I call him back and he picks up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Charlie, this is Mason Dupuis. You left a message.”
“Yes. Hi. Thanks so much for calling back.”
And then the phone goes quiet. Usually this is the part where people launch into their whole story. They just bought a puppy. They rescued a Lithuanian street dog. Their grandmother died and they’re stuck with a three-legged chiweenie named Bowser who hates absolutely everyone.
But Charlie doesn’t say anything.
My face hurts.
“You need a dog trainer?” I say.
The phone stays quiet for a long time. I check the screen but the timer on the call is still ticking.
“No.”
I admit I didn’t listen to his message too closely, but I do remember him saying he had a dog.
“You don’t?”
More silence.
“Hello?” I’d grind my teeth if I could feel them, but the glue hasn’t even fully set on the crown and that feels like a bad idea.
“Well, I mean, do you have any credentials or anything?”
Oh, he’s going to be one of those. He wants to see my degree from K9 University and hear about how my grandfather trains the queen’s corgis.
I should have deleted his voicemail.
“I’ve got twenty-five years’ experience; the last twelve have been full time. I specialize in positive reinforcement. There’s no such thing as a bad dog.”
Usually this is where people either breathe a sigh of relief and we get down to talking about their problems, or they ask for references and I know it’s not going to work. Not that I don’t have references. I’ve got satisfied customers all over Laurelsburg, but I usually find the people who ask for them never wind up working out. They’re too uptight, too busy, too likely to tellmewhat their dog needs based on what the latest internet quack has to say instead of listening to the professional in the room.
“Do you do like a free trial session or something?”
Is he for real? One of those people who thinks I’m going to work for exposure? I don’t care how many followers he has on his Instagram account.
“No. I work on packages. We’ll start with three sessions over eight weeks and then make a follow-up plan from there.”
Somewhere in the background, a dog barks. The sound is high, playful.
“No. No, Athena, we can’t go outside,” Charlie says absently. The dog yips again, turning plaintive in that way that only huskies have. “No. No, Daddy’s on the phone. You just sit there, and we can play when I’m done.”
He sounds like he’s talking to a toddler. And the way he saysDaddymakes me think he’s one of those people who is going to tell me the dog is his baby and gets him in a way most people don’t.
I like dogs more than people most days, but I never forget they’re not actually people. That’s their appeal, in fact.
“How old’s your dog?” I ask.
“What?” he replies, like he’s forgotten I’m even here. “Oh, um, eleven months.”
“And what’s the issue?”
Another pause. Getting answers out of this guy is like pulling teeth, and yes, the irony in that expression is palpable right now.
