1
Winnie
Sometimes life kicks you in the lady balls and the only answer is to pull the fire alarm on your way out the door and start over. There’s this immediate satisfaction, a stillness in the air followed by a Zen that comes over your body in the moment those water sprinklers wash away the filth and regret. I happen to know of this firsthand freefalling freedom, but I also know it’s seriously frowned upon. I’m totally a fly by the seat of your pants kind of girl, until I get reined in.
That’s me, Winsome Hana Gray-Yoshida, my mother’s summer Hamptons clam bake frat party surprise. My dad was probably the only Asian kid in his fraternity back then, while my mother agonized over being the only Latina Jewish girl from her Brooklyn neighborhood attending college. They bonded over Long Island ice teas their freshman semester at NYU. I ended up being a mixture of ay caramba and oy vey, complete with a set of chopsticks.
All this shit stirring fun was working out pretty well until I lost two jobs back to back and my trust fund dried up. That’s how I got shipped up north to bumble-fuck-too-far-from-a-real-mall-rural-NY-state to pet sit for my travel junky aunt and uncle. Mom had it with my carefree latte and Pilates lifestyle, which was unfortunate for me, since the only marketable skill I had was knowing the difference between a Kate Spade knockoff and the real deal. My sentence was not a summer abroad like I hoped, and instead straight past Bear Mountain, west of Poughkeepsie and into the real deal of weekend farmer’s markets sporting hemp purses and liberal voting Patchouli.
As for the fire alarm I pulled? Let’s just say retail work isn’t for me and I’ve got another uncle who’s on the fire department. He owed my mom a big favor after planning his chief’s retirement party at the Weston Hotel. Our family is pretty tight, and I’d be kidding myself if I didn’t realize how lucky I was that this all got swept under the rug as an accident and too long fingernails.
Animals are not exactly high on my list of things to work with, but it was probably better than my last job as a failed retail sales clerk. I mean, who knew there was a company policy about chasing shoplifters? Definitely not me. I was certain the boutique store chain Janie Doe could have offered me something. At least a bonus for rescuing that so last year jade colored cashmere sweater. I was the poster child for Pantone, but instead I got fired because the thief sprained their ankle and threatened to sue for medical compensation.
Ridiculous.
Bullshit, that’s what that was.
Utter fuckery, in my honest opinion.
I’ve decided there isn’t a cashmere sweater in the tristate—no, make that the east coast—worth a jail sentence. Now, I was nanny—under duress—to three obnoxious pets who were more high maintenance than small, needy children or my best girlfriends hitting up Barney’s during a shoe sale. I checked in with a few of my friends who actually do nanny the human kind of children, because I didn’t think it was possible. It’s possible all right, and right now I would have traded a shitty diaper for the all hairballs and loose stools on the kitchen floor in the world. I tried calling my dad for backup, but Mom had cut my international calling plan, pulling the plug on that bailout.
Note to self, next time my dad, Ryo Yoshida, goes all Doctor’s Without Borders, get a reliable email address–not connected through his office.
“Dammit, Roswell! Easy, Pumpkin! Oh shit, lordy, Bailey! No! No!” The three chariot beasts of hell dragged me down what was the country bumpkin equivalent of Fifth Avenue with me at their unholy mercy. My mom might have lied a teensy bit to her sister about my recent stint as a professional dog walker, but it was probably better than getting into actual trouble for that whole non-fire-sprinkler episode. My phone rang, and I juggled three leashes, my perfect shade of butter tan purse from Coach’s new spring line and a small non-brand organic coffee in my hands.
“Oww, shit balls!” I cursed, burning my hand spilling the coffee and staining my favorite purse. “Oh, man!” That stain was not coming out and I huffed giving the wretched animals a dirty glare.
Pumpkin howled off key, and Bailey took off in the other direction, snagging my arm, sloshing more coffee.
“Ugh!” I dumped the coffee in a trash can littered with hippie stickers and one Buddha deity with the required number of arms I needed for this task, but sadly lacked. I picked up my phone before the last ring. “Hello?”
“Winnie, darling! I’m calling to remind you that Precious has an acupuncture appointment today at eleven-thirty. Would you be a dear and get him there, please? I can’t have my baby-boo suffer-ruffering.” She made it sound like baby talk, and I wanted to gag. No way was I dating anytime soon and kids would be light years away. My vagina was definitely closed for construction after this summer of hell.
“Um, right. Well, I’ve got them out for a walk right now.” Sure, if these beasts didn’t kill me first by pulling me into oncoming traffic, and in this town that meant a large wheeled farm vehicle detouring down Main Street.
“Wonderful,” she cooed. “Dr. Calloway’s office is on the main drag near the coffee shop and the art gallery. Don’t be late!” Aunt Helen hung up, and I was left staring at my phone steaming mad, wishing I had my coffee back.
“Okay.” I drawled looking down at my charges wondering which one was Precious because I had a Roswell, Pumpkin, and Bailey under my care. “Looks like we’re all going to the vet.” Three faces stared back at me in differing states of drool and toothlessness, cocking their heads with ears perked.
Roswell is a mini pug looking dog who could melt your face off, not with kisses, but with his bad breath and one saber tooth poking out between his slobbery lips. I learned this upon my first morning of hell rolling over into his beady eyed panting stare. If dogs could talk, I imagined he’d talk with a lisp and be head of a criminal mastermind syndicate.
Pumpkin the Basset Hound lumbered in at a good twenty pounds overweight. I don’t know what he eats
, or where he puts it, but in the last three days I’ve been here, he hasn’t shit once that I’ve seen. I’m thinking I should start to worry about the box of puppy pads my aunt left for me to put around her house that I’ve neglected so far.
Bailey is a Husky breed of some kind with two different colored eyes that kind of creep me out. Her stare is intense, and I’m waiting for the day she snaps and mauls me in my sleep. Bedding down with Dexter Morgan might be safer. She’s also the youngest of the bunch with boundless energy so far and stands up taller than I do.
“Shit, let’s all go.” Giving up the good fight, I started walking again only to have them tangled up as I tried to hurry them down the next block. Dr. Calloway’s office building was nestled between a hippie juice bar and organic food store named Dingleberries and an upscale looking gallery filled with finger paints my cousin’s three-year-old son could have done. I stopped in front of the gallery and fixed my hair, smoothing back dark flyaway strands and making sure my brows—thank you, Nana!—are straight over my eyes. It may not be NYC, but I made sure I was presentable while the dogs jerked the leashes. I wondered who got the short straw out of this one as I barged into the office, bells jingling.
“Whoa, guys, sit down.” The three faces huffed air, dripping drool on the tile floor. Gross. “Yeah, I guess not.” Seeing as how the waiting room was cozy and we were the only ones here, I dropped the leashes and went up to the waist high counter that hit closer to my breasts than waist.
“Hi, can I help you?” The woman had a name tag on her puppy scrubs that read Sharon. She looked me over, and I felt like she was assessing me as a neglectful pet owner. Lucky for all of us, I was only doing this for the summer.
“Hi, I’m Helen’s niece Winnie and one of her dogs has an appointment for acupuncture today. I’m sure she called in and arranged everything.” Tapping my sheer bubble gum pink gel nails on the counter, Sharon gave me the stink eye, glancing back to the computer screen.
“Yes, let me see. Oh, it looks like you’re late and we’ll have to reschedule.”
I felt my carefully groomed brows rise incredulously. “Late? Impossible!” I checked my phone display and I guess walking here did take longer than expected, but I did just get the call from my aunt and had a heck of a time navigating them down the street.
“Clearly,” Sharon expelled a breath, rolling her eyes, and tapped away on the keyboard.
I was barely listening to her, thinking about which nail color I could suggest for her bare nails that seriously needed cuticle TLC. Her short curls could have been a Medusa wig the way they stuck out at all angles.
“I’ll have to see if the doctor can squeeze you in today. Do you know which dog?” she asked, peering over the counter to the monsters behind me with disapproval. I prayed one of them peed on something just to stick it to Sharon-with-the-snake-curls, but no such luck.
“I, uh, don’t know which one. My aunt said Precious.”
“Oh, you mean Pumpkin. Fill out these updated medical forms, please.” The last was said condescendingly when she handed me a clipboard and a form, minus a pen. I probably shouldn’t be filling out anything that made me responsible for these mutts, but I figured there was a place in heaven for me somewhere, maybe on a street corner pimping for angels if I could just get through this summer.
Sharon dismissed me, and I sat down on the awkward plastic chair, arranging the board on my lap and riffling through my purse for a pen. The chair, which was horribly uncomfortable, was a robin’s egg blue color that bothered me as it didn’t match anything in here.
“Okay, great.” Getting the brush-off, I looked over the paperwork and filled in as much as possible. I was distracted because the chair didn’t match the blue trim in the office and I wondered who the hell put the colors together. It screwed with my Feng Shui, leaving me twitchy sitting in the mishegoss. It was all very shabby chic, including the Norman Rockwell framed pictures of little kids and pets on the walls. Whoever owned this office space clearly hadn’t updated anything in a twenty-five or more years.
Name–Pumpkin “aka Precious”
Age–If smell is a gauge then I’m guessing circa 2009.
Height–Can reach a fire hydrant sufficiently.