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Guinevere didn’t accept that. She raced around to the other side of the car. She tried to climb in and onto Van’s lap.
It had even less room, especially because it was tucked under the steering wheel. Guinevere didn’t get anywhere near his lap. All she managed was to shove her head into the perfect vantage point to shower him and his suit with her slobber.
Mary finally arrived at the car.
“Help me.” He used both hands to press Guinevere’s head a little farther from his nose. “In the best of circumstances, I might be able to lift her away. These are not the best of circumstances.”
He grunted as one of her giant paws pushed off from his stomach while Mary tried to shoulder the Saint Bernard back from the Jag door. She finally succeeded.
Van cast his eyes skyward. “Thank you.”
He’d spoken too soon, though. Guinevere turned on a postage stamp — how could a Saint Bernard maneuver that fast? — and circled around Mary, back to the car. She reared up to dangle her front paws over the door. She thrust her head once more in front of his nose, although at least this time she wasn’t trying to force all of herself into the car and onto Van as the bridge to Lancelot.
Van didn’t want her head between him and the steering wheel any more than he wanted all of her there.Whensheturnedherheadandlickedhimwith her big Saint Bernard tongue, he knew he reallydidn’t want her head there.
“Guinevere, come on, baby.” Mary bent over underGuinevere’sfrontlegs,straightenedandstepped forward. That left Guinevere draped over Mary instead of the car door. Mary staggered a little. At last, Guinevere co-operated and dropped back onto all fours.
She lumbered to the other side of the car, from which Lancelot had been watching the goings-on with bright-eyed interest. She woofed.
Lancelot bayed back and clambered on top of the baggage piled on the car seat. He looked at the side of the car and the balancing act he’d have to perform, with his shape and stature, to get out and down. He hesitated, whining.
Guinevere woofed and stationed her broad back besidethecar.Lancelotlaunchedhimselftoherback and on down to the ground. They stood, sniffing, noses locked happily to each other’s nether regions — or as close to that as was possible, considering Guinevere’s big head and Lancelot’s low stature.
Marytookadvantageofthedogs’preoccupationto openVan’scardoorandinvitehimtostepout.Hedid so, slowly. “Hello,” he said. “I think you might rather I not hug you, because I’m covered in dog saliva — ”
Shejumpedtothrowherarmsaroundhisneckand kiss him. “Pooh on that. It’s wonderful to have you here.” She released him, ran to the back of his car and popped the trunk. “You don’t have much.”
“Movers,” Van mumbled. “Later. Sometime. Maybe. Just a few things now.”
She pulled out the duffle bag and started for the house, but Lancelot blocked her way and nudged the hand carrying the bag with his nose.
“I don’t know, honey. I think this is too big and too heavy for you.”
Lancelot nudged her hand again. She capitulated, placing the handles in his mouth.
Van stopped his gaping long enough to thank the Powers That Be for one of Lancelot’s less-slobbery days. Some — dampness — on his duffle bag was inevitable, though. Oh well.
Lancelot raised his head as high as it would go. He kept the bag off the ground, more often than not at least, and trotted happily into the house.
Sheesh. The little guy was taking no chances on Van chickening out. Van wasn’t getting moving on the moving in fast enough, so the Basset Hound was doing it for him.
As Mary grabbed one of his boxes, Van felt something wet and quivering thrust itself into his hand. Guinevere. Or her nose, at least. When he felt her powerful jaws close gently around his hand and tug, he was so surprised he let her lead him. Which she did. Across the driveway, along the sidewalk and up the stairs. Into the house. Down the hall and into Mary’s office.
What the — ?
Guinevere led him to an overstuffed armchair he didn't recognize. A man chair? Installed as a welcome gift? It was the most comfortable-looking thing he had ever seen. Strange too with an electronic keypad sticking up on a stalk on the side of the chair. Guinevere tugged him into turning around, then nudged him backward. He had to sit down. So he did. So did she, beside him and the chair. She watched until he checked out the keypad and pressed a button.
The chair attacked. It whirred. It groaned. It leaned him back and lifted his feet, leaving him all but helpless. Strange, rolling protuberances thrust themselvesoutfromthebackofthechairanddugintothe flesh around his spine and whump-whumped on his shoulders. He started to scramble out of the chair, but the leg-size indentations in the footrest clamped around him and hung on.
Thankheavenshedidn’tscream,becausesoonthe rollers in the back of the chair were feeling mighty fine. Especially when the little devils went straight for the small of his back. Ohhhh, that felt good. He squirmed to arrange himself better. Ahhh.
And ahhh that he didn’t have to explain to anyone why he’d let a massage chair scare him half out of his wits. He melted back into the chair, knowing a look of ecstasy covered his face.
He half-opened one eye. The mammoth dog was staring steadily at him. Then she dipped her head, and he could swear it was a nod of approval.
Sheseemedsureeveryoneelsehadthismoving-in thing under control. He settled back. He groaned with renewed pleasure.
Maybe he should move in again tomorrow.
