"No freakin' way."

"Better dog living through chemistry, Rollo. Plus, I have to do some kind of retraining program and spring for a crate, a few little sweater outfits, some kind of special food and medicated shampoo and skin lotion shit, plus a pair of clippers, maxi pads, a baby toothbrush, and God knows what else. I better win at poker Friday night, that's all I got to say."

"This is nuts, man! Isn't there some kind of shelter or rescue place you can take him?"

Thomas said nothing, and glanced over at Hairy. The dog had edged toward the passenger door in an effort to get as far away from Thomas as possible, and now stared down at the black tufted seat of the Audi, bony shoulders quivering.

A big lump of guilt lodged in Thomas's throat.

"Hey, Rollo? We had some pretty wild parties at the Theta Chi house, didn't we?"

"Absolutely. But what's that got to do with-"

"Did I ever get drunk and try to eat a baseball?"

The line went silent for a moment before his brother-in-law cleared his throat. "Uh, are you all right, man?"

Thomas knew he was a lot of things-beaten down with guilt over Slick's death, sporting a hard-on for a pet shrink with a fascinating braid, warm smile, and exceptional breasts, and completely baffled by how his life had turned into a never-ending episode of The Jerry Springer Show-but "all right" he was not.

"I'm fabulous," he said. "See you Friday. Don't forget my Cohibas."

"Wait! Don't hang up!"

Thomas sighed in annoyance because that's precisely what he was trying to do. "I gotta go, man."

Rollo's voice lowered to a whisper. "Did you just say maxi pads?"