![]() She says, “Sure, I know you from Facebook. I walk back across the street, back to Biscuit’s front door, where the woman waits for me. He bolts back toward his home just as quickly as he had bolted away, running straight past the woman with treats, who now waves at her neighbor with a familiar smile, and he waves back, cigar between his fingers. He careens toward a bunch of bushes in the corner, getting close enough to brush up against them.Īnd out pops Biscuit. Now he’s criss-crossing the mower to different parts of his front yard, cutting diagonal stripes through his grass as he goes. He engages the blades, which takes the machine from a loud rumble to a total racket. He puts it into gear and takes off at top speed, heading my way. He climbs into the seat, turns the key, and it starts with a loud rumble. He stands up and walks over to an old ride mower that’s parked against his fence. I quickly start explaining myself and he waves my leaflet at me like he already understands the whole situation. I enter the backyard and immediately see a shirtless man sitting in a red lawn chair on a cement patio smoking a cigar. No one had answered, so I had left a leaflet and moved on. It was a house I had knocked about ten minutes earlier. I speak for the first time: “I’ll go around back.” She nods. She calls for Biscuit and waves the bag of treats. I cross the street and onto someone’s lawn. This whole situation is my fault so I follow her. She reappears with a bag of doggie treats and runs across the street, following Biscuit’s trail. She runs back inside her house, leaving me standing outside. He bounds across the lawn and disappears across the street. Here’s what happened at door 588.īefore she can speak, a small fluffy white dog bolts outside.
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