I picked up groceries for her once a week, and she responded with a proprietary (and not unwelcome) interest in my well-being. By standing on tiptoe at her window, or leaning precariously over her balcony, she had an excellent view of my front door and my patio entrance. She had bought the searchlight in order to improve her monitoring of my movements.
    â€œHot date?” she called down.
    Geoff groaned.
    â€œFar from it,” I said. “And might never be hot again. Good night, Mrs. Lauterman.”
    â€œNighty-night,” she warbled, turned off her light, and slammed her window shut with a bang that brought on more lights in the Mortons’, across the street. The Corellis’ light turned off at the same time. I gave a vague little wave in the direction of the Mortons’ window and turned away, wishing I were invisible.
    I left Geoff lying on the lawn and retrieved my keys from where I had dropped them. The garden gnome could rot in the gully, as far as I was concerned. I jammed the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Horatio should have greeted me with warm slurps and batty ears. Instead, he kept woofing at me, while backing himself into the space between the sofa and a bookcase. He barely fit, and he looked extremely silly. This was my security system: mucho macho barks from a big pussycat of a lousy watchdog.
    I threw my bag on the floor by the closet and started turning on lights. I heard Geoff lurch in through the door behind me.
    â€œClose the door, please,” I said, taking off my Ralph Lauren jacket, the one I had snagged for fifteen dollars at a consignment store, the one which now had Chardonnay and garden gnome yuck on it.
    I started toward the kitchen and then ducked, as an airbound mass of white fur crossed my line of vision. The gust of wind in the backdraft nearly knocked me over. Horatio, the ungrateful mutt. When I turned around, Geoff was lying on one of my Aubusson carpets (bought back in the days of Doggie Doggie Bow Wow) and Horatio was spread on top of him like a giant mound of tapioca on a toothpick, licking his face.
    â€œStop that, you obnoxious hairy mess” said Geoff. “I’m going to be sick.”
    I poured myself a Chardonnay and a glass of Scotch for Geoff, which I balanced on the carpet beside him, and wandered back to the living room. Let him suffer under the ministrations of Horatio. He deserved it, after sneaking up on me like that.
    I threw myself onto the couch and breathed in the upper layer of the Chardonnay. Geoff reached out for the Scotch I had put beside him, and finally his clawing fingers found it. Horatio was still sprawled on top of him. Geoff raised his head weakly and inhaled the glass. Then he breathed into Horatio’s face. Darned dog has always been a teetotaler. He shook his whiskers in disgust, backed off and headed towards me. I braced myself.
    Horatio zoomed up to me and ploughed his head into my stomach. After I caught my breath, I scratched his ear, and he got happy and collapsed on the floor beside the couch. He was so adorable, even though he was ten times the size of the usual puppy and was going to end up being a bag dog to my bag lady if he kept eating me out of house and home, without any dog food residuals to back us up.
    Geoff, across the room, continued to rest quietly on the floor, while he downloaded the rest of his Scotch.
    For a few moments, the room was quiet, except for Horatio’s slurping, mushing noises, the usual gee-I’m-cute sounds from an oversized animal who looks like a huge hairy marshmallow.
    â€œI know you did it, Lu,” said Geoff quietly.
    I froze. My wine glass almost slipped