It was late Friday afternoon when my dog Bruce walked into the front room carrying a paper sack in his front paws. "Say, Jim," he said, "I've got to go out of town this weekend. Could you watch my bag for me?"
I had only just come in, hadn't even undone my tie yet, and all I could do for a minute was sit on the couch and stare at him; I mean, this wasn't normal behavior for a Lab-Doberman mix. The conversation then proceeded along these lines:
Me: "You talked."
Bruce: "I did, yes."
Me: "But dogs can't talk."
Bruce: "Says who?"
Me: "Everybody!"
Bruce: "Everybody thinks they can win the lottery, too."
We went on like that, him countering my every claim just by standing there and talking, till I ran out of arguments. Then he said, "Now that that's settled, you're not busy this weekend, are you?"
"Well, no," I had to admit. Ever since Christine had left, my life had been pretty quiet.
"Great." With a toothy grin, he set the bag on my lap.
It oozed against my legs. "What's in here?"
Bruce gave it a poke. "Custard."
"Custard?"
"Yeah. You know: eggs, vanilla, milk, sugar. Custard."
I looked at the bag, then back at him. "But why?"
"Why? What do you mean 'why?'"
"Why custard? Why watch it? I mean, custard can pretty much take care of itself, can't it?"
"Not this custard." He came a step closer, his paws on my knees, his snout right up to my ear. "Enemy agents may try to take this custard while I'm out of town." He licked my cheek, then dropped onto all fours. "Well, see you Sunday." And he turned and trotted off into the front hall.
"Wait a minute!" I grabbed the bag as I stood up; it was warm and damp in my hands. "You can't come waltzing in here after three years of being just a dog, plop a bag of custard in my lap, and tell me I have to guard it from enemy agents! What enemy? Why custard? How in the--"
"It's better if you don't know," I heard him call. "Besides, they might not come, and you wouldn't want to get all worked up over nothing, would you? Just put the bag somewhere safe and don't tell anyone you have it. See you."
I ran into the hallway in time to see the front door swing shut, but when I pulled it open, Bruce was nowhere in sight. The yard was empty, the front gate closed, the street as quiet and shady as it could be with kids down the block screaming and playing tag around the parked cars.
After a minute of staring, all I could do was close the door with my elbow, my hands full of squishy paper sack, head back into the front room, and set the bag on the coffee table. The top was twisted shut, so I undid it to take a look. Off-yellow, smelling softly of vanilla, it was custard all right. I started to wonder how Bruce had managed to make it, but I put the brakes on that train of thought; dogs baking custard is very near the top on my list of things not to think about. So I wondered instead where I should put it.
The refrigerator seemed best. But that would be too obvious, the first place an enemy agent would search.
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