A mix of sounds start coming from the room. The maid crying out. Brando barking. Something hitting the ground. More barking.
“Brando,” I call, but I don’t expect him to come. When there is a ball involved, all his training vanishes. Very convenient.
I run into the room to find the maid cowering in the corner, holding the mop in front of her in a defensive stance. Brando is ignoring her completely and chases the ball below the small coffee table in the corner. I bend as if to get the ball and hit the table with my hip, which wobbles and tips to the side. A big glass bottle of liquor falls to the floor, crashing. Brando yelps and runs to hide under the bed.
“Get the dustpan and some rags, quickly,” I say to the maid and kneel between the bed and cupboard as if trying to get the dog.
