After a night of restless sleep with the nefarious demon Anxiety and wiping away somaticized sweat, I awoke groggily and bleary-eyed on an early Saturday morning, to a familiar sensation and subsequent conundrum. Arrrgggg…is that just some gas…or is that something more? On most occasions, as an amateur methane meteorologist, I’m fairly adept at predicting the strength of such storms, and my natural barometer (among other sensors) can give me an accurate picture in most situations. Unfortunately, on a dawn like this one, the waters were a bit murky so to speak, if such a phrase isn’t too gauche despite its relevance. Comfortable in my current position and trapped between the two sleeping bodies of Rhonda and my furry friend Flukeman, I now had to weigh the potential risks and rewards of my options. Hmmm…it definitely feels like gas…but there seems to be a bit of something else going on there. I could have momentarily played with the dials and tweaked a release valve, just to study the reaction and obtain a little more data…but as I had learned from past occurrences, such a simple measure could lead to disastrous results. Yeah, I’ve lost that bet before. And it’s not pretty. So, erring on the side of caution, I conducted a set of agile gymnastics in order to both leave the bed and not disturb its present occupants, and I made my way to the bathroom. After my successful sojourn, I was on my way back to peaceful slumber when I noticed the clock on the wall (which has ironically become a bit of an anachronism with each generation that follows). It took a second or two for my crusty brain to fully decipher the message being relayed by those two hands, which at that moment seemed to be as complex as a semaphore tower. The time was now 8:15 A.M., it appeared to say…

I finally opened my eyes at the realization of being tardy, experiencing a moment of panic not unlike when a college student suddenly becomes aware of a forgotten exam. “Awww, shit! I’m going to be late! She’s probably already there and waiting!”

Skipping the morning shower, I rushed back into the bedroom and surreptitiously dressed myself, not wanting to awaken Rhonda. With a quick pat on the slumbering Flukeman and with keys in hand, I quietly made my way out of our home, and with a need for haste, I ran down the stairs of the northwest stairwell in order to promptly exit the building. Per the weekly ritual that had been established, I grabbed three coffees on the way from Dunkin Donuts, stacking them into a large paper bag. Even though Little Peru doesn’t have a taste for most fast fare of the American diet, it still resides in the northeast corner of New Jersey, where a law dictates the installment of a DD every 1000 feet. One can claim that Puerto Rico is the home of Burger King and rum, and upon a similar observation, it can also be said that New Jersey is the home of the tomato and Dunkin Donuts (or White Castle, depending on who you ask). Their coffee and stations’ gasoline are the two types of fuel that drive all traffic on the turnpike. Rejecting the chain’s experimental failures labelled as pastries and with my hot beverages in hand, I briskly walked down the empty streets of quiet Little Peru, heading towards my rendezvous near the cliff’s edge. For the most part, I didn’t encounter a soul except for the odd Hispanic hipster on a skateboard (who wears a Goya shirt instead of the standard Wonderbread one) and the ubiquitous Hispanic mothers who bear the Sisyphean task of pushing their family’s laundry cart to the local laundromat. After a few quick turns, I finally came within sight of the small dog park that was my destination. Snugly inserted between the driveways of two adjacent homes, it was a small rectangular plot that hugged the edge of the cliff, only a few dozen feet in length and less than that in width. Trees served as bookends on either side, with one half of the park being dirt for its canine visitors; the other half had benches and concrete for those who walked on two feet, with the seating turned towards the view of the Manhattan skyline and the Jersey riverfront one hundred feet below. When I got close enough, I recognized two fuzzy faces staring at me through the gate, letting out barks that beckoned and welcomed me to their version of a clubhouse. Ah, they’re both here this time. Spotting the second dog, I realized that I was wise in bringing the third coffee.

“Okay, guys,” I shouted at a moderate volume, so that I wouldn’t awaken those in nearby homes. “I hear you, Herbert and Fünf. I’m almost there.”

With rampant pawing and crowding of the entrance, I managed to push my way past wagging tails and closed the gate behind me. They were an interesting pair of pets, to be sure. The smaller one Herbert was an odd-looking dog; he was a mix of a weiner dog and some sort of hound, whose body and inherent kinematics seemed to be the result of some mad scientist’s assembly. Having an exuberant personality, he somehow remained lithe and springy, despite a compact body and toothpicks for legs. His companion Fünf, on the other hand, was a towering figure of a dog and a bit more subdued. Unlike his hopping playmate and being more like a drunken friend at the end of a long night, Fünf preferred to lean against the legs of his companions and communicate his brotherly love with a sloppy smile and kind eyes. With the bag containing coffees in one hand, I leaned down to pat their familiar heads.

“For a second zere, I didn’t think that you ver going to show up! We were just about to leave. Fünf, get over here and leave Peter alone. You too, Herbert! Get over here!”

Without looking up and still in the midst of showering affection on man’s best friends, I responded to the calling voice. “Nah, no need. It’s okay. They’re just trying to say hello! And good morning to both of you, ladies. I apologize for running a tad late.”

A second voice, softer than the first, offered a response. “Oh, don’t vorry, Peter. We veren’t going anywhere. She just likes to be dramatic.”

Standing up straight once again, I turned my attention to the two ladies sitting on the bench in front of me. They were bundled in large coats as defense against a rather cool December morning and the arctic winds that slithered like vines up the face of the cliff. (Unlike his European cousin Eurus, the east wind of the Hudson never brings warmth but does remain unlucky for everyone, since it seems to have a nasty habit of only pursuing its duty in the tormenting thrall of winter. When needed most in the sublimating heat of summer, it seems to follow the crowds and head out on vacation.) Almost engulfed by their wardrobe, only the top portion of their faces were framed and visible from the puffy hoods of their down jackets, through which I could spot the glimmer of their kind eyes. Placing my own coffee on the seat next to me, I pulled the two remaining ones from the bag and held them before me.

“Ladies, you should never worry about my potential absence. Trust me: I wouldn’t even dare to miss one of our meetings.”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion. For those who wish to read previous chapters of The Condo Chronicles, the Table of Contents is available.