Photo: Keith Kreates
“What’s he doing?”
Martha shrugged.
“What’s in there?”
She tilted her head at him, and he demurred. She was clearly occupied. She had a bone to pick and he knew that if he pushed her with one more question she’d snap his head off. Or try.
He wasn’t going to let her try.
He moved closer to his friend.
“Dobbie?” he asked the headless figure. Did she snap his head off already? No, there was a tail wag. He didn’t think Dobbie would wag his tail if he didn’t have a head. He’d be too sad. No sniff. No lick. No yum.
“What’d’ya doin’ in there?”
The tail paused, then gave a halfhearted, one-sided sway. A sign?
“You stuck?”
Hesitant then enthusiastic wag.
“How’d you get stuck there?”
There was probably no way to wag an answer to that. Not to mention that Dobbie found a way to get stuck just about anyplace. Between the legs of a chair. Under the bed. With a garbage bin over his head. …
Max sniffed. There had to have been some food up there. Dobbie never could resist anything gobbleable. Max sniffed again. Traces. It’d be all gone by the time Dobbie realized he should’ve planned a way out before he stuck his head in.
Dobbie’s tail wagged in half-regret, half-plea.
Max sighed.
“Hold on, Dobbie! I’ll get Com’eer!”
Na'ama Yehuda 
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