Titles Are Overrated
The doorbell rings, followed by a series of rhythmic taps on the front door. My mom licks her fingers and runs to the door, tripping over our yapping dog that jumps around in the doorway. I peek around the staircase to get a look at our first guest. My grandma barges through the door, handing my mom a glass platter of Russian salad on her way in. She greets my dog and kneels down to pet her.
“Good dog, Margo. Good dog.”
I roll my eyes from the top of the staircase. A small yellow puddle slowly made its way through the cracks in the tile floor. Grandma gasped and mom scolded Margo. In the end, my family thinks the dog’s little bursts of yellow enthusiasm are endearing. I find it disgusting. I tiptoe back into my room and slowly shut the door.
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