Kate's ducking into the bar just long enough to leave a couple of notes; after a brief conversation with the counter, she gives Bar a fond smile, and turns to leave.
The little boy catches her eye, and she nearly does a double-take.
She's seen Bill's grade-school photos, thanks to June, but this can't be --
Can it?
Before she can approach him -- and what can she even say to him? -- the Front Door that Kate left ajar flies open, and Fatso streaks inside from Bill's front porch in Wheelsy.
Bill laughs under the attention, trying to duck away from the licking, and hang onto the wriggling dog. Turning Fatso over to Kate, Bill lifts his shirt to wipe his face with it.
"Yech, slobber."
Dropping the shirt, he looks up at the woman and shakes his head.
"No, he-- " Rembering the milk, Bill turns around to take in the mess, then gives Kate a sheepish look.
His expression seals it, and something tightens in Kate's chest. She knows that look, regardless of age and years, and if his features weren't enough of a clue, the accent is another indication she can't ignore.
She crouches to better wrangle Fatso, and to better talk with Bill.
"I'm really sorry," she says, her smile softening in apology. "Tell you what, let me get a leash for this guy, and I'll get you another glass to milk to make up for the spill. Sound good to you?"
The little boy catches her eye, and she nearly does a double-take.
She's seen Bill's grade-school photos, thanks to June, but this can't be --
Can it?
Before she can approach him -- and what can she even say to him? -- the Front Door that Kate left ajar flies open, and Fatso streaks inside from Bill's front porch in Wheelsy.
"Oh, Fatso, no -- "
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His eyes go wide at the dog, and then he smiles and laughs at its antics.
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Too late; an excited Fatso bounds toward Kate, nearly bowling her over when he plants his front paws on her stomach.
She makes a grab for his collar, but he zips away, darting to inspect the spilled milk and the smells of fried food.
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Bill hops down from his stool, seizing the dog's collar in both hands, and tries to drag him over to the lady.
"Are y'alright?"
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"I'm fine," Kate says, hurrying over to help. "Thank you -- he just gets so excited when he meets people."
She takes Fatso's collar in one hand, and gives the little boy a quick, bright smile.
"Are you okay? He didn't scare you, did he?"
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"Yech, slobber."
Dropping the shirt, he looks up at the woman and shakes his head.
"No, he-- " Rembering the milk, Bill turns around to take in the mess, then gives Kate a sheepish look.
"He might've some."
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She crouches to better wrangle Fatso, and to better talk with Bill.
"I'm really sorry," she says, her smile softening in apology. "Tell you what, let me get a leash for this guy, and I'll get you another glass to milk to make up for the spill. Sound good to you?"
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Bar provides a leash and a towel. Bill takes the towel and tries to clean up what's left of the mess.
"What's your dog's name?"
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"Oh, he's not mine -- he belongs to the neighbors. He's really friendly."
Kate holds out her free hand to take the damp, dirtied towel.
"He answers to Fatso."
Hearing his name, Fatso perks his ears, and waggles his entire back end.
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Laughing at the name, he reaches out to pat the dog.
"'Lo, Fatso. I'm Bill."
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"Bill, I'm Kate," she says, softly, while Fatso wriggles and wiggles to lick and nudge Bill's outstretched hand. "It's really nice to meet you."
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He's about to offer Kate his hand, but it's kind of covered in drool and fur now.
"S'nice t'meet you."
She gets a smile, and then Bill gestures towards his food on the counter.
"Can he have some ice cream?"
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Fatso tilts his head at the word treat, his brown eyes bright with hope; Kate can't help but chuckle.
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He looks disappointed for both he and Fatso, and gives the dog a 'sorry big guy' pat. Treats are good, too, though, and Bill smiles and nods at Kate.
"Alright, we'll ask Bar."
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Fatso wriggles, excited and eager, wrapping the leash around Kate's calves twice before she gets him somewhat under control.
Bar obliges, offering up a fresh bowl of water, and a small bag of peanut butter-flavored dog biscuits shaped like bones.
With a quiet thank you aimed at the counter, Kate passes over a packet of sanitizing hand-wipes to Bill, and settles on an empty stool.
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"I never thought 'bout that. Dogs don't brush their teeth."
It makes sense then, that Fatso shouldn't have any ice cream.
Bill takes the packet of wipes from Kate and makes a face.
"Baby wipes? M'not a baby."
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