Page 43 of Their Pup to Tame

Phoenix licked his lips, eyeing the bowl with a mix of lust and excitement before he dug back in.

“We used to take the subway to Brooklyn for chowder and fish and chips on Sundays,” Aspen said, smiling at me. “All winter long, that was our ritual. There was a diner there, oh, what the hell was it called again? It had that blue-and-white awning with the anchor in the middle. You remember it, right?”

“Dragging Anchor,” I said, as an image of the awning popped into my head. “How the hell did we ever find that place?”

“Sebastian,” I reminded him. “He wanted us to come down to that bakery and help him pick out a cake for the party he was throwing Lukas to celebrate his promotion.”

“You mean the promotion he wound up not getting because the company filed chapter eleven and laid almost everyone off?” Aspen said. “I remember that now. We went with the matcha green tea cake with berries, though that black forest kept calling to me, so I went back and got one a few days later.”

“And didn’t share?” I said. “Wow.”

“In my defense, I intended to invite you over for coffee, but a midnight call set my nerves on edge, and by the time I finished dealing with the hot mess on the other end, I’d eaten half that cake. The rest didn’t make it to lunchtime.”

“If you were dealing with who I think you were, then I won’t hold it against you that you didn’t share.”

“Thank you. And I was,” Aspen replied.

“I swear I need something to do with my hands every time my cousin Kenny’s name pops up on my phone,” Phoenix said. “It’s worse in person, though. There are times when I just want to choke the shit out of him and deal with the consequences later. At least him being on the phone means I can’t reach him. I just wish he’d stop instead of being so damned impulsive all the time. He makes more bad decisions than anyone I know.”

“There’s always one,” I said. “In every friend group and family, and if someone doesn’t think there is, it’s usually because they are the dumb son of a bitch making piss-poor decisions.”

“Preach!” Aspen said, while Phoenix laughed and scooped more chowder onto his spoon. Aspen had broken out the deep soup spoons and even laid out cocktail forks for the course I’d be unveiling next.

“But you have to admit, they are easier to deal with than the ones hell-bent on turning every moment into a hold-my-beer opportunity,” Phoenix pointed out.

“Oh no, see, those are the folks whose social media feeds are constantly filled with reminders of why we don’t spend time together,” Aspen said. “I watch their shenanigans from behind a screen, where there is no chance of blood splatter, or any other unsavory bodily fluids, staining my clothes.”

“Man, it sounds like you’re describing a Broken Dolls concert,” Phoenix said.

“Might as well be,” Aspen said. “I’ve seen videos of what goes on at them, and that would be a hard pass from me unless the concert was taking place in a field with a hill at the back that I could sit on, well away from the carnage. At least then my ears wouldn’t ring for the rest of the night. I own a beautiful pair of binoculars, so I wouldn’t miss a thing. Broken Dolls were a favorite among several members of the set crew at my old theater and some of the techies too. Some days, I’d swear the theater walls were shaking while they blared them.”

“I’ve seen them a couple times,” Phoenix said, “always as close to the front as we could afford tickets for.”

“Like to get messy, pup?” I asked.

“You know it.”

Our conversation took on a series of meandering twists and turns involving the concerts we’d been to and the bands we’d seen, as I unveiled the bacon-wrapped jalapeño poppers with scallops and garlic butter shrimp stuffed with crab meat that served as our appetizers tonight.

“Best band you’ve ever seen live,” Aspen blurted, but only after he’d devoured two of the poppers.

Phoenix had gone straight for the shrimp after dunking it in the seasoned garlic butter I’d passed around in ramekins.

“Dude, I could eat nothing but these for the rest of my life and be completely happy,” Phoenix declared before he tried one of the poppers and his eyes went wide. “Never mind, forget I said anything at all. One thing will never be an option after tasting both of those.”

He actually wiggled around in his seat as he spoke before snagging another popper. With increasing frequency, I noticed his pup side shine through in tiny, subconscious moments that showed just how comfortable he was growing with us.

“You are going to have to narrow that question down,” I said. “Or break it into different categories. Because there is no way for me to pick one band. I can tell you what the best concert I ever attended was, but there were three bands that night, and every damn one of them sits at the top of my favorite bands list.”

“Okay, start there then,” Aspen insisted.

“It was Tattered Angel, Wild Child, and Bleeding Dawn,” I replied. “Back when Winter, Bleeding Dawn’s guitarist, was playing bass for Wild Child.”

“I’ve seen Wild Child several times,” Aspen said. “They’ve always put on a spectacular show.”

“Yeah, they do. Now, if you want me to pick the best single live performance I’ve ever attended, that would be Shriveled Rose. They headlined a festival that night. Good music all day long, but they were phenomenal.”

“They’ve always been one of my favorite bands,” Phoenix said. “I saw them eight times before the helicopter crash.”