“Walk them at your leisure,” he said, and rolled off. For once he didn’t gloat over his little victory.

I went to get the leashes and spent my afternoon trying to think of nothing but walking dogs.

10. Earthquakes, Nuclear Winter, and the End of Life as We Know It, over Linguini

My parents had a fight on the day I got demoted to dog walker. Maybe it was no worse than other fights they had over the years, but I noticed it a whole lot more. Maybe because seeing the Schwa’s sorry home life made me more tuned in to my own.

I heard them even before I walked in the door. They were screaming at each other like the Antonoviches two doors down, who would end our dependence on foreign oil if you could harness the sheer vocal energy of their fights.

“It’s the Big One,” Frankie said when I came in the door. “I estimate eight-point-six on the Richter scale. Better hold on to something.” He pretended to watch TV while listening to the fight.

Christina crouched by the kitchen door, sticking her nose in, and writing in her diary. “It began at five-eleven P.M,” she said. “Thirty-seven minutes straight, so far.”

“Red sauce?” I heard Mom yell. “I’ll give you red sauce!”

We all knew the Big One was a clear and present danger. For years we hoped the pressure could be released through smaller tremors, and for years it had worked. I was beginning to think maybe the Big One wouldn’t come at all.

“If it wasn’t for me, you’d all starve!” Mom yelled.

“At least we’d be out of our misery!” Dad shouted back.

The Big One was all about food. Mom was no slouch when it came to cooking—but, like I said, Dad stood in a league by himself. No parent I know—mother or father—could whip up dishes the way my dad did, but he didn’t often get the chance, because the kitchen was Mom’s. Dad might have been the Vice-Vice-President of Product Development for Pisher Plastics, but Mom was the Empress of Bonano Food Productions, and I pity the fool who challenges her reign.

Dad was that fool. It was his destiny.

Well, if the Big One was tonight, they picked the wrong day to have it. I had just walked fourteen dogs, been dumped by a blind girl, been dumped on by her grandfather, and right now I wanted a cold soda.

“Antsy, don’t go in there,” Frankie warned. “We ain’t got any body bags.”

I figured I could slip in and out unnoticed. The Antsy Effect was nowhere near as potent as the Schwa Effect, but in my own family, it worked just as well.

I pushed my way past Christina, who was scribbling her life away in the diary, logging her impressions of the battle for future generations.