When I get home from school, the dog is scratching at the back door, demanding to go out and pee. She may look like a sweet, furry marshmallow, but really she’s a bully. A ten-pound, purebred, bichon frisé bully.
"Camille," I say, "it’s snowing outside and I’m in my uniform. Can I please change first?"
Camille cocks her head and gives me a meaningful stare, one that says, You know it’s your job to walk me right after school. I’ve been home alone all day. My bladder hurts.
"But it’s cold outside," I tell her. "Can’t