Spring Thaw

Doreen poured a cup of coffee and sank her chair: the Victorian parlor chair with red velvet upholstery that she'd scored curbside fourteen years ago. "Didn't pay a dime for it," she told visitors staring at this throne parked in the center of the cabin. She ran her hand across the armrest where Frodo had been allowed, nay, encouraged to chew freely and with gusto.

"My boy's teething," Dink would say, every time Doreen protested. She shook her head. That damn dog had been teething for nigh eight years.

"This chair is the best thing that ever happened to me," she said. And Dink, loyal vagrant of a husband, that part-timing, two-timing, constant-whining lazy-ass of a husband had let Frodo destroy it.

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