The song changes and new lyrics quickly cover the silence. “Here comes Santa paws” makes my steps falter. How this song is worse than the chipmunks, I don’t know, but it is. I pass by the line of carts—my sister’s dog doesn’t need that many Christmas gifts, even if she does treat him like her new baby. The cute little Yorkie was a gift from her new boyfriend. She thinks it's their chance to raise a puppy together, find out what kind of father he'll be and whether or not he is marriage material. I see it as more of a twelve- to eighteen-year reminder she'll have of this guy if they don't work out.
I’ve been called negative a time or two, but I prefer realistic.
Pets and Paws is owned by a local family from Pelican Bay. They’ve been in the area for centuries. For years, the store was a cute mom-and-pop shop, but after extensive renovations, they've modeled the new layout to resemble a big box store. It's not as friendly as it used to be, but the new generation has made a lot of changes. All in the name of meeting the future. It’s an epidemic I’m glad hasn’t reached Main Street.
Some of the updated stores are nice, improvements for the better. But if Pierce Kensington continues on his mission to modernize Pelican Bay, half the elderly population will die of heart attacks.
There are rows and rows of shelves, each taller than I am. Product is packed into every available space. Large signs hang above the beginning of each section, explaining what you’ll find. The right side of the store is dedicated to dogs and cats while the left side is for smaller critters and slimy companions. The entire space smells like wood chips and dog food, yet it’s a pleasant aroma. I stop and watch one of the green little lizards run around his aquarium placed on an endcap. They're so cute.
I love all animals—the furry ones and the scaly ones—but picking one companion to have for the next ten to fifteen years is absolutely terrifying. What if I bought a lizard and killed him a few weeks later? Or worse, a big, beautiful, fluffy dog that would hate me? I couldn't handle the rejection.
Veering to the right, I head down the aisle labeled Dog Toys. The entire row is jam-packed with toys of every type and color—bright ones, dark ones, ones made of fabric, squeaky ones, ropes for tug-of-war. The choices are endless. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason for how the toys are stacked together in the aisle. Pink ones are settled next the blue ones and the smaller, softer toys obviously meant for tiny dogs are right next to the large rubber balls the size of my hands. This may turn out to be longer than the quick trip I’d planned.
I’m halfway down the aisle and my hands are still empty when a black streak flicks across the corner of my eye.
"Frankie, no!"
The black blur gets closer. My head turns, but not before a set of paws, nails out, hits me in the waist and scores down my leg.
Ouch.
"I'm so sorry." The large man attached to the black ball of doom sprints up to our side. Reaching down, he snatches up a bright pink leash, but when it doesn't make the dog stop jumping on me like I've hidden kibble in my pocket, he bends down and picks her up. "I don’t know what happened. She caught me off guard and snapped the leash right out of my hands.”
"It's okay. She's just happy, right?" I hold my arm across the space, giving her a second to sniff my hand before I rub behind her ears. She seems to like it if the long tongue that sneaks out and wets my cheek is any indication.
"Frankie, bad dog. We don't lick strangers."
I laugh. "It's okay." She takes another swipe at me with her tongue, but I pull back in time to miss being slobbered on. “She’s so cute.” She’s huge, but obviously a big puppy, if judging by her demeanor. Mostly black with spots of dark brown covering her legs and back. There are a few freckled white areas on her paws. Two lighter brown puffs of fur sit right above her golden puppy eyes, almost resembling well placed horns. She’s adorable, if rather large for a puppy.
"She's cute, but rambunctious and crazy,” the stranger says. Now that my leg is no longer in danger of being flayed, I have a second to appraise the puppy-holding man. And appraise him, I do.
He’s hot, and I blush as soon as my brain takes in the bulging muscles from the arm wrapped around his dog, working to keep her still. A pair of black, tight-fitted jeans with a black Polo tucked in make him look like he's about to go spy on someone through their windows. But it highlights some very nice assets—his bulging biceps. Forcing myself to make eye contact rather than envisioning what he looks like under that shirt, I’m thankfully not drooling when his deep brown eyes make contact. He flicks a hand through his hair, the motion startling me out of my daydream of us walking the Pelican Bay pier together, one of my arms wrapped around a striking bicep.
"She's a puppy. That's what they do." A breeze tickles my leg, and I peek down to see a large opening in my brand new Christmas-tree print leggings. My face pinches. They’re a seasonal special. I’ll never find this pair again. Ugh.
"She ripped your…pants?" He asks and states at the same time, like he’s not sure what I'm wearing. "Can I buy you a new pair?"
It's doubtful. I can’t imagine this big guy sitting on Facebook watching a live video in anticipation of scoring a piece of clothing. It would take hours.
"No, it's okay." Have I said “okay” five hundred times in this conversation? I think so. Get a handle on yourself, Joslin. He may be hot, but his dog ruined a fresh pair of holiday leggings.
While a piece of my legging blows in the breeze, his clothes aren’t disheveled in the least. Except for his lack of a warm winter coat, he’s the image of put together. My large black Columbia coat hides the upper half of my body, except for the hat and mittens I shoved in my pockets when I entered the store. Because I’m sane and wear a jacket in the winter.
"She's only a few months old, and all my attempts to train her have been ineffective. It's another six weeks before they start the next puppy training class, and I'm pretty sure she's going to chew me out of a house before then." He puts Frankie back on the ground but keeps a firm grip on her leash.
She makes a mad dash for me again, pulling on her tether, but I step back before she makes contact.
"I lost a dining room chair, my coat, and a brand new pair of L.L. Bean boots. They were limited edition. Back-ordered for over six months before they came. She ate the box and the shoes." His voice starts to sound a little panicky as he speaks faster and faster, but I understand. We Mainers take our L.L. Bean seriously.
“Have you given her chewy toys?” Such a stupid,stupidquestion, but once my brain registered his hotness level—a solid ten—and I remembered my legs are unshaven under this now ripped pair of leggings, I lost my ability to form smart sentences. The universe is so unfair.
"Of course. She eats them all. The bright pink fuzzy duck,” he points to a pink duck toy hanging from a hook. “It made it almost forty-eight hours before I found the head on my pillow and the guts strewn across the living room."
"You need to pick one of the flat designs that don't have stuffing." Not turning fully around, I step back and pull off one of the flat ducks from behind me. I toss it to him across the space and he catches it one-handed. His arm stretches in front of him, but I lose sight of the duck and focus my attention on how the muscle.
"This could work." He examines the duck while I stare at him and hope I don’t get caught. I can’t help myself. Who knows when I’ll see such a fine specimen again?
I step to the side this time and grab a red, rounded triangle that catches my attention. “You definitely need one of these. Put some treats in the bottom, and she’ll spend all day working to get them out.”
