I have just finished reading Kristan Higgins' Just One of the Guys and it is an amazing piece of chick lit. Hilarious in fact, judging from the number of guffaws the book wrung out of me in public places like the MRT and the bus.
Here is an excerpt. It's a bit on the long side, but read it to the end!
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Stop it, Chastity. He's perfectly nice. Get your panties out of the twist. He's still talking, and I smile and nod and take a sip of water.And then I hear something..... something familiar, though too far away to identify. A quiver of foreboding buzzes through my legs. That sound in the distance affects me...or is about to.
"Do you hear that?" I ask Ryan, tipping my head toward the window.
"No," he answers. "It's pretty loud in here."
I can't quite make out the dark shape rounding the corner, but my sense of foreboding grows.
"What is it?" Ryan asks.
"I don't...I'm not...oh, shit! Buttercup!"
"Aaaahhroooorooooroooo!"
And yes, my dog is galloping--galloping!-- her huge ears flapping, jowls rising and falling with each stride, enormous paws flopping gracelessly on the pavement as she runs--runs!--right down the middle of the street. This from a dog who has to be dragged to go outside!
And on her hindquarters, in order to prevent little drops of blood from spattering my house, is a pair of Matt's bright white Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Her tail, which is guided through the front slot of the briefs, whips back and forth. I sit frozen in horror as she careens onto the sidewalk right in front of Eno's.
"Why is that doggie wearing underwear?" asks a little girl.
"Oh, my God!" I stand abruptly, bumping the table. Ryan's water sloshes. "How did she get out? She's never gotten out before! I told the boys--"
My precious puppy, all one hundred and twenty pounds of randy, menstruating she-dog, leaps up against the window, front paws leaving great muddy smears against the glass, baying with joy at having sniffed out her mistress. "Aahroorooroororooo!" she sings, head thrown back in ecstasy.
"Dear God," Ryan says.
I stare open-mouthed. "Um...I think I'd better...that's...that's my dog"
"Dear God," Ryan says again.
I'm already weaving my way through the restaurant toward the bar. People are either laughing or frowning as Buttercup continues to serenade me. The maitre d' and two servers are pointing and talking.
"I'll take care of this!" I tell them. "She's mine. She must have tracked me here. She's part bloodhound. She's in heat."......
As I burst out of the restaurant, Buttercup decides she's not ready for capture. She leaves the window, tail whipping and trots away from me, boxers gleaming, and stops to sniff a tire.
"Buttercup...here girl!" I call, trying to sound relaxed and happy to see her.
Just then, a pickup truck comes around the corner. Matt's behind the wheel, while Trevor leans out the window, calling my dog's name. Both of them are contorted with laughter. Buttercup trots a few feet farther away. "Buttercup!" I croon. "Come on! Cookie! Salami! Want some salami? Huh, girl? Come on, Butterbaby!"
Ryan comes out of the restaurant. "What is she wearing?" he asks.
"My brother's underwear. Um, let's just try to catch her," I say.
Matt pulls up to the curb and gets out, wiping his eyes. "Sorry Chas. She escaped."
"Yes, I got that."
Trevor gets out, too, staggering, wheezing. "She found you," he manages. "She loves her mommy."
"Oh, shut up." I say, though I can't help grinning. "Don't chase her. Pretend you have a cookie or something." Buttercup stops twenty feet ahead and stares at us suspiciously from her yellow eyes. Her tail wags tentatively, but her shoulders are tensed for flight, possible for the first time in her young life. "Very slow, boys, very casual."
"Roger that," Matt says. "Come to Daddy, sweetheart." We start creeping down the sidewalk. Quite a crowd has gathered at the window of the restaurant as people watch to see the capture.
"Butterbaby! Come on, honey!" I call. She sniffs the sidewalk and flops down, apparently done for the night. "I'm so sorry about this," I say, glancing at Ryan. He's staring in consternation at my dog.
"Not at all," he murmurs insincerely.
"Who's my pretty puppy?" Matt says, pretending to hold out a treat. "Do you want a cookie?" She lets him approach. Trev, Ryan and I hold back. Just as Matt reaches out to grab Buttercup's collar, she twists away, lurches to her feet and makes a dash for freedom. "Aaaahhrooooroooorooo!" She heads toward the three of us, then dodges out into the street.
"Grab her, Chas!" Matt yells, but my dog darts past me with surprising agility, past Ryan, past Trevor, who just misses her, and continues down the street. From behind her, I can see the red splotch of blood on Matt's underwear.
"Holy crap!" I blurt, bursting into laughter. "Come on!" I start running. Buttercup is a half block ahead, and I'm laughing so hard it hurts. "Buttercup!" I call in between gasps. "Come to Mommy!"
Matt crosses the street to try to flush our dog toward me, but she's too far ahead. Behind me, Trevor is staggering unhelpfully, laughing so hard he can barely remain upright. A passing car slows down , and Buttercup shifts to Matt's side of the street, stopping to sniff a parking meter. Her ears prick with sudden alertness, and I glance up ahead. "Shit! Catch her, Matt!" I yell.
Up ahead is a tiny Yorkshire terrier on a leash, being walked by a rather plump man.
"No Buttercup!" Trevor calls. "You'll kill him, girl!"
My laughter goes silent, tears streaming down my face. "Buttercup! Salami!" I manage, clapping my hands, trying to get my dog's attention. It doesn't work.
The Yorkie owner is peering into the window of an antiques shop and doesn't seem to sense the imminent danger posed to his tiny dog.
"Mister! Hey, buddy!" Matt calls. "She's in heat! Pick up your dog! Pick him up!"
