Monday morning, after texting Trixie to stop bugging me, I stared in dismay at Misty, the little terrier that had been spray-painted fluorescent green, for some reason. I glanced at her owner.
“What happened here, Tony?” He and Misty were regulars.
Sheepishly, the man said, “My boyfriend was drunk. And then he…well.” He indicated the dog’s coat. “Is there anything that can be done?”
“Wait for it to grow out. I could shave her. At least it’s still warm out, so it won’t be so bad for her.”
Misty stared at me sadly through her unnaturally colored hair. “I know how you feel, sweetheart.” I rubbed the little dog’s back and waited on her human’s decision.
“Shave her, please. God, Mervin is an idiot.” I silently agreed. I mean, who does that?
“Okay. Why don’t you go out into the waiting are
