these go to 11.

The party kicked off with the door opening just as the host’s upstairs neighbors walked their rat terrier off leash down the common stairs.  The host’s pit bull, who is small dog aggressive, bowling balled her way through the open door after the thing, and a few guests dashed after her.  Two women’s shoes flew backward into the front door before it slammed shut.  Crying commenced from the stairwell, but the closed door prevented us from seeing what had happened.  The four of us left in the kitchen stood there unblinking and wide-eyed, unsure of what to do and hopeful that the stairwell wasn’t spattered with dog blood.  

When the dog and host and guests returned, the dog had her tail tucked between her legs, the host was frowning as hard as he possibly could, the other guests tittered nervously, and the woman who was already drunk offered a weak smile and half closed her eyes.  But there was no blood.  The big dog had just cornered the little dog and growled at it, and the little dog’s owner had started crying.

The drunk woman was an attorney who had read something I’d written and called it “deliciously vulgar,” probably because she was drunk.  Then she asked me how old I was, condescendingly.  I should have told her I was fifty-seven.

The dog spent the night sulking and desperately following her owner around, her tail half tucked.  I tried to pet her, but she was inconsolable.  All she wanted was assurance that she was no longer In Trouble.