I paced in my masculine cave while my wife, Camilla, made calls to close friends and family members; had anyone seen Chico? She hadn’t come home last night.
“It takes a lot of gall to stay out all night,” I said into my tape recorder. This wasn’t like Chico; she was usually so friendly, dependent, and patient. “Not like her at all.” I trailed off into the broken tape recorder. This space had often been my place of solace over the years. My leather-bound vintage pornography collection, my fish tanks, my comfortable chair. None of these things brought me any comfort now. I had to demolish the master bedroom and Camilla’s powder room to have it built, but sacrifices had to be made. Camilla complains about sleeping on the pool table but I have never been happier and that’s all that truly matters. Then I heard a Camilla scream.
I ran up the stairs, expecting the worst. Maybe the milk had gone bad or Camilla had chipped one of the billiard balls while bathing them.
“There she is! There’s Chico!” Camilla proclaimed looking out of the large bay windows that faced the street. The door opened and Chico sauntered in. All 110 pounds, 100 inches of her. Her elegant stride of a born noblewoman. Chico, my Great Dane.
“Chico!” I yelled with more relief than anger in my voice. “Where have you been?”
