Page 30 of The Grump Next Door
The soft clunk of hooves on wood.
Followed by a metallic rattle.
Followed by the unmistakable sound of something headbutting an innocent, helpless table.
I turn slowly.
George is standing triumphantly on the porch railing, one hoof planted on a crate of candles, the other on my clipboard. Helooks like a king surveying his domain. He lets out a sharp bleat, eyes wild, beard twitching.
And then heleaps.
Straight off the porch. Lands hard. Charges.
Right at Muffin.
Muffin—peaceful, aging, full of trauma and chicken-based treats—screams.
She doesn’t bark. Shescreams.
Then she runs.
She shoots past me like a cannonball, ears flapping. George is right behind her, hooves clacking, head lowered like this is the final round of a medieval jousting match.
“Oh no, no, no,” I shout, dropping a box of napkin rings. “GEORGE!”
They barrel down the lawn.
Around the floral arch-in-progress.
Through a cluster of folding chairs.
Past the beverage station.
And then—miracle of miracles—a car pulls into the driveway.
A black SUV.
Dean’s car.
He steps out, fresh from the city, still in a suit. Tie straight. Shirt crisp. Eyes tired.
And then he sees it.
A goat. Chasing his dog. His neighbor’s dog?
Across his property. Through a wedding venue.
His expression doesn’t change at first—just a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, like his soul is trying to exit through his teeth.
He sets his briefcase down. Removes his jacket. Rolls up his sleeves. And walks toward the chaos like he’s approaching a hostage negotiation.
“George!” I shout, running to catch up. “Stop! I swear to God if you eat another charger cable—”
Dean intercepts them on the side lawn.
He moves fast, to his credit. I’ll give him that. But George is… well,George.
Dean lunges for him once. Misses.
