Page 31 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“Okay,” I say. “Now just—stay right there. Don’t move.” I hold out my palm to him, like I do when my stop sign isn’t enough and I need an extra hand signal to get a car to stop.

And suddenly,the dog pops up on its hind legs and starts walking around on my bed like a person.

Wait, what? Forget whisperer.

I am a goddamn dogwizard.

I put my palm down. The dog goes back on all fours. I hold my palm up again. Dog stands on two legs.

Am I imagining this? Are thesecircusdogs?? Why did Cran havecircusdogs???

I turn and hold my palm out to the dog lying on the floor. Nothing. It just lets out a huge sigh. Too depressed for tricks, I guess.

Then I turn around and hold my palm out to the dog who was licking the floor, and that’s when I notice he’s turned his full attention to me. He is, in fact, making very intense eye contact with me. Weirdly intense. He hunches a little bit, and I wonder if this is another trick.

And then, maintaining eye contact, he very slowly starts to hunch even more...

“No,” I whisper.

... as if he’s about to...

“Nononononono,” I plead.

... take a crap...

“Please no,” I say, trying politeness.

... right on my floor.

“Don’tdrop it,” I say, trying dog-speak.

Desperate, I hold up mystopsign.

The dog just stares, wide-eyed. There is a delicate plop, and heleaves an actual turd right on the hardwood. He kicks his feet a couple times and sits down next to it proudly.

“You are never getting pepperoni again,” I whisper. The other two dogs start barking with abandon, congratulating the pooper, I suppose, as I wave frantically for them to keep it down. Stopping Roy from seeing the dogs is one thing, but keeping him from hearing them is something else entirely.

I quickly dispose of the evidence and throw open the windows, but the odor of stress-poop is still overwhelming in my little studio. I’ve been a dog owner for five minutes, and already I do not see why anyone would voluntarily choose this life. I must be missing something.

How do I get them to not poop on my floor?

The answer comes so quickly, I can’t believe I even had to ask: I’ll buy their love.

I hit the internet and place a DoorDash order for a few things: a weird toy you put peanut butter in, “bully sticks,” which I’m thrilled to say are actual bull penises, and Himalayan yak chews, which look like string cheese for dogs, and which the internet assures me will keep them occupied for at least a full hour. I realize with a sinking feeling that keeping these dogs flush in other animals’ penises is going to beexpensive. Hopefully this will be a one-penis sort of stay, just until I can figure out what to do with them.

First step, I look up the closest police precinct and dial the number, wishing I’d kept that cop’s card after all.

A bored-sounding receptionist answers.

When I tell her I need to talk to somebody about a dead person’s stuff, she sounds a littlelessbored and transfers me to the cop on duty.

“Yelloooo, Detective Mierzwiak,” says a deep voice on the other end.

I quickly explain that I need to get the three poodles to Cran Johnston’s next of kin.

There’s a pause, and then he says, “Lady, I’m a cop, not a dogsitter.”

And then he hangs up on me.