Sleeps with Dogs

by Lindsey Grant

  Because navigating the street scene with the two loopy greyhounds was already a trial without the additional challenges that rain presented, I preferred to just let them loose in the semicovered backyard of the loft. This had initially seemed easier than the full-on walk, but it proved to be a charade all its own.

  That day, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the dogs willingly ran from their enclosure through the open back door and into the yard. I checked the Barbie satchel for a check before joining the dogs outside. I’d left an invoice the previous day and was counting on the money. I had $2.65 in my account and had written a personal check for gas that morning, banking on the chances that I could deposit this larger check before that one cleared. My finances felt like a Rube Goldberg experiment gone awry. If three clients pay me by Monday, I can pay the electric bill. If only Matt and Darlene pay, I can at least put gas in the car and buy some milk and toilet paper. If I get gas, I can fill the tires up for free. Otherwise, it costs fifty cents. Or maybe Ian can pay this month’s PG&E and I’ll cover the next one …

  Ian had recently secured one of the most coveted jobs on the western seaboard with a tech company in the Peninsula and was being shuttled to and from his cushy, high-paying job on a Wi-Fi enabled corporate bus. He left in the mornings wearing jeans and aviators and returned with a backpack full of free gum, Odwalla smoothies, sodas, and animal crackers. Despite this proliferation of snacks in the house, little else had changed with our living arrangement. Meals were plentiful and completely gratis at his office, so the fridge remained bare but for my paltry offerings. He had money now, but he spent it all on his student loans and accumulated credit card debt, and any leftovers went to beer and courting the ladies that seemed as plentiful as the employee perks. I still had to hound him for his share of rent and utilities.

  With Matt and Darlene’s always-prompt payment, I was grateful that I could bring my balance back up above $100, however briefly. I put the check in my pocket and headed out to the back of the loft, umbrella in hand just in case the rain picked up again and Flannel required shelter.

  Somehow the dogs never collided with the armless marble busts and abstract pieces of angular rusted metal that apparently passed as outdoor art. I had to stand stock still in hopes that the dogs might forget my presence long enough to take a crap. If I spoke or moved around, both dogs were sent into a frenzy, feeding off the other’s insanity. I’d tried staying inside while the dogs were out back, but they hurled themselves at the French doors until I either joined them or allowed them to come back inside. So I stood like a statue myself, the misting rain accumulating on the short brim of my rain hood and fogging my glasses. Today the dogs peed right away, and Salvador was pooping within minutes. Bless it, I thought; I knew both dogs would poop inside without hesitation.

  The week before, I’d arrived to find both of them skidding through a puddle of runny shit. After going through an entire roll of paper towels to clean the floor, I was left with only soapy toilet paper to get the brown stains off Salvador’s white coat. I left a terse note with Barbie:

  Somebody had an accident today. I washed the floor, but it’s still a bit stained.

  Much as I worried about them getting it all out in the backyard before I restored them to the front room, I was intensely grateful not to oversee their emissions out on the street in full view of well-dressed businessmen and -women, brushing by the bushes in their fine, dry-clean-only suits that Flannel and Salvador had just finished peeing all over. So many times, the dogs dropped their loose loads right on the sidewalk. I didn’t come equipped with a hose, and there wasn’t much I could do about the dirty brown stain left behind on the concrete to be stepped around or through by patent pumps or a fine pair of brogues. Nothing was worse than having to pull Salvador from between Flannel’s legs as she peed all over his face. In the safety of their backyard, the depravity was well concealed from the world and could remain our nasty little secret.

  This loft, as with many of the client’s homes, was a singular perk of the visit. I occasionally had extra time in my schedule to explore—rarely touching, only admiring. Matt and Darlene’s home was a museum of kitsch. In the kitchen was an antique vending machine with hand pulls and a Plexiglas display window. The original inventory was housed within; there were Boston Baked Beans, beef jerky bites, Cracker Jacks, or a square packet of Planters peanuts. There was an impressive collection of vintage lunch pails, which lined the staircase up to the sleeping mezzanine on the second floor. I didn’t recognize any of the characters adorning the rusted lids. In the bedroom, the clothes were displayed on a circular department store rack. On a mannequin torso beside it hung articles of Darlene’s fabulous wardrobe. A fedora, a feather-trimmed jacket, scarves of many colors.

  On the third floor of the loft, the décor was that of a swinger’s bar: a leopard-print chaise lounge next to an overstuffed purple velvet sofa. There was a full bar and an antique turntable. French doors led out to a covered deck that overlooked the bay and San Francisco beyond. Nothing in my job description necessitated my trespass on the third floor, but neither did it prohibit a little peek now and then. Sometimes on a Monday morning, the remnants of a party remained: martini glasses littering the chrome coffee table, record sleeves along the sofa—Rolling Stones, Velvet Underground, Bowie. This was a world I could get used to. Below, the dogs scuttled and scratched behind their gate. As always, I descended to rejoin them.

  Since Ian had moved in, he’d dated at least two girls I knew of and had slept with as many or more. Sometimes it was hard for me to tell exactly who he was with on the other side of our thin shared wall. I didn’t necessarily envy the temporary nature of these connections, but I did note with a measure of melancholy that he was actually meeting people. He was making connections, period, however casual or meaningless they may have seemed to me.

  Inspired to meet anyone my age with remotely similar interests beyond Ian, I’d recently taken to utilizing MySpace’s search function. I’d posted plenty of pictures to my profile, and, in an attempt at tongue-in-cheek humor, the song that played when anyone landed on my page was Rod Stewart’s “If You Think I’m Sexy.” I assumed, probably too confidently, that anyone visiting my page would get the meta-nature of the joke. This was probably too much to ask.

  I’d also created a rather less sardonic presence on Friendster, another social media site, which had netted me a robust but ill-advised flirtation with my best friend’s brother. He and I had tried to date in college, and I felt pretty sure it would’ve taken had my friend not been so opposed. My loyalties were clear. Yet here I was, a mere two years after we’d definitively abandoned any possibility of a relationship, rekindling the romance with him from afar. Loneliness seemed to be the culprit and my defense for all manner of bad behaviors.

  I’d never guessed I might rely upon a social networking site to meet someone. I fancied myself old-fashioned, and relying upon a photo and self-scripted digital persona felt like a more drastic measure than I might otherwise resort to. It certainly didn’t seem like the most reliable means of meeting a potential mate, but I had been largely friendless and entirely boyfriend-less for going on one year, and I considered these desperate times.

  Thanks to the advance search fields, I had come across a guy a few years my senior that lived in the area, played the trumpet in a jazz band, wrote nice poetry, looked to be quite tall, and had a great job at an ad agency that happened to be located on the same street on which I walked the foul-mannered greyhounds. We’d yet to meet but had exchanged a few safe messages via the site’s private mail function.

  I think my lack of socialization was starting to erode my innate sense of normal behaviors and boundaries, as I started showing up at his favorite bar and the restaurant where his band occasionally played impromptu sets, hoping more for an in-person glimpse than an actual encounter. Of course, he was never present at any of these locations when I was, and I resorted to drinking alone, ashamed by my lurking. At a certain point, I must have me
ntioned to myself that this behavior of seeking him out bordered on stalking. I probably replied to myself that it was better than sitting at home hearing Ian’s headboard thudding dully against the wall.

  As it turned out, it wasn’t at his favorite bar, or at any of the venues where he played music, that I finally saw him. I wasn’t dolled up, with good hair or a carefully selected outfit. I didn’t have a drink in hand, or my game face on. No, indeed. I was out with Flannel and Salvador. In the midst of navigating Flannel toward the bushes to do her business while trying to keep Salvador’s head out of the way, I noticed a handsome, familiar-looking figure on the opposite sidewalk, striding in our direction. I recognized him immediately from his pictures, though he was taller and even better looking in real life.

  I started to raise my hand in a knee-jerk greeting when I realized instead of slowing or acknowledging me back with his leash-and dog-free hands, his pace noticeably quickened, and he started to look very intently upon his feet, the shrubbery lining his side of the street, anything but me and the dogs by my side. He passed us at record speed, and I was left feeling mortified, Salvador snuffling at my pocket, and Flannel having painted the nearest holly bush brown.

  We stopped chatting online after that, and I actively stayed away from anyplace where I could possibly bump into him. I couldn’t risk a chance encounter, since he’d obviously avoided me that day on the street. The dogs weren’t to blame for this humiliating missed connection with my Internet mystery man, but I blamed them anyway. When I was with them, that memory had a way of surfacing, unbidden, making my guts bubble with shame. Of course, I harbored no illusions about the glamour factor of my job, but I’d never before considered that other people—say, an eligible bachelor I was interested in—might judge me by my work.

  After I brought the rain-damp dogs in from the backyard, they got a thorough toweling down and a dog biscuit each. Their water refreshed and the mess of crumbs from their treats wiped up, I latched the baby gate and took my leave.

  It wasn’t just the rain or Ian’s marked success with money and significant others that had me dispirited and distracted that day. On the way up the road toward my afternoon clients, before the bank, I had another stop to make.

  The pawn shop, and my destination, was on San Pablo, past the BevMo! near the big shopping center with the Ross and Payless ShoeSource. I passed it daily on the way to my Richmond clients, which had given me the idea in the first place. I had long been toying with the idea of selling some jewelry to help me make ends meet, and I’d finally reached the point at which it was less an option and more a necessity. I’d been wearing the same cracked galoshes for long enough that, despite my duct-taping job, more rain seeped in and soaked my socks than was repelled. I’d ordered replacements—good ones that I could walk many miles in and that would presumably last for a while—but I kept canceling the order to use the money for something more pressing. I still had plenty of duct tape.

  In free fall, it’s hard to know where the bottom is exactly. Where on the wide spectrum of failure did pawning my personal possessions fall? I was a far cry from compromising my morals and had yet to consider trading anything more than sentimental gifts for cash. But I was feeling pretty piss-poor about the choices that had resulted in my entering a pawnshop with intent to sell. Jewelry. My jewelry. I couldn’t bear to part with the sapphire ring my sister gave me for my twenty-first birthday, or the gold tree of life my mom brought back from Egypt, so I settled on an amethyst ring from my aunt and a pair of diamond studs from my sixteenth birthday.

  I almost kept driving, but there happened to be a curb spot right in front of the store. I took this as a sign that this was a good idea and I should see it through. Also, I needed the majority of this check from Flannel and Salvador to cover an overdue cell phone bill, and the gas tank was millimeters from the dreaded E.

  The facade was fancy, all green marble and gold lettering. But the interior was completely the opposite. Everything was locked down or behind bars. The guy at the counter stood behind Plexiglas. I had to lean over and talk into a little speaker.

  “Hi,” I said, “I have some things to sell.” He looked at me blankly, waiting for me to produce. “I don’t really, uh, know how this is done.”

  He gestured to the narrow slot beneath the divider and the mouthpiece. I pushed the earrings and the ring through, and he scooped them up in his massive hand. He put on an eyepiece to examine the diamonds, and I worried that maybe they were fake and he’d think I was trying to swindle him. I cast my eyes around and realized that my diamonds looked like Grape-Nuts compared to some of the stuff under the counter. He pushed the earrings back through to me. He’d linked them, the one stud through the other and clasped to keep them from separating, in a way I’d never seen before. So tidy.

  “I couldn’t give you more than $16 for those; you might as well give them to a kid niece or something.” I swallowed hard. I’d never give them away. I loved them too much. Yet I’d been moments from trading them for three-gallons-worth of gas. My eyes were smarting at this betrayal in progress, but I refused to let this guy see me squirm.

  Meat Hands pawed my ring next.

  “For this I could give you $24. The band’s worth more than the stones. Just melt it down …” his voice trailed off as he fingered the ring, so tiny between his sausage of a thumb and pointer finger.

  I held out my hand, implying that I wanted it back. I pocketed the ring and the earrings both, nervous sweat beading my upper lip and dampening my shirt.

  “Sorry,” I said. But I wasn’t apologizing to him. I’d done myself really wrong the moment I slid my baby diamonds and priceless ring beneath that bulletproof partition.

  I pushed through the barred doors and into the spitty rain. I still had a sixteenth of a tank of gas left. The warning light would blink on at any moment, but there was still some juice in there. I also had some change in the console, which would get me a little less than a gallon in case of emergency.

  Back in the car, I felt safer, and better now that I was breathing normally. I transferred the earrings and ring from my pocket into the cup holder, then changed my mind. I slid the ring onto my left hand and unlinked the diamonds, pinning the studs into each ear. Fancy dog walker. Dog-Walker Barbie. That was much better.

  To: “Dad”

  Subject: Turkey time

  Daddy-o,

  I was hoping you could give me some instructions for my Thanksgiving “feast.” Mom said you use an old T-shirt to keep the turkey moist?!? Do parts of the bird taste like armpit?? Maybe the butter masks the flavor of Speed Stick and sweat. I have absolutely no idea what I am doing here, so any advice you can offer will save this bird from ruin.

  Lindsey

  CHAPTER NINE

  No Heroics

  Surely there are more annoying ways to be woken, but as Simpson furiously kneaded my head with his needlelike claws, I couldn’t think of any. I rolled away from him, leaving my neck vulnerable to his unshorn nails. Twisting and turning in my half-asleep stupor, I tried and failed to escape his relentless attentions. He worked his way down my back, and I farted on him through the thick blankets. My dream of serial earthquakes and melting cell phones completely dissolved into the bleak gray light of predawn. I tossed Simpson onto the carpet with weak-fisted force, but he was back on me in no time, redoubling his efforts on my head. This was no outpouring of love on his part; Simpson was hungry. He was always hungry.

  I was staying with Simpson, his counterpart Larry, and the dog Leilani for the week while their owners were vacationing somewhere tropical. They were clients of my colleagues; like so many of my gigs, the work was done in the capacity of a subcontractor.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d cared for this trio, so I’d already known that this wouldn’t be one of those jobs where the clients directed me to the top-shelf tequila, the hot tub, and their king-sized bed. The mattress was lumpy, the fridge was bare but for a bunch of wilted spinach and a door full of condiments, and the cabine
ts were stocked with inedible ingredients like flaxseed and protein powder. Plus, it was a good twenty-five minute trek to get to their Alameda house from my north Berkeley apartment. That was if traffic was moving steadily through the MacArthur Maze, which it rarely did.

  But I’d always liked these clients—human and animal alike. Sara was always smiling, a woman overwhelmingly in love with Andy, her charming and carefree husband. Sturdily built, tanned, and handsome beneath his mussed curls, Andy ran an extreme adventures outfit—skydiving or scuba, waterskiing or the regular snowy kind.

  The pictures of their wedding displayed in the bedroom and tucked in nooks around the house showed him in a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, her in a simple sundress, her uncoiffed blond hair blowing in the sea air. They seemed real, young, and in love. I liked being in such close proximity to these happy and wholesome people, trying to absorb some of their stability by osmosis.

  Their house, down to the odd but pleasing variety of colors they’d painted their walls, always felt joyful and warm. Their animals, too, radiated the contentment that comes with being well loved. I was well aware that there were worse ways to spend a week—and dramatically more difficult animals with whom to spend it.

  I’d miraculously managed to wrangle the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday as a rare day off and was celebrating by hosting at the apartment. I’d cook for Ian, his latest in a long string of ladies, as well as my college roommate who’d recently moved to the Bay Area, the guy she was sleeping with, and an old ex-boyfriend—the only one I’d ever managed to remain friends with. It was going to be like the Island of Misfit Toys, but I was bound and determined to make it a memorable meal.