Penny had Fido out for a walk when she saw another woman jogging down the sidewalk towards them. It was too late for her to cross the street; the woman was approaching too quickly. Penny tightened her grip on Fido’s leash and hoped for the best.
The best, unfortunately, isn’t what she got.
As soon as the jogger entered their personal space, Fido lost it: Barking like mad, jumping up on the woman, licking her. He peed all over the place out of excitement.
Penny tried in vain to control Fido, scolding him profusely while offering a weak “Sorry, sorry about that, it’s OK–he’s friendly, he won’t bite, he likes people, he just wants to play” to the other woman as she attempted to disentangle herself from Penny and Fido while not slowing her pace. She finally broke free, offering them both a disapproving glare.
Penny’s shoulders dropped, her muscles slackened. “Well, THAT was embarrassing” she muttered half to herself, half to Fido while he just stared at her, drooling.
Penny finally realized that all her friends and family were right: The boy needed therapy. She had denied it for the longest time because she felt like most of Fido’s problems were her fault, which meant she probably needed therapy, too. After all, what kind of woman names her son Fido, then enables his delusions by taking him for walks on a leash?
Penny spun herself and Fido around, reversing course to head back home. She needed to set up an appointment for both of them. And, she needed to give Fido his nightly Beggin’ Strips treat or else he’d tear the house apart.