Page 1 of Worst in Show

I have dog kibble in my bra. Again. I wish I could say it was on purpose—some kind of genius obedience training technique perhaps—but what really happened was that the thirty-pound bag I was attempting to hoist onto a high shelf in the storage room of my grandpa’s pet store, Happy Paws, burst at the seam at the most inopportune moment.

I should have known what kind of morning I was in for as soon as I got up. The stop button on the toaster in my apartment doesn’t work, so to save my breakfast, I have to unplug the whole thing and fish out my slice at the exact right moment. Today I missed my window, and instead of heeding the sign that I’d be better off going back to bed, I proceeded as if nothing was amiss.

Hence, here I am, ankle-deep in freeze-dried beef and regret.

I shake out my sweater to clear the pet food from my decolletage and take a couple of crunchy steps to the side, but that’s all I have time for before two dervishes come barreling into the room, surrounding me with gleeful barks.

“Good morning, monsters,” I coo, crouching to their level to block them from the heap of tempting nuggets. Cholula, our Chihuahua mix, jumps up and slobbers a wet one across my nose. Her aim is off due to an extensive underbite, but no one can fault her enthusiasm. Cap waits patiently until she’s done, and I reward him with some extra ear scratches for the effort. He’s the oldest of our three remaining shelter dogs—some sort of beagle-terrier combo with a few other breeds peppered in as evidenced by his short brown coat and boxy face. “Did you have breakfast yet?” I ask him, receiving only heavy panting in response.

“Morning, Pop,” I call up the stairs to the small space above the store that my grandpa Harvey had converted from office to apartment after my grandma passed a few years ago.

He appears at the landing above, mug in hand. “Morning, Cora. They ate. Would you like some coffee?”

I free myself of my backpack by the counter and smile at him. “You’ve known me almost twenty-eight years, and you still have to ask?”

He shrugs and heads back into his space. I follow.

“So, what’s on the docket today?” I ask once we’re seated at his small table and the first hit of caffeine has done its thing. I eye the English muffin in front of him. Softening butter and a wedge of hard cheese sit off to the side.

Harvey consults his planner and runs a curled finger down the page. “A couple of deliveries. We’ll have to move the rest of those bully sticks and the pigs’ ears to the front. Two for one I think as we phase them out.”

“One pallet was already delivered. I brought in the bags.”

“That’s what the ruckus was?”

“Minor snafu. Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up. Are you replacing the chewies with anything else?”

“Those cookies we sold last year did well. I’ll call the vendor to see if she still makes them.”

My stomach growls loudly. Mmm, cookies. “Can I have one of those?” I point to his plate.

“In the pantry.”

While I butter the crumbly goodness, I say, “It’s almost October. Maybe I’ll make some more pet costumes? They were pretty popular. And I posted in that online forum on Flockify this morning to see if anyone is looking to have something made, too. Look.” I show him the post.

Living History Illinois Flockify Post, Period Dress Channel

SingerQueen Tuesday 06:53 AM

Hi all, it’s about that time. I’ve got a few spots open for costume commissions—first come basis. Holler at me.

“You’re this ‘SingerQueen’?” Harvey asks, peering up at me above his readers.

“It’s my username. Because my sewing machine is a Singer.”

“Ah. Yes, all good ideas, kiddo.”

That boosts me even more than the coffee and carbs. There are always themed events popping up closer to the holidays, so I should be able to pick up a commissioned outfit or two from the historical reenactment folks online, and I know exactly what I’m going to make for our pet clientele. I scored a stack of vintage fabrics at a flea market this past summer, and I’m thinking a line of literary-inspired get-ups—Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Darcy, Scarlett O’Hara, Laura Ingalls… Our customers will love that. If they can be persuaded to spread the word, too, maybe the end-of-month bills downstairs will seem less nefarious.

I finish my food in a rush and get up to put my mug away, but as I do, my foot catches on something soft that sends me stumbling ungracefully for the remaining steps to the counter. Dregs of coffee end up across my chest in a Rorschach pattern that looks like a smiling T. rex. I shake dark droplets off my hand as I straighten. “Come on, Boris. Not again.”

The wolfhound lifts his head and looks in my general direction. I’ll never understand how it’s possible for an aging, blind behemoth to move around that quietly.

“Aw, he can’t help it.” Harvey pats his leg to get Boris to move. The two of them snuggle close for a moment before Boris sinks onto the floor again.

Technically, Boris, Cholula, and Cap are still available for adoption, but when my grandma died, and the shelter part of the business along with her, Harvey stopped trying to find them new homes. “Who’d want them more than me?” he said once when I asked him about it. And it’s true—I can’t picture the store without them.

I rinse off my mug and my hands and then grab Harvey’s mug, too. “Do you have a T-shirt I can borrow?”

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