The Dunphy living room was submerged in the particular, tranquil lethargy of a late weekend afternoon. Sunlight, thick with dust motes, poured through the windows, laying a warm blanket over everything. On the large sectional sofa, a silent treaty of coexistence had been signed.
Alex was wedged comfortably in the middle, a biology textbook open but ignored on her lap. To her left, Claire was angled toward the TV, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her stomach, her face a mask of rapt, judgmental fascination. On the screen, a woman in an improbably shiny evening gown was slapping another woman across a dinner table, screaming about stolen inheritance and paternity tests.
"Absolutely ridiculous," Claire muttered, popping a kernel into her mouth. "No one has eyelashes that thick in real life."
To Alex's right, taking up an impressive amount of couch real estate, was Sherlock. The bloodhound puppy was a sprawl of velvety, loose skin and long ears, his head resting heavily on Alex's thigh. His droopy, bloodshot eyes were fixed on the television with an expression of profound, existential boredom, as if the soap opera's melodrama was a personal affront to his sensitive nose. He sighed, a wet, guttural sound that vibrated through the cushions.
The domestic stillness was broken by Luke. He padded into the room from the hallway, wearing nothing but a pair of faded boxers, his hair sticking up in all directions. He moved with the single-minded purpose of a teenage boy on a mission, beelining for the kitchen. Sherlock's heavy head lifted a fraction of an inch. His mournful eyes tracked Luke's passage behind the sofa with the bare minimum of interest, like a monarch observing a particularly unremarkable peasant. He gave another sigh, as if the effort of watching was too much, and let his head thump back down onto Alex's leg.
Just as the on-screen confrontation reached a new peak of volume, Alex's phone buzzed and lit up on the cushion beside her. Marco 💀🚗 flashed on the screen with a video call request.
Claire shot a sideways glance, her 'Mom' radar pinging at the intrusion into her guilty pleasure. Alex gave an apologetic shrug, muted the TV, and answered, deciding to put it on speaker. Sherlock's ear twitched at the sudden silence.
"Hi," Alex said, her voice calm in the quiet room.
"Hey, Mami!" Marco's voice burst forth, crackling with static and adrenaline. He was clearly driving; the blur of foliage and guardrails whipped by in the background behind his excited, grinning face. "You would not believe this shit. I'm driving back from Javier's, right? Up near the foothills. And I see it—a bobcat. No, wait, a mountain lion or some shit! Just chillin' on the side of the road!"
Alex sat up straighter. Sherlock, sensing her shift, lifted his head again. "What?"
"Yeah! A big-ass cat! So, I pulled over. Right next to it." The camera angle jostled violently as he presumably maneuvered the car.
"Marco!" Alex's voice was sharp with immediate alarm. Claire had now turned fully away from the TV, her popcorn forgotten, eyes wide.
"I rolled down my window, corazón! This big cat is out here… shitting! I'm not even kidding you! I am looking at a mountain lion taking a dump on the side of the road!" His laughter was incredulous.
The camera on his phone flipped. The shaky, digital image now showed the dusty roadside brush. And there it was: a tan, muscular mountain lion, its back to the camera, hunched in an unmistakable and deeply private posture. It was a surreal, absurd, and slightly terrifying image.
"Oh my god," Claire whispered, her hand going to her chest.
The lion, evidently finished with its business, turned. It moved with a powerful, liquid grace, its gaze swinging toward the source of the voice and the clicking phone camera. Its eyes were amber pools of pure, wild menace. It didn't run. It began to creep sideways, a low, aggressive hiss cutting through the car's interior—a sound like steam escaping a rusted pipe, primal and full of warning.
Marco's voice shouted from off-camera, bold and utterly foolish. "Yeah! We see you! We see you, you big hissed-up house cat!"
The lion stopped creeping. It stared directly into the lens, its lips pulling back to reveal long, yellowed canines. It hissed again, louder, more vicious, flattening its ears.
Then, clear as day, came a sharp, dismissive sound: Marco clicking his tongue against his teeth. Tsk.
"¡Cállate!" he roared, his voice exploding with such sudden, shocking authority that even Alex and Claire jumped on the couch. Sherlock let out a soft boof. "Shut the fuck up!"
The effect on the mountain lion was instantaneous and comical. Its aggressive slink froze. The menacing glare vanished, replaced by a look of pure, startled bewilderment. Its wide eyes seemed to say, 'Did this hairless monkey in a metal box just tell me to shut up?'
It lasted only a second. Marco, clearly feeling invincible, doubled down. He leaned closer to the window, the camera flipping back just in time to catch his sneering, triumphant face as he shouted after the fleeing animal.
"¡Perra!" he spat, the insult hanging in the air. "Shitting with your doodoo ass!"
On the screen, the mountain lion's hindquarters were seen vanishing into the brush with undignified speed.
The camera flipped back to Marco's face. The adrenaline was still there, but it was morphing into his usual chaotic glee. The background started moving again as he pulled back onto the road. He smiled, a brilliant, unrepentant grin that took up half the screen.
"Anyway," he said, his tone shifting to casual as if he'd just commented on the weather, "what's up?"
There was a long, dead silence in the Dunphy living room. Claire was staring at the phone, her mouth slightly agape. Luke had emerged from the kitchen, Coke in hand, frozen in the doorway, having caught the tail end of the performance.
Alex slowly brought the phone closer to her face. She saw her own reflection in the black glass of the TV screen—a mixture of horror, disbelief, and the overwhelming, inevitable fondness that Marco always, always inspired.
"You," she said, her voice flat, "are the dumbest person who has ever lived."
Marco's laugh was loud and joyful through the speaker. "Love you too, ciencia! Tell Sherlock his Papi says hi—and to watch where he shits!"
The call ended. The living room was once again silent, the muted TV still showing the frozen, dramatic faces of the soap opera actors.
Claire slowly turned her head to look at her daughter. She blinked once, twice. "Well," she said finally, reaching for her popcorn with a slightly trembling hand. "He's… certainly not boring."
Alex just sighed, a long, deep exhale, and sank back into the cushions. Sherlock, taking his cue, rested his heavy head back on her lap with a world-weary groan, as if to say, "My father is an idiot. I require a treat to cope."