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“Uh… okay.”
Her breathing returns to normal for about two seconds, then she gets right back to sobbing.
“Sorry you’re upset, Jewel. It sounds terrible,” I say, letting her cry it out.
It doesn’t matter who she dates. It always ends the same way.
“I… I can’t come in t…t…today. I’m s… sorry, Liv,” she manages to say.
I shrug even though Harry’s the only one who can see me. “It’s okay. I don’t think we’re going to be too busy.”
She signs off with a tearful goodbye, and I, satisfied with the way Pawsh Pets looks, grab a seat behind the cash wrap counter and wait for customers and their furry friends to arrive.
3
LIVVY
I don’t haveto wait long before Mrs. Johnson comes in with her overweight beagle. I swear, if I had a dollar for every time the woman asked me for dietary advice for that dog—and never bothered to follow it—I might have another whole steady income stream for the store.
I bend down to scratch the beagle’s ears, and when he looks at Harry like he might be a tasty snack, the cat bares his teeth. The message is lost on the beagle, who tries to jump but is too chubby to follow through.
“Now, Mrs. Johnson, what did the vet say when you took this little guy in last week?”
She avoids my gaze, like a bad kid in trouble. “Oh, well, he did say my boy is a little overweight…”
Exactly what I told her the vet would say. One doesn’t have to be an expert to recognize that a dog whose stomach almost drags on the ground is toowell-fed, as I tactfully put it to her.
I place my hand on Mrs. Johnson’s arm to let her know I’m on her side, and nod, looking at the chubby pupper with all the admiration I can muster. “He’s such a handsome boy. We want him to be around as long as possible, right?”
Mrs. Johnson’s eyes well up. “Yes,” she says in a breaking voice. “But I don’t know what to do. He’s always so… hungry.”
I skip the speech about the pet owner being the ‘leader of the pack,’ and how Mrs. Johnson needs to be the boss and not the other way around. I’ve tried it a few times over the years, and pet owners don’t want to hear it, at least not from me.
So I do the only other thing I can think of.
Sell her some of my very expensive, air-dried, organic lamb dog food.
Hey, a girl’s got to make a living, right?
And this stuff is so fancy-schmancy high-end all-natural, it could have its own stand at the freaking farmer’s market.
Mrs. Johnson carefully reads the label on the bag of dog food, dreamily running her finger over its promise to ‘help unleash your dog’s true potential.’
I really wish they didn’t market like that. Talk about over promising. I don’t know that a chubby, spoiled beagle will ever be making much of a mark on the world.
She leaned close to me even though there was no one around except for our pets, and whispered. “Do you… think it will give him gas? Because he gets awful gas.”
After assuring her if there were any issues with the dog food she could return it, I placed a ten-pound bag into her wheeled grocery cart. I made her promise to let me know how the dog liked it, and she was off, smiling broadly and telling her boy he didn’t have to go on a diet alone, that she’d join him.
Another satisfied customer.
I am straightening up my inventory of dog leashes, all hanging on the wall in order of size, when another neighborhood local, Tim, strolls in with his parrot on his shoulder.
“Livvy the lovely,” he booms.
“Livvy the lovely,” the parrot repeats.
“Hi there. And how are you, Polly?” I ask. Who names a parrotPolly? So basic.
