It does no good. By the time I'm able to pull open her jaws and look inside her mouth, the bar of soap is gone.
"Oh no. No, no, no." I jog to the bathroom off the master bedroom. "No, no, no."
I rip the curtain back. A few rings come loose, so it sags in the middle. There, on the edge of the tub, where my rather expensive, homemade, all-organic soap normally sits, is an empty space. It's cute little porcelain dish empty, the dish unbroken but laying sideways on the bathroom mat.
"Oh, Frankie."
A few seconds pass while I mourn the loss of my favorite oatmeal soap. The heavenly bar is only available during the summer farmer markets every Thursday in downtown Pelican Bay. Every fall, I buy two bars. It's enough to get me through the winter months. Thankfully, Frankie caught me at the tail
