“If he does that, I can just pick him up,” Wilson said.

“I know I said it before, but sorry about this, Harry,” Schmidt said. “Dog sitting isn’t in your job description.”

“De nada,” Wilson said, and then rephrased at the sight of Schmidt’s puzzled expression. “It’s no big deal, Hart,” he said. “It’s like working on the shuttle. Someone’s got to do it, and everyone else has something more useful to do. Yes, I’m overqualified to watch the dog. That just means you don’t have to worry about anything. And that you owe me drinks after this.”

“All right,” Schmidt said, smiling. “But if something does happen, I have my PDA set to accept your call.”

“Will you please get out of here now and go be useful to someone,” Wilson said. “Before I have Tuffy here mate with your boot.”

Tuffy looked up at Schmidt, apparently hopefully. Schmidt left hastily. Tuffy looked over to Wilson.

“You leave my boots alone, pal,” Wilson said.

*   *   *

I have a problem, Wilson sent to Schmidt, roughly an hour later.

What is it? Schmidt sent back, using the texting function of his PDA so as not to interrupt the talks.

It would be best explained in person, Wilson sent.

Is this about the dog? Schmidt sent.

Sort of, Wilson sent.

Sort of? Schmidt sent. Is the dog okay?

Well, it’s alive, Wilson sent.

Schmidt got up as quickly and quietly as possible and headed to the garden.

“We give you one thing to do,” Schmidt said, as he walked up to Wilson. “One thing. Walk the damn dog. You said I didn’t have to worry about anything.”

Wilson held up his hands. “This is not my fault,” he said. “I swear to God.”

Schmidt looked around. “Where’s the dog?”

“He’s here,” Wilson said. “Kind of.”

“What does that even mean?” Schmidt said.

From somewhere came a muffled bark.

Schmidt looked around. “I hear the dog,” he said. “But I can’t see it.”

The bark repeated, followed by several more. Schmidt followed the noise and eventually found himself at the edge of a planter filled with fleur du roi flowers.

Schmidt looked over to Wilson. “All right, I give up. Where is it?”

Another bark. From inside the planter.

From below the planter.

Schmidt looked over to Wilson, confused.

“The flowers ate the dog,” Wilson said.

“What?” Schmidt said.

“I swear to God,” Wilson said. “One second Tuffy was standing in the planter, peeing on the flowers. The next, the soil below him opened up and something pulled him under.”

“What pulled him under?” Schmidt asked.

“How should I know, Hart?” Wilson said, exasperated. “I’m not a botanist. When I went over and looked, there was a thing underneath the dirt. The flowers were sprouting up from it. They’re part of it.”