Daddy Boss

by Claire Bishop

  I open the door and it immediately slams into the car parked next to us. My eyes spring open, but it’s too late. The dent is already made.

  “That’s my fault,” Dad says. “I should have thought that through a little better.”

  “It’s all right,” I tell him and look to see where we are. “A kennel?” I ask.

  “It’s a shelter,” he says. “They take in strays and other unwanted pets and find them new homes. I was thinking, if you’d like, you could pick out a dog. No cats, though,” he says. “You know I’m allergic.”

  “You know,” I tell him, “for someone trying to cover verbal assault with bribery, you’re a pretty amiable guy, Dad.”

  “I appreciate that, sweetheart,” he says. “Now, let’s go pick you out a pet.”

  “I’m going to need a little money for his care,” I tell him. “Or, you know, you could let me get a job.”

  “No job,” he says. “I don’t have that much more time with you in the house and I want to be able to spend as much of it with you as possible.”

  It’s a nice thought in an overbearing, Kathy Bates in Misery kind of way.

  “So, you’ll be shelling out some money, then?” I ask.

  “Isn’t it shilling?” he asks.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s shelling,” I tell him, but now that he’s asking, I’m not so sure myself. “It doesn’t matter,” I tell him and with that, we head inside.

  We’re greeted at the front by a woman who looks like she’s late for about a dozen appointments, but still manages what I’m assuming is a smile.

  “Welcome to Pet Haven Sanctuary for New Friends, Pets, and Companions,” the woman says. “How can I help you today?”

  “That’s a pretty impressive name,” I tell her.

  “You wouldn’t believe how much it costs in business cards,” she says. “The boss wants the name on one line and so we’ve got to use different paper.” She reaches in front of her and grabs what I had simply assumed to be a smallish bumper sticker and holds it out to me. “Not really wallet-friendly,” she says. “Anyhoo, what can I do for ya?”

  “We would like to look at your dogs, please,” Dad says.

  My dad really likes to come across as the old-fashioned gentleman type, especially in public, but it’s a particular quirk of his I’ve never quite gotten used to. It’s not that he’s a bad guy or a mean guy, he’s just so over the top on so many things, hearing him asking a question like a Boy Scout doesn’t quite strike the ear right.

  “Follow me,” the woman says. “We’ve got some beautiful dogs, all of which are spayed and neutered, shelter policy.”

  She leads us into the back, and from there, we just follow the barking.

  I love animals, especially dogs. I have never liked shelters like this. I’m sure they do great work and help a lot of animals, but walking down rows of cages, knowing that any dog I don’t pick is that much closer to…

  “How many can I get?” I ask my dad.

  “I think just one for now,” he says with a chuckle.

  “What happens to the dogs I don’t choose?” I ask.

  “You’re concerned they’ll be euthanized?” the woman asks, pulling her glasses down her nose a little with the tip of her thoroughly chewed pen.

  I look at my dad and back at her. “Yeah,” I answer.

  “We’re a no-kill shelter,” she says. “Nobody here is going to point a gun at animals’ heads just because they haven’t found the right family after a couple of weeks.”

  Suddenly, the cages don’t seem quite as confining.

  “Do you have a particular breed in mind?” the woman asks.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think we caught your name,” my dad says.

  I never know if he’s flirting or just being awkward the way dads everywhere are awkward with women in public.

  “I’m Tonya,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you. We have some older dogs and some puppies and just about everything in between,” she goes on, returning to her preferred subject. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

  “What about this one?” my dad asks, but I don’t even look over.

  Standing, facing the bars of his cage and looking up at me is a little furry guy with a grey beard and dark brown eyes and my heart is sold.

  “How much is it for the miniature schnauzer?” I ask.

  “We charge a $40 licensing fee,” Tonya says. “Also, we do offer full vet services here if you need to bring him in for anything, but he’s current on all his shots.”

  “Forty bucks?” I ask.

  “Forty bucks,” she answers.

  I look at my dad. He smiles.

  “What’s his name?” dad asks.

  “That is Gerald,” Tonya says. “He’s a charmer. You’d better keep your eye on that one.”

  “Is he, uh, trained?” my dad asks.

  “He gets a little excited sometimes, but he’s usually very good about going outside,” Tonya says. “I’d say just work with him a little bit over the next couple of weeks and try not to get him overexcited when he hasn’t been out to do his business in a while, and you shouldn’t have a problem.”

  “What kind of things would cause him to be overexcited?” dad asks.

  “Come on,” I tell him. “I’ve got to meet with Ian, and I want to make sure this little guy’s all comfy cozy in his new home before I go.”

  “For a lot of puppies, visiting new places, meeting new people, these can be some triggers,” Tonya says.

  “So basically the environment that is our home will unavoidably cause him to pee on the carpet?” Dad asks.

  “Not if he’s gone to the bathroom recently enough,” she answers.

  “Pee on the carpet or no pee on the carpet, Gerald and I are about to become fast friends,” I coo. “Can I let him out of the cage?” I ask.

  “Sure,” Tonya says. “Just remember, he’s a puppy and he’s going to be thrilled to be out, so try to keep him close or he’s liable to start us all off on a high-speed chase through the building.”

  I open the cage and Gerald jumps up on my leg, making high-pitched yipping noises. A moment later, I’m sitting on the floor and he’s jumping in my lap. He lies down on me and I scratch his back.

  “It’s like the two of you are lost friends,” Tonya says.

  “Yeah,” Dad mutters. “And one of you is going to get pee everywhere.”

  “I’ll try to make it to the toilet, Dad,” I say dismissively, and I scratch Gerald behind the ears.

  “Do you sell leashes and collars?” Dad asks.

  “You can keep the collar he’s got on,” Tonya says. “Leashes are 10 bucks.”

  Dad is naturally offended that a leash would cost so much and the two start haggling. By haggling, of course, I mean Dad complains and Tonya tells him there’s nothing she can do about it.

  While blinking my eyes as Gerald licks my face, I spot something just outside this room. At first, it’s just a passing glance, and then I see what looks like one of the veterinarians talking to someone.

  Gerald jumps out of my lap, and I’m trying to see who the veterinarian is talking to, but I’m just at the wrong angle. I’m not quite sure who I thought I saw, but whoever the vet’s talking to, they got my attention.

  “Mia, would you mind grabbing your dog?” Dad asks. “He’s giving that look like he’s trying to find a nice place to—oh…”

  I look over to see Gerald squatting down, peeing on the linoleum floor.

  “He doesn’t lift his leg?” I ask. “I thought that was a universal male dog thing?”

  “Some dogs come out doing it—well as soon as they have the leg strength and the coordination—other dogs, it takes a little while,” Tonya answers.

  She’s saying something else, but the person talking to the vet just leaned forward again, and I see why my brain was telling me to keep looking.

  “Would you mind going up to my desk and grabbing the blue spray bottle and the paper towels?” Tonya asks my dad. />
  “How often does he pee?” Dad asks.

  “The dog got a little on his paws and I’m going to wash him off,” Tonya says. “If you could just go grab the blue spray bottle and those paper towels, I would appreciate it.”

  I wait until Dad leaves before I ask, “Is that Ian Zavala talking to that veterinarian?”

  Tonya’s got more pressing matters on her mind as she tries to get Gerald into the basin for a bath.

  “What?” she asks as he wriggles his body in strange and hilarious ways in an attempt to break free and escape the coming b-a-t-h.

  I get up and help her get Gerald into the basin.

  “He’s not a fan of baths,” Tonya says.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard most dogs aren’t,” I respond.

  “Well, there’s most dogs and then there’s Gerald, here,” she says. “I’m sorry, what were you asking me?”

  “I think I just saw someone I know from school, Ian Zavala?” I start. “Does he work here or something, or do you not know who I’m talking about?”

  “Ian?” she asks. “He comes in when we’re overloaded and understaffed. Nice kid.”

  “So he works here, then?” I ask.

  “No, it’s more of a volunteer thing, I think,” Tonya says.

  Ian Zavala, world-class skater, sexy and respectable guy—although I do have a few questions about what happened between him and Abby at that party—and apparently, animal lover’s on the list as well. Unless something pretty freaky went down between he and Abs, I think I might just be in love.

  Well, okay, love here is just an expression, not an actual “I think I’m in love with this guy” thing. I am very attracted to Ian Zavala, especially given this new information. Let’s leave it at that.

  It’s nice to know sometimes that, even when things aren’t going the way I want them to go, good things can still happen. I just met who I’m sure is going to be my best friend, Gerald, and I found out that my kind-of crush and project partner volunteers at an animal shelter.

  I guess life isn’t so bad.

  “Would you mind grabbing that soap?” Tonya asks. “You’re going to need to wash the area just above Gerald’s penis. I can’t reach from where I am and I don’t think he’s going to let us trade places.”

  * * *

  After the way my dad had acted toward Ian, we both agreed that it would be best to meet on neutral ground. That, and it’s about time Ian finally makes things right by buying me a meal in the café where he stood me up.

  Call it karma.

  After the row with my dad and seeing Ian at the shelter, I think I let my mind get a little ahead of itself. He’s attractive and he’s talented, but he still went behind my back with the professor in pushing his topic through, and I still have another question I’d like to ask him.

  “What happened with you and Abs?” I ask.

  “Me and who?” he asks.

  “You and Abs,” I respond. “Abby. You know, the chick who was standing next to me at the competition and then a little bit later at a party where the two of you took off to have some kind of alone time. What happened with the two of you?”

  “Are you sure that’s an appropriate question to ask your class partner?” he returns, laying out two thick lines of condiments on the thin paper on his tray: ketchup and mayonnaise.

  What he’s planning to do with them is beyond me, and who orders a burger and fries at a neighborhood café? The whole point of these places is to walk in and order something that sounds pretentious so people will think you’re the classy type.

  Myself, I’m having the bruschetta and the prosciutto. I just hope it’s not too obvious that I got both of them because I can never remember which one of them I like.

  “I think it is,” I tell him. “If we’re going to be working together, I don’t think we should have to be uncomfortable around one another. I’m not going to freak out or anything. It’s not like we’re married.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Well, I don’t know if you’ll believe me or not, but nothing really happened.”

  “Is that a ‘nothing happened really happened’ as in stuff happened, but you didn’t go all the way, or is that a ‘nothing really happened’ as in nothing really happened?” I ask.

  “Would it bother you if something did happen between me and…your friend?” he asks.

  “Her name is Abs,” I tell him, “but you can’t call her that. Her name is Abby. So, did something happen with the two of you or not?”

  “I can’t believe it,” he says. “You, my dear, are jealous.”

  I’m laughing, but trying to cover my mouth at the same time. I can never fake laughter. My inability to smile properly on demand isn’t particularly well-developed.

  “You are,” he says. “Well, that changes things.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “And I am not jealous.”

  “Well, we can’t very well work together on this project if you’ve got these feelings for me. I’d be over here suggesting some brilliant idea or other and you’d be giving me the googly eyes and trying to picture me naked,” he says. “We’d never get any work done.”

  “First off, I’m not jealous,” I tell him. “Second off, I don’t have feelings for you that would affect, prevent , or even manifest in any conceivable way, as I’m not entirely sure what it is you think I feel for you.”

  “Third off?” he asks.

  I actually did have a third off, but he broke my rhythm, and the little teleprompter in my head just had a power outage.

  “I don’t even care,” I tell him. “The two of you are consenting adults and it’s none of my business what you did at that party.”

  “Can I tell you something?” he asks.

  The waiter comes over with my bruschetta and prosciutto, but he walks away before I can ask him which one is which.

  “He forgot me,” Ian says. “That dude’s not getting dick for a tip.”

  “If you’re going to talk like that, would you mind not doing it so loudly?” I ask, my face growing red as I look around the café for signs of the offended.

  “What do you mean?” he asks. “What’s the problem? I always talk like this.”

  “I get that,” I tell him in a whisper. “I’m just saying that I would appreciate it if you would curse quietly if you’ve got to curse at all. It’s embarrassing.”

  “You know, you dress kind of funny and you hang out at some pretty weird places for someone who’s so uptight about swearing,” he says. “They’re just words like any others, only someone at some point decided this term was acceptable, but that term wasn’t.”

  “Could you rephrase what you were saying to convey the same point, but use what you’d call an acceptable word instead?” I ask.

  “Listen,” he says. “I’d love to sit here and go the rounds with you again and everything. Sparring’s one of my favorite hobbies. That said, we have a lot of stuff to do and I don’t think that we’re going to get any of it done by sitting here and arguing whether or not I could have gotten away with saying the guy wasn’t going to get—”

  “Very sorry for the extra wait, sir,” the waiter says, interrupting Ian at what I can’t imagine could have been a better time. “Here’s your cheeseburger and french fries, sorry again about the wait.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ian says calmly, and the waiter walks away.

  “You kind of switched gears there, didn’t you?” I ask.

  “Nothing happened with me and your friend,” he says. “She was kind of looking for something, but I wasn’t interested.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because I’m interested in you,” he says.

  I’d hoped for a response like that, but he’s so matter-of-fact about the whole thing that it takes a few seconds for his words to really process in my head.

  “You’re interested in me?” I ask. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, taking a few french fries then dipping them, first in
the ketchup, then in the mayo.

  “That is disgusting,” I tell him.

  “What?” he asks. “It’s called fry sauce. You just mix ketchup and mayo together. I’m telling you, it’s the best thing you’ll ever dip your fries in.”

  Ketchup is fine, but mayo on fries? Ew.

  “Listen,” he says, “we can sit here and argue over fry sauce, or we could see if we can get some work done. Where are we on everything?”

  I grab the folder sitting next to me on the seat and set it on the table. “We’ve got our topic and everything, general approach, too,” I tell him. “What we need are questions to ask people to test our theory.”

  “Which is?” he asks.

  “Oh, shut up,” I tell him. “The professor already decided on your idea, you don’t have to—”

  “I’m not rubbing it in,” he says. “To be perfectly honest, my mind’s kind of been focused on other things. I know we were going to talk to people who hold fringe or extremist viewpoints on either end of the American spectrum and see if there’s any common ground between them and everything, but what is our basic statement?” he asks.

  “You mean our hypothesis?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says. “Whatever.”

  “Our hypothesis is that, by interviewing people with radical social and/or political beliefs, we may begin to see a pattern, even in those whose beliefs appear to be incongruent or even opposite,” I tell him. “The problem I’m seeing is that we’ve only got like a month left and if we’re going to do things your way, we’re going to need a lot of time for these interviews. I think the first thing we should do should be to write out some questions we’d like to ask and then we can worry about how to find these people.”

  “They’re not hard to find,” Ian says. “They’re usually the people with the loudest opinions and the least fundamental understanding of the world around them.”

  “So you’re saying anyone who has a firm opinion on their beliefs is ignorant?” I ask.

  “Not at all,” he says. “It’s when those beliefs have no basis in reality, and when someone questioning your beliefs becomes a cause for going off that you cross the line into freak mode.”