101 Reasons to Hate Dogs

with thanks to Bill, Bob, and Dodie

 

“Not to state the obvious,” Selina said, “but I don’t really do dogs.”

Bruce’s mouth tightened—not a smile; never a smile. The German Shephard at his feet let a strand of slobber patter onto hundred-thousand-dollar loafers.

“It’s one night,” Bruce said. “I’ll be back from Santa Prisca in the morning. I see no reason why you can’t—”

“I can think of a hundred reasons,” she said. “One: It smells.”

“He doesn’t smell.”

Selina’s lips curled. “And you don’t think it’ll raise any eyebrows?” she said. “Me, traipsing around with Batman’s dog?”

“Batman doesn’t have a dog,” he said. “Bruce Wayne has a dog.”

“How the hell is that better?” she asked.

Bruce kneeled, scratching the dog behind one ear. “Ace is a good dog,” he said. “You could just stay in with him tonight.”

Selina snorted.

“You do realize who you’re talking to, right?”

“Ah.”

“Bat,” she said, and bent to face him.

Gray eyes locked onto green. “Yes, Cat,” he said.

“Because I love you, I will be a dog person for twenty-four hours. That’s what a saint I am.”

“Hn,” he said.

A sudden wetness at Selina’s fingertips: the animal, slurping. She shuddered but didn’t withdraw. “Reason Two,” she said. “The licking.”

“Cats lick.”

“Yeah, but you don’t need a mop after.”

“Thank you, Selina.”

“Mmm.” She stood. “And I promise if anything happens, I will not replace your dead dog with a lookalike and pretend nothing happened.”

Bruce held out a black leash. “I’d know,” he said.

“Right,” said Selina. She took the leash.

“World’s greatest detective and all.”

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