I can see there’s a rack of pet clothing in there. It occurs to me that maybe they’ll have something for Oliver to wear for this week’s challenge prompt. I might pick a few things up. Even though he’s not technically mine. I’d probably prefer this stuff to anything in Bryce’s new collection, even without Cookie’s “shop local” lecture.
Suddenly, I’m excited to check the place out. I want to learn more about their relationship with the shelter, maybe feel them out about how they are doing in light of the recent rent hike. I want to understand how they’ve managed to fund the shelter and stay afloat for the last two decades. I’m curious to speak with the owner. According to my records, the name on the original lease is Joan Starr.
I head into the pet store, picturing an older woman as the eccentric owner. A real pet fanatic. Hopefully, not the type who knits items from salvaged pet hair.
But there’s nobody in there who fits that description at all.
The only person in this store is the battle pixie, and she’s looking even more luminous in the light of day.
georgia
It’s justa normal Tuesday afternoon when Ragnar walks into my shop.
Technically, this dude is not a legendary Norseman, but damned if he doesn’t look like one. He confidently strides in—sort of like he owns the place—pauses, and has a look around. He turns to look at me, and a hot shiver snakes its way down my spine. His eyes travel around the shop slowly, devouring everything in sight. They seem to say he is satisfied with what he sees and he will claim what he wishes.
I think that I might have binged a few too many episodes ofVikingslast week. Time to move on to something else. Superheroes, perhaps. Of course, the first one that springs to mind is Thor. I’ve clearly got a thing for Norsemen. Chris Hemsworth has nothing on this dude.
Ragnar turns to face me. “Is the proprietor of the shop here?” he asks. “Joan Starr, I believe?”
I narrow my eyes. The proprietor? What is he, some kind of salesman? Is he here to hand me some kind of legal notice? There’s also something vaguely familiar about this guy … his voice.
“Joan passed away a couple of years ago,” I say matter-of-factly. “I own the store now. But we’ve tried to keep her spirit alive here.”
Ragnar studies the star-studded wall and Joan’s portrait on the moon. “Hmm … interesting mural,” he says. He glances back at me again for a minute, then continues looking around, really examining the various items in the shop, picking up things, one at a time, and looking them over. It’s as if he’s taking stock. Surveying. Calculating. It’s almost as if he’s doing mental profit and loss statements in his head, deciding what might be the most valuable commodity to fill his boat. Should he go for the hand-tooled, leather leashes or the cast-pewter collar charms?
How odd.
Stealthily, I watch him, playing a little game I like to call “Guess the Pet.” It involves trying to guess what kind of pet—species and breed—a customer is shopping for. I am usually pretty good at this game. Aside from the clues that make it easy, like a pug-themed keychain or a sweater full of cat hair, most people have a pet personality tell of some sort.
The cat shoppers are more aloof, taking their time, making circuitous loops around the store. They don’t really want suggestions, just to be left alone to make their choices. The dog shoppers head directly to the products they need, asking enthusiastic questions and lapping up advice.
Small pet people are harder to suss out. The rabbit and guinea pig owners vs. bird and lizard people can be tricky. We don’t get many fish people. The store is too small to stock aquarium supplies.
I don’t see any visible pet hair on Ragnar’s clothing to indicate what sort of animal he owns. His own hair is also impeccably groomed. Medium length, streaky blond, with a slight wave. Surfer hair in another place or season. He wears it swept back from his face. There’s no hiding those deep, deep-blue eyes and strong, sculpted features. Even though he’s blond, he’s not too fair. This makes his blue eyes stand out all the more.
He is also very tall. His larger-than-life presence practically fills the entire shop. I can see the shape of hard, lean muscles through the wool sweater he is wearing. Hang on … is this the guy from The Onion? Could it be? My mouth drops open, and I forget to look busy while I’m checking him out.
Ragnar notices me staring and meets my eyes, smiling slightly. Knowingly. For a long moment, he holds me in the tractor beam of his gaze. Then he turns and takes three long-legged steps, crossing the store to the clothing rounder.
He’s moving fast like a big cat, but directly like a dog. Still can’t tell, dammit.
I get a glimpse of his butt and catch my breath. I shouldn’t be staring at a customer’s ass, should I? In my defense, between his height and my seated position on the barstool, his ass is right smack dab in the middle of my line of sight. Plus, it’s perfect. Round. Firm. Seaworthy. I can picture him standing at the helm of a bucking ship.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Um … can I help you with anything in particular?” I offer. Dog or cat? Which would it be? I shake my head, trying to dislodge the inappropriate thoughts and return to a safe, professional space.
One thing’s for sure. There’s no way he’s a snake guy. I can always spot them a mile away.
“Do you think this would fit a small dog?” Ragnar holds up a British judge costume from the cat costume section. “And these?” He pulls out several options, including a cop suit, surgical scrubs, and a wizard’s robe-and-hat combo I’d sewn tiny, star-shaped beads onto.
“It depends on the breed. Do you have a dog?” I ask, abandoning my guessing game.
“Um … Affenpinscher? No, wait. Brussels Griffon? I always get them mixed up. Sorry, it isn’t my dog. It’s my little sister’s,” he says.
“I think they would be fine,” I say. “The important thing is that they aren’t restrictive or uncomfortable. It’s essential that your pet is happy in their costume. We have a generous return policy if the clothing doesn’t fit or if your pet hates it. Is your sister local?”
“She’s not too far,” he says, “but she doesn’t drive.”
