Finally, after a long sigh, he says, “Everything.”
And the way he says it sounds so utterly exhausted that suddenly a little spark of sympathy for Call Me Charlie ignites in my chest. I still can’t feel my face, but I feel for this guy. He’s not the first person to give me that answer. I don’t know if we’ll work out, but I hate to leave people in need, mostly because it’s the dogs who wind up suffering in the long run.
“Look,” I say. “I normally don’t offer one-off sessions, but if you want, I’ve got some time tomorrow afternoon. We can do a couple hours, you can see how it goes, and if it works, we’ll make a plan for more training.”
“Really?” His voice ticks up hopefully. “That would be great. I mean, I appreciate the offer, and I don’t want to take up too much of your time. If we aren’t a good fit, then—”
He babbles on for a minute. I take the opportunity to grab the bottle of ibuprofen from my glove compartment and swallow a couple tablets down with a bottle of water that’s been in the cup holder for who knows how long.
When Charlie pauses for breath, I say, “I’ll be by at two o’clock. Text me your address.” I expect him to tell me he’s working at two, because it is a weekday, and he definitely sounds like the kind of guy with a nine-to-five, probably with an office and an assistant.
“My address?” Suddenly he’s sounding hesitant again, but he hasn’t said no to the time, so maybe I’m wrong about him.
“Yes, so I can look at what your setup is like.”
“Oh. I thought we’d meet somewhere more public.”
What does he think this is, a date?
“It helps if I can assess the home environment too. Some dogs are great at home and have more issues outside. Others are the opposite. But if I only get half the story, I can’t help you.”
Charlie laughs softly. “She’s pretty much ...Her issues are...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but his breathless “everything” from before is probably the conclusion.
Fine. My face is really starting to throb, and it’ll be a half hour before the ibuprofen kicks in. But I don’t have to spend all of those minutes on the phone. “If you want, we can meet at City Park, and once we work outside, we can go back to your place and do some indoor stuff there.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that would be great. Thanks. Two o’clock? I’ll see you at the park.”
He hangs up, and I worry that this is already a bad idea. I’ve broken too many rules. I don’t do à la carte. I don’t deal with high-maintenance clients. But whatever. One session won’t kill me, I need the money, and hopefully Call Me Charlie will decide he needs someone else so I don’t have to deal with more endless voicemails when his dog licks her ass in mixed company more often than he’s comfortable with.
I drive out of town, up Jefferson Highway, and back to the house. The leaves are turning, and the drive is muddy, and when I get out of the car, the sound is exactly the way I like it—quiet.
Except for the sound of Dante barking inside the house, but he stops the second I let myself in. He’s a five-year-old rescue I got from a shelter in Tennessee last year. He’s a collie mix and a bossy jerk with other dogs, but around people he’s a teddy bear. He plops his ass down on my kitchen floor, tongue hanging out to one side.
“Hey, buddy.” I scratch his ears, and his eyes roll in ecstasy. “Go on.” I hold the door open, and he bolts for the yard. He’ll take a piss and pretend to hunt squirrels for fifteen minutes before he remembers there’s a tub of kibble within easy reach in the pantry.
“Hey!” I shout as he takes off into the trees. “Where’s your sister?”
He doesn’t answer, but a whimper from upstairs gives me my answer.
Shit.
“Hey, June Girl,” I say as I make my way up the stairs. “What are you doing up here?”
Juniper the chocolate lab is standing in the hall, head drooping, but her tail wags a little as I smile. It hurts to see her like this, particularly as she takes a few steps toward me. Her legs barely bend anymore. I’ve got her on some good arthritis meds, and the vet says her pain levels are manageable, but at fifteen, she’s having trouble getting around.
Stairs, in particular, are her kryptonite. She especially has trouble getting down them, and today’s not the first time she’s wandered up here in search of the perfect sunbeam for a nap and gotten stuck.
“Come on, baby, let’s get you back downstairs.” I take a step forward and nearly slip in a puddle on the floor. Juniper’s watching me, head still bowed in apology, and now it all makes sense. “Aw, pretty girl, it’s okay.” I’ve had her since she was twelve weeks old. This isn’t the first time she’s peed on my floor and definitely won’t be the last.
I carry her downstairs, and she makes her way out to the yard. Dante runs a few laps around her, barking an invitation to play, but he knows she won’t join him, and he gives her space.
While they’re outside, I clean up upstairs and get dinner ready. Kibble for the dogs, canned soup for me, since the freezing is coming out and I’m not even a garden salad guy on a good day.
I’ve mostly forgotten about Call Me Charlie when I check my email before bed, but he comes roaring back, since there’s a lengthy note from him, not only confirming our session tomorrow but also providing a complete history of his dog’s life up to and including a YouTube video of her birth, recorded at some fancy breeder upstate.
I have a headache just going through it all, although the link he includes to an Instagram account shows that the dog is cute as hell. As are her owners—both of them—if you’re into upwardly mobile and expertly coiffed urban gays. There’s a picture from last Christmas with two guys sitting under a tree in complementary Christmas onesies. They’re holding a wriggling husky puppy and smiling at the camera. The picture is captioned with hashtags like #dogdads and #gaydads. No indication as to which one is Charlie, but I’m annoyed he didn’t mention his partner. I like to work with the whole household. No sense getting one owner on board with training if the other is sneaking scraps under the table at dinnertime.
As I get into bed, with Juniper and Dante taking up more than their fair share of the mattress, I wonder for the millionth time if I’ve made a mistake taking on Charlie. But whatever. We’ll spend a few hours tomorrow, and then I don’t have to see him again.
