So I closed my purse.
“All right. We’ll go.”
Then I glanced toward the golden retriever beneath the nearby table.
“But that dog is allowed.”
“The people at that table ordered lunch.”
I looked back at him.
“So this isn’t really a rule about dogs.”
His eyes narrowed.
“My name is Christopher. This is my business. I decide how it operates.”
Benny leaned against my leg.
I should have left then.
Maybe part of me would have, if Christopher had stopped talking.
He didn’t.
He looked down at Benny with obvious disgust.
Then he said, “Frankly, your dog is old, unpleasant-looking, and barely seems able to stand. That isn’t exactly the image people expect in here.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t respond.
Benny began trembling.
I bent down and picked him up.
His little body curled against my chest.
“He’s fourteen,” I said quietly.
