“What’s Dexter doing?” he asked, taking a break from shopping and cooking.
“He’s obsessed. The neighbors’ daughter is home with her two daschunds. When she lets them out they come charging toward our yard, then stop about two feet from the fence.”
“And, I don’t know. For the last two days he’s been sitting at the fence for hours just looking at their backdoor. I guess today it’s too cold, so he moved inside. He’s a dope.”
“It’s the equivalent of having two Playboy bunnies move in next door.”
“I suppose,” she said, with a slow blink.
Four days later his vigil continues, the desperation of his yearning so palpable she can’t help feeling sorry for him. Occasionally he turns and looks at her and lets out a long whine, while she imagines his loves sound asleep by the hearth, their long silky ears laid flat against the floor.