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Walking up the steps to my rented duplex, I pull the house key out of my pocket and smile at Ravioli—my most handsomest pug in the whole wide world—when he shoves his smashed face against the front window.
“Hey little buddy! Give me one second!” I stab my key into the hole, turn, and brace myself for the onslaught of pug.
Ravioli, bless his little heart, goes bananas when I enter the tiny little foyer, jumping all over like Tigger as I try to remove my shoes and dump my keys into the bowl next to the door.
I bend, giving him a cursory scratch behind his ears. “I know, I know—you’ve been cooped up all day and have to pee.” I rise, still talking to the dog. “You wouldn’t believe what I did today—babysat some rich kid so he could put the moves on a woman at a funeral! Can you believe that shit?” I say. Ravioli cocks his head as if he can understand me as he follows me down the hall. “Trust me, I didn’t want to but I needed the money, and besides, he’s friends with Uncle Winston.”
We reach my small kitchen.
“I can’t believe no one noticed me loitering—I wasn’t even sitting down.” I take a grape from a bowl and pop it on my tongue. “No one said a word.”
And if they did, they most likely assumed I was a photographer or an employee working for the funeral parlor, or possibly a nun without her habit?
Don’t nuns hang out in churches?
I certainly looked like one with my black blouse and its prim lace collar, tucked into black dress pants, hair falling down my back in a dark curtain.
“A nun without a habit,” I chuckle to the dog, who has lost interest in me and has gone to stand next to the treat canister, panting and batting his bulging, beady eyes.
I tsk. “Dude, you have to go outside first. I don’t want any accidents on the floor.”
He’s two years old but every once in a while, the little guy can’t hold it in.
Opening the door I let Ravioli outside, into the fenced in backyard where he takes off like a shot—or at least, as fast as a fat pug can go.
Naturally he gets the zoomies, forgetting that he has a job to do. And that job is peeing so he’s not peeing on the kitchen floor when he comes back inside.
I leave him there to play; leave the back door open since it’s gorgeous outside, sliding my feet into slippers and brewing myself a cuppa tea.
Sigh.
Catfishing and puppeteering is not at all how I want to spend my weekends—but unfortunately for me, that’s what’s paying the bills; every side hustle counts and keeps the electricity on so I can spend as much time as I can building my business.
No, strike that—I wouldn’t consider myself a catfish, not by any stretch of the imagination—at least not the kind you see on television. It’s more like… I’m a people person helping people when and where I can, in exchange for the capitol (aka: money) I need to build my business full time.
One half mercenary, one half community service.
And if the universe is on my side, there will be a day I will not have to have a side-hustle.
But that day is not today.
Water steaming hot, I add a tea bag, leaving it in the mug so it can steep, watching the steam rise as I lean my hip against the counter. Behind me in the back yard, Ravioli zooms in circles burning off all his pent up doggo energy.
“Good, get good and tired,” I tell him out loud though he can’t hear me. “I have shit to get done later and don’t need you trying to climb into my lap and lick my face because you want attention.”
My phone buzzes, still on vibrate, startling me.
Skips around the counter until I grab it, looking at the screen.
UNKNOWN CALLER.
Nothing new there, plenty of telemarketers call during the day, scammers too.
I hit decline and let it go to voicemail.
It’s hours later before I check my messages, taking the rest of the afternoon to check emails, do some marketing, design a few banners and graphics for social media to promote my business.
Checking my bank account, I audibly moan when the balance pops up and I click, click, click on the ENTER bar because surely there are some numbers missing from the total?
