Irving the humping poodle quivered at the sight of me. “Irving, no,” I said, shaking the gray-haired pup off my leg, but he held tight.
“You excite him, heh, heh, heh,” Irving’s creepy owner said. He was a tall, skinny guy with stringy brown hair and a birdlike wattled face, not someone whose dog I wanted to hump in public.
I laughed politely and gave Irving a friendly kick so he’d find a new victim.
The room was hopping with Pops playing piano and singing “Fascinating Rhythm.” His voice was a cross between Louis Armstrong and Frank Sinatra, croaky and deep from years of smoking and drinking, but also smooth and intimate. He had a way of expressing the meaning of a song with the sort of vocal storytelling that only the greats seemed to master. The plastic cup on top of the piano overflowed with dollar bills. Watching him, I was filled with love for the man who had taken me to my first day of school, told me the facts of life, and worked extra shifts to pay for my sewing lessons as a child. We never had much, but we had each other.
Benny, the chocolate-colored Labradoodle rubbed his head against my thigh, so I hugged him. When I tried to leave, he stood on his hind legs and offered me his paws.
“He wants to waltz with you,” BL said. Her strawberry-blond hair was styled in an eighties shag she had cut herself with dog clippers. But it suited her perfectly. She wore a vintage Pucci hostess caftan with a white boa, and held her weenie-dog, Crookshank, who was dressed to match. “Dancing is Benny’s thing.”
Why not? Benny was male with a full head of hair. I held him close and we swayed back and forth to the music. He flashed me a big doggie smile as thick white slobber spilled out of his mouth. I laughed because I couldn’t remember the last time a male had drooled over me. The glow of puppy love on Benny’s face filled me with a joy I hadn’t felt in ages. No wonder canine therapy is such a burgeoning field.
A dishy musician type in tight black jeans and a black T-shirt lifted the front paws of Chiquita, his German shepherd, and box-stepped with him next to us. Others took their small dogs in their arms and moved rhythmically to the beat. The room swelled with canine-human bliss.
When the song ended, I excused myself from Benny, excited to tell Pops the big news. We were going on a cruise! There was so much to do if we were going to be ready to leave in a week. This would be fantastic. It was just what he needed to cheer him up after losing his Jazz Factory gig. Plus, after I got the donation for the museum, I’d use my bigger salary to rent an apartment for the two of us. But before I could reach Pops through the sea of dogs and the humans who loved them, BL intercepted me.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said, taking me by the hand and leading me to the basement.
“What is it?”
“Guess?”
“A new pony?”
“Oh, shut up,” BL said. “Ta da!” She pointed to one of the cat suites that had been empty the night before.
I gasped. “Kitty!”
BL opened the cage and placed the three-legged fuzz ball into my waiting arms. Most of his right ear was missing and had been stitched up. Scratching his head and holding him close to my heart, I felt the warm hum of his purr. “Why, you poor no-name slob, where have you been? You’re hurt.”
Kitty meowed softly as I held him.
“He was found bleeding near Hudson and North Moore. A Good Samaritan took him to Bide-a-wee,” BL said. “They got my address through the microchip the vet implanted when you first found him.”
“What happened to his ear?”
“Doctor thinks he got into a fight somewhere.”
“Where have you been wandering, you little drifter, you? Did you want to see the world? Look at what a mess you are,” I said, “just like your human, yes you are.” Smiling, I took BL into our hug. “How can I thank you?”
“After you and Kitty reunite, you can come upstairs and help me with yappy hour,” she said. “We’re about to play pin the tail on the human.”
I giggled. Thoughts of Alessandro and work evaporated, at least for the moment.
Why Can’t You Behave?
HOLD STILL. WE’RE ALMOST done,” Archie said. “I just have to rinse. Ten words. Two words. Two words…” I clapped my hands twice. Archibald Carbunkle was the balding, rotund groomer at Muttropolis. He suffered from a type of obsessive-compulsive disorder that caused him to announce his word count anytime he spoke. It took two claps to get him to stop. That was his rule. If he miscalculated his word count (which I’d never seen him do), then he had to lick every lightbulb in the room. This was also his rule.
Pops had his head in the canine/feline bath while Archie washed his hair with Doctors Foster & Smith Flea and Tick Shampoo. I offered to run to Duane Reade and pick up people shampoo.
“No, no, dog shampoo’s good enough for me,” Pops insisted. “In fact, I cut my nails with canine clippers and brush my hair with Benny’s brush.”
“Lies and deceit,” I cried. “Your hair hasn’t been brushed in days.”
“She’s right,” Archie said. “You look like a mutt. But I’m going to release your inner poodle and then I want to see some pride from you. Do you see how your hair’s got a natural curl to it? Thirty-six words. Two words. Two words…”
I clapped twice. Archie counted hyphenated words as one.
“No girlie cuts,” Pops insisted.
“How about something wavy and short like a King Charles spaniel?” Nigel suggested.
“If you’re going spaniel, go cocker,” I said, “like Lady and the Tramp.”
“Cocker
