Molly & Milty — A Love Story

By Ken Luber
Idyllwild author

Editor’s note: This is the third of several installments of a short story local author Kenneth Luber has written. See the last two Town Crier for the other installments.

“I know what you’re going to say,” I quickly jumped in. “‘Milton had no idea of its sentimental value,’ but I’m just sayin,’ it looks like Floppy Ears chewed on it, too.”

Fred did nothing, absolutely nothing to that dog. No limit on doggie treats. No outside playtime curfew. Nothing. Can you believe it?

“He’s a rescue dog,” That’s all Fred said. “He was beaten and abused by the people he was with, so we’ve got to be very gentle with Milty.”

Okay, I kind of get it. Suffering is something we’ve got to address, especially in the animal world, so I give Fred props for his sensitivity. But I really wish he wouldn’t call him Milty. It sounds cuter than the big horsey dog he really is. I mean, someone’s got to be honest with Mr. Duparlo. That yowling at the door when he goes off to work drives me nuts. And guess what he said when I complained that Floppy Ears chews all his toys. I waited, with cat-like patience until Fred turned off the TV news before he grumbled, “It’s all rubbish.”

“Rubbish” was exactly my point! I seized the moment, leapt on to the arm of his chair, and vented. “I don’t want to be the negative one in this house, but I’ve got to tell you that Milton is shedding hair all over the place.” I gave a quick glance to the Brown Mound of Hound (I sometimes call him that). He was sprawled on the couch, the black knob of his nose resting on a paw. I knew, even though I think he was looking straight at me — sometimes it’s hard to tell because I think he’s cross-eyed — which I definitely think is genetic and not the result of abuse.

Anyway, I knew that I could speak about him in his presence because he doesn’t understand cat talk, let alone Cat-English. Fred is always shouting different commands and Floppy Ears just keeps jumping up and down as if he’s trying to catch a stick or a Frisbee. I was very matter-of-fact with Fred. “Dog hair is all over Miss Betty’s favorite wingback chair and I noticed a trail along the bedspread in the guest bedroom. You’re gonna lose Margarita, the cleaning lady, who, must I remind you, has been coming to the house way before I got here and was one of your wife’s favorite people.”

What do you think Fred did when I voiced the hair complaint? He agreed with me. “Dogs shed hair. That’s part of their nature. Even you shed hair.”

I knew he might pull that trick so I was prepared. “Maybe a hair or two when I’m sitting in one place too long, but not bunches of hair you could make a mop out of!”

I saw him look over to Milton and wink. That really tweaked my whiskers. I went straight to the window, jumped up on the sill and watched the sun sink behind the blue and white house where I knew Princess Gabriella was dozing, unperturbed by a chocolate and white dappled hound that looked like he could knock over a hundred-year-old Christmas tree or chew it into granola. I shuddered.

Molly & Milty return next week.