“Wow, looks like Sydney is ready to work!” Cora laughed as she struggled to get in the door and past the cheerfully lunging dog. “What’s going on with you guys?”
“Let’s chat a bit. Please come in.”
Cora followed Fran down the hall. From the outside, Fran’s home looked as stately and old-fashioned as the rest of the neighboring homes, but the inside was a revelation. Her take on interior design matched her sartorial sense; her home had a severe minimalist edge softened by the light pouring from the huge glass walls in the rear of the house. Sparsely furnished homes usually made Cora nervous—one misplaced paper made them messy—but Fran’s managed to walk the line between museum-like and inviting.
“Darling, the things we worked on last week in class are amazing! Sydney knows how to sit when I ask, and he comes running when I call him. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“I hear a ‘but’ coming...”
“But”—Fran cocked an eyebrow, dipped her glasses, and paused dramatically—“his front door etiquette is an embarrassment, as you just saw. I had a little cocktail party here over the weekend, and Sydney was the worst host. He jumped on everyone when they walked in the door.” Fran placed her hand on her chest. “I died. This has to stop, you understand.”
“Totally. Jumping up makes me nutty, too, because I’m normally on the receiving end. But remember, jumping up on people is rewarding for dogs ... it feels good to vent some of that energy and make contact with us. You’re going to have to work hard at this one, and give it plenty of time to sink in.”
“How much time? Because I’m hosting my book club on Thursday, darling.”
“Very cool! What are you reading?”
“Nothing! We call it a book club, but it’s really just a bunch of saucy middle-aged ladies who like to sit around and drink. I’d invite you, but you’re about thirty years too young. Call me when you have your first hot flash.”
Cora laughed. “I can guarantee that Sydney won’t be perfect in time for your book club, but I do have a quick trick for you.”
Cora grabbed a thin cotton leash from her bag while Sydney danced at her feet. She opened a nearby closet door and looped the leash on the inside doorknob. She held the leash then shut the door on it, grasping the clasp end in her hand.
“I think I see where this is going. I love it!”
“Remember the arm-cross sit I showed you last week?Thisis where we’re going to use it. You’ll leash Sydney before you let people in, and then lead them over to him and practice some arm-cross sits.” The arm-cross sit was Cora’s magic bullet, a way to clearly signal to the dog that he needed to sit no matter how distracting the environment. “Do you mind if I blog about this?”
“Be my guest. I’m ready for Sydney to become an Internet celebrity so I can retire in style.”
Cora pulled her phone out of her back pocket and started snapping photos of Sydney on the tether. Her semisecret blog was a lightly trafficked photo-heavy diary of her work with her clients’ dogs, solutions to typical training challenges, stories about the foster dogs that passed through her home, and frequent tirades about Ershovich’s highly publicized but highly harmful techniques. Since she needed anonymity to speak her mind, her brother Josh had helped her to set it up so that readers would have to dig deep to discover her identity or location, and her profile photo on the site showed only Fritz’s paws. She’d named it ChienParfait.com (“perfect dog”) as a joke, acknowledging that many of the dogs she worked with were far from textbook, but in their own way each was perfect.
Fran watched Cora as she snapped a few photos of Sydney on the tether. “You need to write a book. This issosimple, but of course I never would have thought of it!”
“A book? Seriously? It’s never crossed my mind. Maybe someday.” Cora considered Wade’s audition e-mail.First a TV show, now a book?Cora mused.Who do they think I am?
“Write something. The world needs a sane training voice out there. You’d find your audience, I’m sure of it. And the press would go bonkers for those Botticelli curls and green eyes, so you’d have no problem promoting it. You’ll be a hit, darling!”
Cora started to speak, but Fran was on a roll.
“I despise that Ershovich guy. Emphasis on the ‘dick’ in ‘dictator,’ if you ask me. I tried reading his first book and I didn’t learn a thing, all he did was brag. And his show is ridiculous. He seems so angry at those poor dogs.” Fran waved her hand above her head, as if shooing away a bug. “If you ever decide to write something other than your blog, keep me posted. I know people.”
Everyone in DC “knew people.” Even though Cora was curious, she knew better than to ask what people did for a living. It was too early in their relationship, and she made a practice of not prying into her clients’ lives. If they wanted to tell her about their jobs, families, or hobbies, she was an eager listener, but she neveraskedpeople what they did when they weren’t training their dogs. Working with people in their homes was an intimate business, and Cora did everything in her power to keep the relationships professional until invited to do otherwise. Cora wasn’t sure what Fran did for a living, but she could tell that whatever it was, she did it well.
“That’s really nice of you—thanks, Fran.” She quickly changed the subject, ever the timekeeper, so her clients got their money’s worth. “Have you been outside today? We’ve got a great day for leash walking, so let’s get suited up and get out there.”
FOUR
“Oh my God, I have to fart!” Maggie whispered. “Why do I always get gas right before Bikram? It’s like farting in a Crock-Pot.”
Cora stifled a giggle as they entered the yoga room that evening, which was already a few degrees warmer than the rest of the gym and had a permanent fermented odor. She was still trying to appreciate the benefits of yoga, but the “quiet mind” aspect escaped her. The only time Cora could ever recall having a quiet mind was as the anesthesia kicked in before her oral surgery. During class, she thought about her clients, particularly during Downward Dog. She thought about what she’d eaten that day, and how it might react in her stomach as she contorted herself. She thought about Fritz. She thought about her workout outfit and wondered if her black spandex pants stretched out and became transparent when she bent over, like the pants on the woman in front of her. She was happy she wore a thong, just in case.
“This isn’t about competition,” Ravi, the instructor, murmured each week at exactly the same point during the hour, when heels were touching the ground and asses were pointing to the ceiling.
Thank God,Cora thought in response.I’d be in last place.
“Now let’s just ... hang out in the pose for a while,” Ravi intoned as he effortlessly flowed into Tadasana.
Hang out. Cora had come to hate the expression. No one dated, it was all “hanging out.” She glanced over at the perfectly pretzeled Maggie, who was the queen of “hanging out,” expertly juggling no fewer than three men at a time. Cora—who was hoping for something more than hanging—envied her friend’s casual attitude toward dating. “There’s enough of me to go around,” she’d wink and say with a Mae West accent when Cora asked.
