Page 18 of The Cul-de-Sac War

Maybe it was because she was trudging over to his house for water five times a day. Maybe it was because he felt like he’d spent more time at her place than his these past few days, sorting out this water problem. Maybe it was because their cars sat a foot from each other in their pocket-sized driveways, and it happened to be impossible to walk outside without seeing her.

But it mattered to him that she knew he knew her name. Not just because they were neighbors, or even because right now he needed to get on her good side. It mattered.

And yet, since the moment he first stepped foot on his driveway five days ago, she acted as though they’d never met.

This bothered him in a way he couldn’t explain.

He stepped over the paint buckets and around several tubes of caulk on his way to the kitchen. As he turned the faucet on, he glanced up to the window above the sink. It had become a habit. The sky was a blanket of rolling gray clouds; the humble mountains spiked like the heart rhythm of an EKG from corner to corner.

The mountains within the Pacific Crest Trail were wild, untamed. The Rockies were sharp and dramatic and figuratively—and, if you were hiking, sometimes literally—took your breath away. The quiet, unassuming Blue Ridge Mountains were home.

He may not have heat. He may not have furniture. But the view was worth every penny.

He turned his head back in the direction of his neighbor, who watched the chickens as she ripped off another piece of jerky.

Russell must’ve heard the water filling the bucket, because the jingle of his collar sounded upstairs, and a moment later his nails tapped the stripped wood as the 230-pound English mastiff trotted down. Chip moved to the back door and picked up Russell’s empty water bowl. Back at the sink, he pushed the faucet to the left side. The bowl began to fill.

Then he heard it: a warble of words at the front door, a string of yelps and incomplete sentences from Russell and Bree. He dropped the bowl and it clattered in the sink, water splashing as he rushed toward the door.

“Russell! Down!” Chip yelled, trying to assess the damage.

All he could see when he reached the living room, however, was Russell’s enormous backside and the soles of Bree’s galoshes.

Chip mustered up his deepest voice. “Russell. Down. Now.”

The dog lay down on Bree, sniffing her face, neck, and arms. She grunted.

Russell was a well-mannered dog. He could sit. He could shake. He could stay by Chip’s side, racing obediently through a ride in the mountains.

But Slim Jims? Slim Jims were another matter.

“Russell,” Chip said, his teeth grinding as he grabbed the collar buried deep within the rolls of the dog’s thick neck. Russell licked the length of Bree’s face.

Bree squeezed her eyes shut and gave a muted shriek. Her arms, pinned to the porch by Russell’s haunches, strained to be free.

Chip yanked the dog, but it had the same effect as trying to move a bank vault by the handle.

Bree grunted as she attempted to shove him off before getting slapped, quite unfortunately, in the face with a stray bit of drool while Russell shook his feverish head.

“Uuuugh,” she groaned. She turned her face away from the dog as she cried out between her pressed lips, “Get. It. Off!”

“Impressive tone,” Chip replied, while giving another yank. “Now if only you could just redirect your frightening command from me to my dog—”

“It’s your dog,” Bree practically shouted. “Get your dog off me—”

But her mid-yelling spiel turned into a yelp as her eyes widened. Her whole face seemed to condense into her neck, like a turtle seeking shelter in its shell. Only, of course, her face had no shell to seek refuge in.

“Ohhh, that’s a doozy,” Chip said, seeing the cause. “Okay then.”

In spite of Russell’s terrific traits—true companionship, perfect manners—he did have one teeny, tiny flaw. Russell seemed to produce his weight in saliva every thirty minutes, and with nowhere to go, it pooled in his slack, sweet-natured jowls. In today’s case, the drool was lowering from his jaw by centimeters every second, inching closer and closer to landing squarely on her face.

It was time to take action.

Chip straddled Russel, dug his face into the dog’s neck, reached around his ribcage, and pressed as hard as he could to one side.

They tipped over, and Chip landed hard. His head pounded the concrete, and his back cracked under the weight of man’s best friend.

Russell rolled off like it was a circus act and ended up back on all fours.