“No, it’s nothing about you . . . per se. Jesus, C, I don’t want to tell you on the phone. You kinda need to see it to believe it anyway. It’s not bad bad, it’s just . . . freaky.” Maggie paused.
“I’ll be home in five. This better be good.”
“It’s . . . something, all right.”
Cora snagged a parking spot right in front of her building and raced up the stairs to their place. Her dog Fritz was waiting for her at the door.
“Hi, Fritzie. Hello, my handsome boy. Where’s Auntie Maggie?” She leaned down and kissed him on top of his square head. Fritz did a little dance to welcome her home, and for a few seconds as she massaged his shoulders, nothing else mattered. Greeting complete, she stood up and shouted, “I’m here, now will you please tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” Maggie replied.
Cora rounded the corner and saw Maggie sitting at the tiny kitchen table with the newspaper spread in front of her and a pitcher of orange juice nearby. She was still in her leopard print flannel pajamas, her short white-blond hair sticking out from her head in wild spikes. She looked adorable even when disheveled. Maggie patted the pitcher and smiled. “It’s too early for wine, but it’s never too early for mimosas.”
“You look awfully cheerful for someone delivering news that requires alcohol. Let me see this.” Cora swooped down and tried to grab the paper from the table, but Maggie threw her hands on top of it.
“Can I at least point it out to you? Back off for a sec. I need to make a speech first.”
Cora hopped up and down in frustration.
“Okay, Cora, my dearest friend. Here goes.” Maggie cleared her throat and paused dramatically. “You’ve been through a lot of crap in the past, and since I know you pretty much better than anyone else, I think I’m qualified to say that you’ve finally put that all behind you. Put him behind you.”
Cora’s stomach dropped. The bad news was somehow related to Aaron, her ex-fiancé. “Oh no. Oh no. What is it? Is he getting married?” By this time Fritz had pushed his head beneath Cora’s hand, sensitive, as always, to the slightest shifts in her mood. She touched it absentmindedly.
Maggie’s expression changed from concerned to pained. “Please don’t get upset, C. He’s not getting married. Here, look.”
Maggie pushed the newspaper toward Cora and pointed to a small photo near the TV listings. Cora leaned in and squinted at the group of smiling people in the picture. She picked out Aaron immediately, tanned and grinning.
“ ‘Meet the cast of America’s Hottest Landscaper’?” she read the caption aloud. “Are you kidding me? Aaron is going on a reality show?”
It had taken her a year and a half, but Cora had put Aaron Affini behind her. Now he was going to be back to haunt her via the television. She’d finally lost the phantom ring sensation, when her thumb would unconsciously slide to touch the spot on her left hand where the delicate platinum engagement band had once sat.
Maggie studied Cora’s face. “You okay?”
Cora nodded and shrugged at the same time, her mouth a tight line.
Maggie spoke quickly, as if to keep Cora from focusing on the photo for too long. “Look, I know it sucks, but maybe he’ll get kicked out or voted off or eliminated on the first show. He’ll disappear again in a few days. Gone, purged, invisible, just like before.”
“You know that won’t happen, Maggie. Aaron always wins. Always.” Cora pulled the newspaper from the table and held it close to her eyes. “He’s the best-looking guy in the group.”
“But it’s not just a beauty competition! It’s also to see who can weed best, or mow fastest, or do whatever landscapers do. We both know he’s lazy as hell. Don’t worry, C, he’s not going to make it far.”
But Cora knew better. She knew that when Aaron had his eyes on a prize, nothing could stop him. And she knew that he was at his best when he had an audience.
Cora threw the paper on the table. “Whatever. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Maggie eyed her skeptically.
“What? Who even watches the Garden Channel anyway?” Cora paused. “I’m happy for him.” She raised her arms and gazed heavenward. “Universe? I’m totally fine with this.”
“Look at you, all evolved and grown up! Namaste, y’all.” Maggie placed her hands together and bowed at Cora. “Now, do you want a large mimosa, or an extra-large mimosa?”
She hoped that Maggie couldn’t see through her tough-girl act. Cora’s coping technique after the breakup was scrubbing every trace of Aaron from her life, both electronically and in real life, and then pushing any thought of him from her mind each time he dared to creep into her consciousness. The rejection was too painful to dwell on, so she’d erased him. Completely.
“I need to get out of here.” Cora called to her dog. “Hey, Fritz, wanna hike?”
Fritz danced in front of her, then took a few steps toward the door. The word hike meant one thing: Rock Creek Park.
Their long walks in Rock Creek Park were the highlight of the week for both of them. The ritual gave Cora an opportunity to connect with her own dog after spending the majority of the week working with other people’s, and it gave Fritz a chance to lay claim to the landscape by lifting his leg on everything vertical. On this day, with the warm spring air bringing everything back to life, a hike would be a hit of dopamine that could banish thoughts of Aaron for at least a few hours.
Maggie scrunched up her face. “Want me to come?” Since this was the first time in all the years they’d lived together Maggie’d asked to come, Cora wasn’t about to make her best friend go hiking.
“Nope, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, okay?”
There was a catch in her throat. She didn’t have lingering feelings for Aaron, at least none that she acknowledged, so she couldn’t understand why she was so unnerved by the news he might get famous. Perhaps because she could no longer control the Aaron narrative, she feared he might loom larger than life in her head once again, despite her best efforts to purge him forever. Maybe she was just being petty and didn’t wish professional success for the man who’d jilted her.
Fritz gave a muffled “harrumph” in his polite indoor voice to speed Cora along, so she took the hint and grabbed his leash.
THREE
* * *
A day and two head-clearing walks later, Cora pulled up in front of her client Fran Channing’s house ten minutes early. She dug out her phone and scanned her e-mail, stalling so that she’d arrive on her client’s doorstep exactly on time. She scrolled past the junk mail and new client inquiries until a message from her client Wade Cohen looked interesting enough to open. “Thought of You, Cora,” the subject line read.
“Hey Miss Dog Lady,” it said. “Saw this job posting and thought of you immediately. You need to try out—let’s talk.” Wade and his wife, Rachel, were always brainstorming ways for Cora to grow her business, in between training sessions with their adolescent golden retriever, Daisy, and unruly twin girls, offering advice for everything from her social media presence to her flyers. Wade’s profession was filming corporate training videos, so she couldn’t imagine what sort of job would make him think of her. She scrolled down to the forwarded message.
We’re looking for a one-of-a-kind dog trainer! Are you outgoing? Do your customers and their dogs love you? Bolex Media is casting an exciting new show that will help viewers train their dogs in an entirely new way. See the attachment for program overview and submission details.
Cora stared out the window as her stomach started to churn. A TV show? Wade thought she should audition for a TV show? Cora was ready for someone to unseat the famous Doggie Dictator, but she had never considered, even in her wildest anti-Ershovich rantings, that that someone should be her. She was a worker bee, a boots-on-the-ground tactician whose sole purpose was to smooth the bumps in the canine-human relationship. Could she become a spokesperson? Be the “face” of positive dog training? It felt unlikely. Cora always ducked in the b
ack of group photos, or offered to take the picture instead of being in it. She hated being the center of attention. When she factored in her lack of experience onstage or in front of a camera—she’d even opted to be crew in her third grade production of Cinderella instead of one of the mice—doing anything other than daydreaming about the opportunity seemed unlikely.
But still. The chance to do TV dog training right, to help people train with empathy and compassion, rather than barely camouflaged abuse, was tempting. Maybe she could summon the spirit to at least ask for more information about the show? Asking for more details was hardly a commitment to star in a TV show. Issue resolved, she dropped her phone back in her bag and pushed the thought from her head so she could focus completely on her clients.
Fran Channing and her gorgeous young Bouvier des Flandres, Sydney, were Cora’s favorite new clients. Fran’s Australian accent, giant black-rimmed glasses, and irreverent Louise-Brooks-meets-Helmut-Lang style were charming. Her oversize furry black dog, though, was an odd match for her, as Fran seemed better suited for a portable purse-size dog. Sydney’s black mustache and beard made him look equally unique, but his herding dog work ethic didn’t fit with Fran’s lifestyle. She was overwhelmed by his energy levels, and it was up to Cora to help make the relationship work. A lot of pressure, yes, but she was up to it.
She lifted the heavy iron knocker on Fran’s front door and heard Sydney start barking before it had even touched the base. Sydney had been wild at the beginning of their first session, but Cora knew there was a genius lurking beneath his exuberant attention-seeking behavior.
Fran opened the door immediately, as if she’d been waiting for Cora. She rolled her eyes as she tried to hold her dog back. “Hello, darling, please come in. What a week we’ve had. We need you so.”
“Wow, looks like Sydney is ready to work!” Cora laughed as she struggled to get in the door and past the cheerfully lunging dog. “What’s going on with you guys?”
“Let’s chat a bit. Please come in.”
Cora followed Fran down the hall. From the outside, Fran’s home looked as stately and old-fashioned as the rest of the neighboring homes, but the inside was a revelation. Her take on interior design matched her sartorial sense; her home had a severe minimalist edge softened by the light pouring from the huge glass walls in the rear of the house. Sparsely furnished homes usually made Cora nervous—one misplaced paper made them messy—but Fran’s managed to walk the line between museum-like and inviting.
“Darling, the things we worked on last week in class are amazing! Sydney knows how to sit when I ask, and he comes running when I call him. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“I hear a ‘but’ coming . . .”
“But”—Fran cocked an eyebrow, dipped her glasses, and paused dramatically—“his front door etiquette is an embarrassment, as you just saw. I had a little cocktail party here over the weekend, and Sydney was the worst host. He jumped on everyone when they walked in the door.” Fran placed her hand on her chest. “I died. This has to stop, you understand.”
“Totally. Jumping up makes me nutty, too, because I’m normally on the receiving end. But remember, jumping up on people is rewarding for dogs . . . it feels good to vent some of that energy and make contact with us. You’re going to have to work hard at this one, and give it plenty of time to sink in.”
“How much time? Because I’m hosting my book club on Thursday, darling.”
“Very cool! What are you reading?”
“Nothing! We call it a book club, but it’s really just a bunch of saucy middle-aged ladies who like to sit around and drink. I’d invite you, but you’re about thirty years too young. Call me when you have your first hot flash.”
Cora laughed. “I can guarantee that Sydney won’t be perfect in time for your book club, but I do have a quick trick for you.”
Cora grabbed a thin cotton leash from her bag while Sydney danced at her feet. She opened a nearby closet door and looped the leash on the inside doorknob. She held the leash then shut the door on it, grasping the clasp end in her hand.
“I think I see where this is going. I love it!”
“Remember the arm-cross sit I showed you last week? This is where we’re going to use it. You’ll leash Sydney before you let people in, and then lead them over to him and practice some arm-cross sits.” The arm-cross sit was Cora’s magic bullet, a way to clearly signal to the dog that he needed to sit no matter how distracting the environment. “Do you mind if I blog about this?”
“Be my guest. I’m ready for Sydney to become an Internet celebrity so I can retire in style.”
Cora pulled her phone out of her back pocket and started snapping photos of Sydney on the tether. Her semisecret blog was a lightly trafficked photo-heavy diary of her work with her clients’ dogs, solutions to typical training challenges, stories about the foster dogs that passed through her home, and frequent tirades about Ershovich’s highly publicized but highly harmful techniques. Since she needed anonymity to speak her mind, her brother Josh had helped her to set it up so that readers would have to dig deep to discover her identity or location, and her profile photo on the site showed only Fritz’s paws. She’d named it ChienParfait.com (“perfect dog”) as a joke, acknowledging that many of the dogs she worked with were far from textbook, but in their own way each was perfect.
Fran watched Cora as she snapped a few photos of Sydney on the tether. “You need to write a book. This is so simple, but of course I never would have thought of it!”
“A book? Seriously? It’s never crossed my mind. Maybe someday.” Cora considered Wade’s audition e-mail. First a TV show, now a book? Cora mused. Who do they think I am?
“Write something. The world needs a sane training voice out there. You’d find your audience, I’m sure of it. And the press would go bonkers for those Botticelli curls and green eyes, so you’d have no problem promoting it. You’ll be a hit, darling!”
Cora started to speak, but Fran was on a roll.
“I despise that Ershovich guy. Emphasis on the ‘dick’ in ‘dictator,’ if you ask me. I tried reading his first book and I didn’t learn a thing, all he did was brag. And his show is ridiculous. He seems so angry at those poor dogs.” Fran waved her hand above her head, as if shooing away a bug. “If you ever decide to write something other than your blog, keep me posted. I know people.”
Everyone in DC “knew people.” Even though Cora was curious, she knew better than to ask what people did for a living. It was too early in their relationship, and she made a practice of not prying into her clients’ lives. If they wanted to tell her about their jobs, families, or hobbies, she was an eager listener, but she never asked people what they did when they weren’t training their dogs. Working with people in their homes was an intimate business, and Cora did everything in her power to keep the relationships professional until invited to do otherwise. Cora wasn’t sure what Fran did for a living, but she could tell that whatever it was, she did it well.
“That’s really nice of you—thanks, Fran.” She quickly changed the subject, ever the timekeeper, so her clients got their money’s worth. “Have you been outside today? We’ve got a great day for leash walking, so let’s get suited up and get out there.”
FOUR
* * *
“Oh my God, I have to fart!” Maggie whispered. “Why do I always get gas right before Bikram? It’s like farting in a Crock-Pot.”
Cora stifled a giggle as they entered the yoga room that evening, which was already a few degrees warmer than the rest of the gym and had a permanent fermented odor. She was still trying to appreciate the benefits of yoga, but the “quiet mind” aspect escaped her. The only time Cora could ever recall having a quiet mind was as the anesthesia kicked in before her oral surgery. During class, she thought about her clients, particularly during Downward Dog. She thought about what she’d eaten that day, and how it might react in her stomach as she contorted herself. She thought about Fritz. She thought about her workout outf
it and wondered if her black spandex pants stretched out and became transparent when she bent over, like the pants on the woman in front of her. She was happy she wore a thong, just in case.
“This isn’t about competition,” Ravi, the instructor, murmured each week at exactly the same point during the hour, when heels were touching the ground and asses were pointing to the ceiling.
Thank God, Cora thought in response. I’d be in last place.
“Now let’s just . . . hang out in the pose for a while,” Ravi intoned as he effortlessly flowed into Tadasana.
Hang out. Cora had come to hate the expression. No one dated, it was all “hanging out.” She glanced over at the perfectly pretzeled Maggie, who was the queen of “hanging out,” expertly juggling no fewer than three men at a time. Cora—who was hoping for something more than hanging—envied her friend’s casual attitude toward dating. “There’s enough of me to go around,” she’d wink and say with a Mae West accent when Cora asked.
Cora attempted Eagle pose, wrapping one leg around the other like a twist tie, but the sweat dripping down the back of her calf made her foot slip off her supporting leg. She landed awkwardly as her sweaty foot hit the ground.
“Sorry! Sorry!” she whispered to the rest of the class. Her spills were so predictable that no one even bothered to look at her when the inevitable crash came. Maggie kept her eyes closed but choked back a giggle.
Even after Cora had started to recover from the blindsiding breakup with Aaron, she kept herself in dating sabbatical mode. His timing had been cinematically awful, at the end of a spur-of-the-moment getaway to Paris, Cora’s third trip and Aaron’s first, a trip that Cora had been calling their “engagi-moon” to anyone who would listen. Though Cora’d worked hard to help the city bewitch him—plying him with buttery croissants, taking him to the Pont Neuf at night, and initiating sex the moment they got back to their room no matter how tired she was—he’d been sullen and withdrawn the entire time. His sudden confession on the flight back that he didn’t want to be married, full stop, no prologue or epilogue, left her questioning everything she thought she knew about love.
Life on the Leash Page 2