“Stay away, Winkly!” came a woman’s voice annoying as nails on slate. “It’s a dirty bum! He’s probably got lice and diseases that would be bad for a good little doggie like you!” A slingshot-like reflex shot Fanshawe bolt upright on the path and pried his eyes open. Moving shapes formed in the block of blazing sun. Oh, no… “Winkly! Stay!” Fanshawe could’ve been rising from a coffin; the back of his head beat like an overburdened heart. When vision formed, a yapping poodle hopped around at the end of a taut leash. Frowning above it stood the woman in tights he’d seen before, but today the tights were rainbow-striped. Pocks of cellulite showed through the adhesive fabric, and so did rolls of fat around her belly as though tubes had been wrapped about her waist. I have a feeling this ISN’T a nightmare, Fanshawe thought. Over-mascara’d eyes looked down as if he were the lowest form of life on earth. The poodle—Winkly—yapped and yapped and yapped, stretching its lead.
