Our rental agreement says it all: No Pets Allowed in Complex. So the recent postcard from Classic Pet Grooming comes as something of a surprise.
This is, of course, how you learn about your predecessors -- the mail that escapes the forwarding notice. The former residents here had a penchant for merchandise (or at least catalogs) from Victoria's Secret. They went camping, had a GMC truck and a child who tried to drink water out of the toilet (this I inferred from the velcro closure, not from the unforwarded mail).
The postcard is a second notice from Classic Pet Grooming. Not only is the postcard red and dangerously cute; it is addressed to one Oleo Harris. Oleo. Dear Oleo. A vain butterball of a pup. A pup that has his luxurious pelt styled quarterly. A discreet, well-groomed pup living a pampered but clandestine life in a No Pets Allowed complex.
Our canine pal Oleo, well-groomed or not, would explain all the fleas that had taken up residence in the brown carpeting when we moved in.
I picture a dog the size and shape of a bowling ball. A flea-infested bowling ball, tumbling down the narrow stairs and bouncing off the walls of the tiny rooms.
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