Page 9 of Puppy Love

When the tan woman with the aquatic tattoos dumped half her margarita on me, I should have turned around right then and there. Two strikes should have been enough for me to realize this wasn’t going to work out in my favor. Tonight was not my night. But I was so blinded by her dashing smile and those hazel, aphrodisiac eyes that I pushed those rose-colored glasses up the bridge of my nose and let her buy me a drink.

To be fair, she was hitting all the right criteria.

With her shiny chestnut hair, thick dark lips, and facial piercings that glistened in the low bar light, Violet looked as if Artemis and Asteria had a lesbian love child. “Beautiful” did no justice, but “ethereal” was too soft. This woman was the physical embodiment of Mother Earth. Everything about her, from her forest-colored eyes to her small, boulder-like hands was like she was hand-fucking-crafted by nature. Attraction? Check.

And distance was no question, given that I had never seen her a day in my life. It kind of seemed like a cruel joke, to meet someone so beautiful just to see them only once in your life. But I hadn’t known her, and she hadn’t known me, so distance? Check.

It wasn’t until we were locked inside the bathroom with her hand inside my underwear that I realized I massively fucked up. There was no deal breaker.

I tried to think of one, scouring my brain to find anything she could have said or done that ruined any chance of me thinking about her the next day. I couldn’t stay mad about the spilled margarita because I’ve spilled about six different substances on this dress already. I couldn’t hate her for the taunting because it was actually quite charming and was definitely turning me on. And the fact that I’d never had a sexual encounter with a woman before couldn’t be a deal breaker, because that was the entire point. I was trying something new. I was moving on.

Then, I was moving out. Out of the bathroom, out of Monsey’s, out of Violet’s life.

I don’t know why I panicked so badly. Adrian thinks everything just became too much too fast. I only gave them a brief synopsis, because it had been humiliating enough, but I have to say I agree with them. I just kind of wish I could have explained that to her, because damn did I want her to fuck me in a way I hadn’t been fucked before.

But I couldn’t really control that.

In my twenty-three years of life, I’ve learned that controlling my body and my mind is nearly impossible. Although they share the same vessel, the two are complete enemies. My brain can never make my body do what I want, act how I want, or even breathe how I want. The only thing my brain does control is ensuring constant worry is always present. Last night, it might have kicked into overdrive, but today, I can think of many reasons why it’s feasible.

I’m starting a completely new job, with new people and a new atmosphere. There will be new customers and dogs and rules and equipment. The only familiar things will be Adrian and Avery. And still, I only like half of them.

“It’ll be fine,” Adrian says in a comforting tone. We stand outside the large building, hand-in-hand. Dawson lets out an excited whine, his tail gently swatting the concrete slab. “Everyone is really nice. I mean, the owner is a little uptight, but she’s pretty much always on vacation. All you have to do is what you’re good at.”

Usually, Adrian’s consoling helps, but sometimes, it just reminds me of all the things there are to stress about. The things I hadn’t thought of in the first place:

What if I’m not good at my job?

What if everyone hates me?

What if I mess up and get fired?

Half of my brain knows that, in reality, the chances of all of those things happening are slim. But the half that comes up with that shit works overtime, so I can’t forget they’re all still technically possible.*

As we step into the lobby of Furry Friends Pet Resort, the smell of bleach and wet dog baptizes me. Various retail products line the light blue walls from floor to ceiling: brushes, toys, food, leashes, anything a dog owner could ever need, anything a dog could ever want. When the door closes behind me, a bell hidden somewhere near the top of the frame chimes. I barely finish looking around before Adrian drags me through a side door near the back of the room and leads me to the inside of the facility.

The aroma immediately transforms from bleach and wet dog, to strictly wet dog. I analyze my surroundings while Adrian leads me to a large set of green lockers. The facility is huge, like a warehouse-converted-dog-hotel. Loud barks echo off the walls, bouncing around one another and ringing through the building. My head throbs at the sounds, but I try my hardest not to show it. To the left, four large garage-type doors sit up on the wall, daylight flooding in through each opening. Vinyl fencing surrounds the doorways, creating separate yards for the dogs. The same soft blue from the lobby encompasses me, fire hydrants and squirrels and paw prints painted on top. On the right side of the facility, dozens of rooms sit along the wall, each with a clipboard next to their windowed doors.

“You can put your bag in here,” Adrian says, interrupting my sight-seeing. “Listen, I’ll give you a tour sometime soon. But today we’ve got like six dogs on the schedule, and one of them is a seventy-pound doodle. So, let’s get your ass into the salon.”

I nod and start to follow Adrian once more, but I feel resistance from the leash gripped in my hand. After giving a short tug to get Dawson to move, I start walking again, but there’s no budge. I turn to see what’s causing the holdup, and my jaw drops to form an overwhelmingly horrified “o.” A yellow puddle forms at the bottom of a vinyl post, Dawson’s leg hiked high into the air.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, as my dog continues to take what has to be the longest piss of his life on the epoxy floor of my new job.

Adrian’s cheeks grow pink, and I can tell they’re trying not to laugh from the way they bite their lip. I appreciate the effort, even if I can still see their very obvious amusement.

“I’ll go put him into daycare,” they chuckle softly. Their finger points to a bright yellow bucket in the corner. “There’s a mop bucket over there.”

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