Otto sat in front of his flatscreen, watching an advertisement for hair growth, well, until Frank called.
"What are you doing?"
Otto was honest. He mentioned hair growth.
"I tried that stuff. It doesn't work." Frank was bald. "I've even tried it on the dog.”
Frank's Basset hound, Moses, did have a number of bare, pink spots, alternating with white-and-tan hair.
"Are you doing anything?" It was another Saturday morning and another of Frank's Saturday calls.
"I'm watching something about bladder leaks." One advertisement followed another.
"No, Otto. I mean, do you want to go out?"
Otto thought of his front door, the sidewalk, and the street beyond. And of walking with Frank and Moses.
"I might go down to RICO'S," said Frank.
That would be something to do.
RICO'S BARBER SHOP was a no-nonsense place, a one man operation. To stand in front, watching the thin barber cut hair, was pleasant, at least to an observer.
"I think he took off this weekend, Frank."
He was right. It was the one weekend a year Rico went to a barber convention.
"We could go to RALPH'S." Frank was full of Saturday ideas.
Otto fantasized the three of them walking to RALPH'S COIN-OPERATED LAUNDROMAT. Although Ralph hadn't cleaned the front plate-glass window, an outside observer could get a decent look inside.
Half an hour later, they were in front of RALPH'S. Otto recalled Moses seeming less pink the last time he'd seen him.
"He's been scratching a lot."
As though on his owner's cue, Moses began going after himself with his right rear leg.
"Look, there's Gwen." Frank pointed.
She and Otto had once gone out. Gwen bent into a dryer, removing several pink sheets. Then, pink towels.
And there was Old Man Cromwell, who Frank disliked. Cornelius Cromwell had tried to throw turpentine over Moses once. So what if the dog had peed over Cromwell's forsythia when it was in bloom? Basset hounds aren't great urinators anyway.
"Look at his underwear."
Otto didn't particularly want to. On his flatscreen, he could have seen far better and more attractive underwear at that exact moment. Next week, he might watch Rico chop someone down to size. Now, he was forced to choose between a Bassett hound drawing blood, Old Man Cromwell's torn undershirts, or Gwen pounding on a change machine that swallowed whatever she put into it.
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David Sydney is a physician. He has had pieces in Little Old Lady Comedy, 101 Words, Microfiction Monday, 50 Give or Take, Friday Flash Fiction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, R U Joking, Entropy Squared, and Rue Scribe.