Chapter 7
BFFs chat
20 July 2023
Jacq:
@Brynn what’s with your Insta? It’s disappeared did u delete it?
Jacq:
hellooooooo? @Dotty @Bridie you guys heard from Brynn?
Jacq:
Wow, so you’re all ignoring me?
**Bridie has left the chat **
Jacq:
Real mature. You gonna leave too @Dotty?
Dotty:
Nah mate, but you should think about apologising to Brynn. She’s not going to respond to regular old chats. Plus, I reckon she’s probably blocked ya on Insta cause I seen some good pics from her this week.
**Jacq has left the chat**
Dotty:
LOL. Literally.
The doggy daycare—a bright, friendly-looking storefront—is just down from where my cab drops me. I’m shocked to find about twenty people wandering around inside. My heart sinks: it’s an open casting call—a kind of free-for-all that goes on until the positions are all filled rather than a formal interview process. I really thought my connection with Hilde would jump me ahead of this. I’ve been to two already: one at American Eagle Outfitters in Times Square, where I didn’t even get within spitting distance of the store by the time they’d filled all the jobs, and another at a bookshop in the East Village, where the cut-off came just as I made it to the door.
But I’m here now, so I check in at the reception desk, take a clipboard to fill out an application form, and try find a place to write.
My phone beeps with a text from Hilde. ‘Good luck today! I won’t be there till later but just roll with whatever happens and you’re a shoo-in x’
I pocket the phone and take a look around. The shopfront is bright and modern. There’s a reception desk with a row of lockers on the wall behind, and rows of shelves full of squeaky toys, treats, and enormous bags of food as well as two whole sections devoted to doggy outfits. I bite my tongue so I don’t laugh out loud when I get to the back of the store and see that, lined up next to the section of doggy carry bags ( American Airlines carry on size approved! ) , there’s a range of dog strollers. What. The. Fuck? I mean really .
At the back of the store there’s a giant window that stretches from floor to ceiling. Behind it are the dogs in their playroom and all the potential employees are pressed up against the glass watching the dogs, some of them with looks of delight plastered on their faces. I find an empty bit of shelf in the doggy pram area and start to fill out my form.
Every so often something sets the dogs off. The noise—even out here in the main store—echoes around the space and I wince.
Despite a lot of people being called in for interviews behind the office door near the counter, the crowd in the store doesn’t dissipate much. For every one that leaves, another two arrive.
‘Brynn Wallace?’ One of the girls on the desk calls my name and sends me into the office.
A tall, skinny white guy with trendy, thick, black-rimmed nerd glasses and a mop of dark hair stands up and shakes my hand over his desk.
‘Hi, Brynn, I’m Doug Parker. I’m the owner and the manager of Dogue’s.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say. He motions for me to take a seat and then starts looking over my application form.
It’s a standard interview until he asks me why I want to work in doggy daycare when my work and study history show I’m overqualified.
Obviously ‘Because I need the money until I get a real job,’ isn’t going to be an acceptable answer, so instead I talk about Henry.
‘I miss him—much more than I thought I would. Anyway, when my friend Hilde who works here told me about the job, I thought getting the chance to be around dogs would help ease some of my homesickness.’
He tells me they’re hiring multiple people for two types of jobs: front-desk girls—a job that’s part receptionist and part retail assistant—and pet handlers. I’m surprised, given my experience, that Doug doesn’t decide I’m better suited for the front desk job.
‘I think you’ll make a good pet handler,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a sound instinct for people who will be able to handle the pressures in the playrooms.’
‘Wow, okay ... that sounds great,’ I say. ‘I’m good at handling high-pressure situations.’ I cringe at myself. Dotty would call that my white lady voice.
‘Cool. Well, can you start tomorrow?’
Tomorrow? Is that it? Have I got the job? ‘Ahh, sure,’ I say.
‘Great. Come in at ten. Robert, one of my best handlers, will be here, so it’s a good chance for you to train with someone who is excellent at the job. I’ll get all the paperwork drawn up for you and have it, your schedule, a pass card, and a t-shirt waiting in the lockers behind reception for you to collect. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds brilliant,’ I say, even though I’m still not sure what to make of this whole thing.
I text Corey to tell her I got the job, and she texts back a demand that I meet her at the Cat’s Meow when she’s done with work at seven tonight. I haven’t known her very long, but I do know the girl loves to celebrate. So much for saving money.
With a job secured—even if it is just a temporary minimum wage one—I decide to take the rest of the day off and begin another one of Mum’s Missions. On the subway I flick through the pages and see: ‘Find an op shop (or thrift store if you’re talking like an American by now). Buy yourself something pretty.’
Mum always loved going op shopping. I know that a lot of the time it had been out of necessity, but as I got older we always enjoyed picking out treasures and finding bargains. It might be fun to find a nice outfit. Or, in a pinch, since it is often a long shot that an op shop has a plus-sized range, I might be able to buy myself something to make my bedroom more homey.
There’s a Goodwill on Second Avenue right on my way home from the subway and almost the second I walk in I hit the jackpot, finding a beautiful ’80s-does-’40s style wrap dress that’s black with luxe gold buttons. It drapes across my body in a way that lets you know I have curves, but doesn’t push my boobs up front and centre, the way Scott used to like and I have always hated.
‘Well, honey, that dress looks like it was made for you,’ the woman at the register says, when I open the curtain of the dressing room to check my reflection in the big mirror at the back of the shop.
It’s expensive for second-hand, but the lady is right—it looks and feels as though it was made for me. I’ve always loved the look of vintage fashion, but when the smallest part of your body is an Australian size twenty and you’re cursed with G-cup boobs, not many vintage dresses will even come close to fitting.
In my new dress and a strappy pair of matching gold heels that Pam—the Goodwill staff member—found, I feel like a million bucks when I walk into Cat’s later that night. Hilde is behind the bar and she’s so excited that I’m going to be working with her at Dogue’s that she comps us as many drinks as she can, most of which are experimental cocktails that are weird mixes of too many different liquors.
Things get hazy after a few hours as I dance with a hot, dapper-looking Black guy called Michael, who is yet another one of Corey’s friends, drink more cocktails; watch the beautiful blonde burlesque dancer perform again. Things come into focus briefly and I go back to the dancefloor with Michael, where we slow dance, his body pressed against mine for song after song before we kiss. It’s soft and slow and so sexy that my legs go weak. There are more drinks, then I catch a cab around three o’clock with Corey. At home we both spend a lot of time yelling about eating pizza and my first New York kiss and then everything goes black.
My eyes don’t want to open and when I finally pry my lids apart, Corey’s foot is directly in front of my face and my cheek is resting on something hard. I’m surprised to find we’re in the living room, that Jenny the couch is also a fold-out bed, and that Corey and I decided to top and tail on her instead of going to our respective bedrooms.
I sit up and groan, every part of me screaming that I should lie down again, or maybe find some orange juice because I’m pretty sure I was dreaming about rivers of it. My mouth feels thick and dry.
But then I see the clock on the microwave and fall off the couch. I yelp as I hit the floorboards.
‘Ssshhh,’ Corey moans. ‘My head hurts, can you shush?’
‘Fucking first day,’ I say. ‘And this floor is so, so hard.’
I try to get up as quickly as possible, but the head rush and wave of nausea force me to slow down.
‘Quick, Corey,’ I moan, closing my eyes to make the world stop spinning. ‘I need hangover cures. I have to get downtown in an hour, and I look like I slept on a pizza.’
‘Probably because you slept in a pizza box,’ she mumbles, waving a floppy arm toward the oily cardboard box that I had my head on just seconds ago. Before I even make it out of the lounge I hear soft snores coming from the couch.
I take a shower to wash the grit out of my eyes and the stink of alcohol and, urgh , cigarettes off my skin. I throw on a dress, spray perfume onto my reeking hair, and dash out of the apartment.
I’ve been trying not to catch cabs everywhere but this morning there’s no time to walk to the subway. I flag a cab and arrive with just under ten minutes to spare. As my feet hit the pavement, a strong gust of wind blows my hair into my face. It smells like fruity vape smoke and weed, and my stomach turns.
A bit further down the street, I spy the red letters of a Duane Reade. Yes. I grab water and aspirin, downing three pills with the entire bottle immediately, and I scrape my hair into a passable-looking bun with a brand-new hair tie I’d snagged at the registers. As I’m twirling my dry, smoke-scented hair up, I’m horrified when my fingers connect with a big, thick glob of pizza cheese tangled into the strands. I yank it out and just before I push the door of the daycare open, pop a wad of gum into my mouth.
There are two girls on the desk who give me strange looks when I introduce myself. Like perfect clones, they’re both white, blonde, petite and wearing skinny black jeans with their white Dogue’s t-shirts. One has her hair up in a slick, smooth ponytail, the other has hers in a long, loose plait. I wish that Hilde was here because it would be nice to see a friendly face, even if my state this morning has a fair bit to do with her being so friendly and nice.
‘If you’re supposed to start at ten then you’re, like, really early and Doug isn’t here,’ Ponytail says.
I clear my throat. ‘Doug mentioned I’d be training with someone called Robert? Is he here?’
‘Robert is doing walks,’ Braid answers. ‘He’ll be back soon, so you should probably just chill for a bit.’
‘Right, thanks. Is there a locker for me? Doug said he’d leave me some stuff.’ I gesture to my backpack.
‘You said your name’s Brynn? Your locker is here,’ Braid says, gesturing to the wall behind her. I go around the side of the desk and find an open locker that has an envelope with my name on it. I stash my bag inside and gather the paperwork and stuff Doug promised me. Distracted, I sign the paperwork and then slip the red Dogue’s shirt on over the one I’m wearing, pleased that it’s oversized, clip the pass card and locker key onto my belt loop and check the printed schedule to see what time I’m due to finish today.
The girls continue to ignore me and there’s no sign of the elusive Robert, so I wander over to the window and look in at the doggy playroom. There’s about twenty or so dogs inside, most of them small breeds like Jack Russells, Bichons and Maltese, but there are also a couple of Labradors, and a few mixed breeds that sit on beds ignoring the others. There’s one handler in the room, a Black guy about my age who’s walking around with a spray bottle in one hand and a mop in the other.
Along one side of the playroom, there’s a fence—kind of like a metal pool fence—that I guess is to keep the dogs away from the door. Behind me, the shop door opens and a middle-aged man with a shaved head bursts in with three huge dogs on a lead. They look like giant, curly teddy bears. He navigates them through the storefront and passes me to enter the door by the window. He gives me a brief smile before the door shuts behind him and I lean closer to the window to watch him and the dogs. He walks straight through the area fenced off from the small dogs, towards the door at the back of the playroom. The big dogs on the leads start barking at the little ones and I realise that the fence keeps them separated. They disappear through the door. There must be another room for the bigger dogs back there.
A few minutes later, he comes back down the dog run and out into the store. ‘Are you Brynn?’ he asks with a Puerto Rican accent, holding the door open. He’s got a gruff expression on his face, but there are lines around his eyes that tell me he smiles a lot. There’s something about him that I like immediately.
‘That’s me,’ I answer, smiling.
‘I’m Roberto, but everyone calls me Robert.’ He shakes my hand so hard my teeth rattle. Now we’re closer, I can see he’s extremely well-built, as though he spends all his non-dog-handling time at the gym. He looks like he’s about fifty and has dark eyes with dark hollows beneath them that make him look a little worn out.
‘I take it there’s another room out there, then?’ I say, inclining my head in the direction of the mysterious door tucked behind the dogs playing.
He smiles. ‘Oh yeah, this front room is for display purposes only,’ he taps on the window glass. ‘But don’t let the small ones fool you. They can be monsters too. My worst bite came from one of those little bastards.’
He presses his pass card against a black pad on the wall. ‘Come on, let’s get started.’
Inside, there’s a safety gate that barricades an area around the door to the shop. When Robert opens the gate, I’m instantly surrounded by almost every single dog in the room. Even the sleepy ones lumber over. The more excitable dogs jump up or lick at my hands and bite at each other when I reach down to pat any that I can reach. There’s a blur of lolling tongues and whipping tails and I can’t help grinning.
Robert tells me a few of their names and I have to resist the urge to get down to their level and lap up all the attention. One that catches my eye is a demure-looking Westie who stands well back from the others. He’s bigger than Henry but he’s so similar that every part of me wants to run over to him and scoop him up for a cuddle.
He looks up and yawns, then wanders over to a block of cages which I hadn’t been able to see from the window, and jumps into one of the open spaces on the bottom row. He puts his head on his paws and closes his eyes.
The handler I watched from the window earlier puts his cleaning materials away and joins us at the gate.
‘This is Cruz,’ Robert says. ‘He works some shifts as a handler and some overnights with the boarding dogs. Cruz, this is Brynn.’
Cruz looks me up and down. ‘Pleased to meet you, Brynn,’ he says, holding out his hand.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I reply, and he raises an eyebrow in a way I’ve gotten used to in the last couple of weeks.
‘Where you from?’ Cruz asks. ‘England?’
‘Australia.’
‘No kidding. Wow. What in god’s holy name are you doing here at the end of summer when you guys got those white sandy beaches for miles?’ He does his slow gaze over my body again and smirks. ‘You look like the type of girl who likes the beach better than the snow. I didn’t know they made nice, juicy brown girls down under.’
‘Yo Cruz, stop flirting with the new girl,’ Robert snaps. ‘Come on, Brynn, let’s go see the big dogs.’
Relieved for the rescue, I try to extricate myself from the dogs but almost all of them follow me to the fence. ‘Um,’ I say when I reach the gate. I know that if I open it, they’ll all bolt into the run.
‘Be firm,’ Robert says and I wish he’d just step in and help me. My head gives a resounding thud, as though it needs to remind me that I’ve got still got a hangover.
‘Stay,’ I say, cringing at how weak my voice sounds. I shake my head and a lump of something flies out of the bun. It sits on the ground for a second before a dog licks it up.
‘I’m sorry but was that cheese that just came out of your hair?’ Cruz cackles. ‘How does that even happen?’
Robert ignores the cheese incident and gives me a worried look. ‘Have you worked with dogs before? Because you gotta be a whole lot firmer with them, else we’re gonna end up with dogs freakin’ everywhere.’
‘I haven’t worked with them, but I have a Westie back home.’
‘Bratty or trained?’
‘A bit of both. We got him when I was a kid so his training—or lack of—is not my fault.’ Why did Doug think I’d be better as a pet handler when I think it’s blatantly obvious I’m better suited to the front desk? ‘But I can get through the gate without them all following me. Or without kicking them.’
‘Let’s see it then,’ Robert says and behind me, I hear Cruz snigger. I’d like to wipe the smile off his face.
I put my hand on the gate and step right up to the fence. I open it a crack and, as predicted, the dogs step forward, almost all of them glancing from me to the gate. I sidle a bit closer to the opening and call out, ‘Uh- uh !’
Most of them step back long enough for me to get through. My voice sounds very nasal and thick as I call, ‘No!’ to the ones who try to follow. But I manage to get into the run without any escapees or crushing any dogs’ heads in the gate.
‘Not so bad,’ Robert says, a smile ghosting his lips. ‘But you’ll have to move faster. The boss man won’t stand for it if you take ten minutes every time.’
‘Is he that bad?’ I ask, trailing my fingers on the metal gate that keeps the little dogs from the polished concrete-floored dog run. ‘He seemed kind of quiet and nerdy,’ I say, sensing that honesty is the best policy with Robert.
Robert grimaces. ‘Yeah, he seems that way,’ he says. ‘He’s from Silicon Valley. Made his money off Apple or whatever. And now money is all he’s interested in. Not the dogs, not his staff, not even the dogs’ parents. He just cares that he gets paid.’
‘I guess that’s fair.’
‘He charges for everything,’ Cruz adds from the other side of the fence.
‘Yup,’ Robert confirms. ‘Sixty dollars a day for most people, plus ten dollars for a walk, ten dollars for our food, and five dollars if their owners pack their lunch and we have to dish it, fifteen dollars to administer medication, a per mile charge for pick up and drop off in the taxi.’
‘Okay, that’s a lot of charges,’ I mutter, eyes widening. There are so many things I want to ask about. Medications, taxis ... I can’t believe people don’t do all this stuff for their dogs themselves, but I guess that’s what happens when people need to work long hours. But it’s the money I fixate on. Even in this economy, there are people in New York who can afford to spend so much per day for someone to look after their dog.
‘Plus,’ Cruz adds as he kneels to give a Dachshund a belly rub. ‘if the clients have any weird requests, like leaving the lights on for the dog when they’re boarding overnight, then that’s—’
‘Let me guess,’ I say. ‘Another ten dollars?’
Cruz grins. ‘You got it, sweetheart.’
Robert chuckles and starts leading me through the run to the back door. On the other side of this, I see Dogue’s is a lot bigger than I’d first realised. We walk along the path until we reach another little holding area with a door separating us from the playroom. The door in front is glass and frosted, and through it I can see the vague outline of enormous dogs milling around.
‘I’m not a big dog kinda person,’ I say, gulping.
Robert gives me a kind look. ‘Just remember what I said ...’
‘The little dogs can be worse.’ I’m not sure I believe him, though.
I follow him into the room and he introduces me to the handler working there today. There’s a repeat performance of all the dogs standing up and coming over to me, with eagerness in their eyes. Except, because these dogs are five times the size of most of the ones in the other room, them standing up with their front paws on me is kind of scary.
‘Get down!’ Robert calls to the rather large dog who looks like he’s half Rotty, half something else scary. The dog jumps off.
‘There are three sections in this room,’ Robert says, and I tear my attention away from the dogs and look around.
Each of the three sections are split with the same metal pool fencing as the run in the small dog area. While I’m not a big dog person, I do grin when I see two Irish wolfhounds sitting in the back of the third room next to a boxer that Robert says is called Spike. We wave to the handler who is sitting on a fold-out chair in the middle section looking bored.
‘We try and keep the back free for when Spike comes,’ Robert continues. ‘It’s impossible to predict what days he’s going to be here—some weeks he’s here every day, other weeks we don’t see him at all. Spike does not play well with others.’
‘But, the wolfies?’
‘They’re pretty much the only dogs Spike doesn’t want to tear the throat out of.’
Robert explains how each day works: an endless cycle of arrivals, walks, lunches, and departures, all day, every day from seven in the morning until ten at night.
‘What about toys and stuff?’ I ask.
‘No toys,’ he says. ‘They cause fights.’
We hang out in the big dog room for a bit longer and then Cruz sticks his head in the door to tell us that he’s going home. ‘You’re on little-dog duty,’ he tells us. ‘Catch ya, Brynn. You know, if you make it.’
In the front room, I keep finding myself drawn to the Westie.
‘He’s adorable,’ I say, scratching under his chin.
‘That’s Mulligan,’ Robert says. ‘He’s a pretty cool dog.’
‘Bet you wish they were all this chill.’
‘I do. But I also feel sorry for most of them. Every single one of us, dogs included, would be somewhere else if we could choose to be.’
‘So, are you a dog handler by profession?’
‘Not this sort of dog handler.’ A chocolate labrador approaches Robert and sniffs at his heavy black boots. Robert reaches down and scratches the dog behind the ears and I get the feeling that this is a man who says he doesn’t like things to maintain a certain type of exterior, but is really pretty soft-hearted. The lab leans into his touch. ‘I was in the Marines,’ Robert says. ‘I worked with sniffer dogs in Afghanistan.’
‘Oh. Wow.’ I’m impressed. So that explains his kind of tough appearance. ‘When did you get back?’
‘Start of 2007,’ he says.
‘And how long have you been here?’
‘Two years.’ His face creases into a frown, but before I can ask him more the door between the shop and the playroom opens.
‘Perdita here,’ Ponytail reception girl calls. She pauses in the fenced-off section around the door—the anteroom—before she opens the gate and gives a huge, elegant dalmatian a little push into the play area. At first, I think Perdita is going to be shy, hence putting the big dog in with the littles but she makes a beeline for a pug with lust in her eyes.
‘Shit,’ Robert says, dropping the mop he was taking out of the storage cupboard and making a run for the two dogs. ‘Watch Perdita, she gets overexcited when she’s allowed to just be a dog. She humps everyone. It’s a bit overwhelming.’
I manage to get the pug out from underneath Perdita and Robert swoops her up and shuts her in a cage. ‘Time out, Perdita,’ he says.
He goes to retrieve the mop and wipes up a couple of pee spots on his way back to the cupboard, while I set the squirming pug back down on the ground where he’s immediately surrounded by his friends. ‘So apparently Perdita is a social media star,’ Robert continues. ‘She spends most of her time having photos taken with her mom, who dresses up like Cruella De Vil.’
‘What, like a cosplayer?’ I ask.
‘I have no idea what that is, but Perdita is famous. Even I’ve been stopped on the street when I’ve been walking her. But her mom doesn’t like people to take pictures of her when she’s not there to supervise. If photos show up of Perdita online, you might as well go home because you’re going to lose your job.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘It’s happened before. This dog makes more money than our wages.’
The rest of the shift is a blur of cleaning the floors, separating the dogs if they get too rowdy, and trying to learn their names.
‘Not too bad, kid,’ Robert says, giving me an approving nod as I successfully identify three almost identical black pugs.
He glances over at the window and I follow his gaze to see a guy with a perfect ‘I spend my weekends at the Hamptons tan’, and a mop of dark brown hair watching us.
I make eye contact with the man and see he has bright green eyes, a chiselled jaw. He is romance-novel handsome. He smiles at me and holds up a bright blue leash.
‘You’re done for the day now, right?’ Robert asks. ‘That’s Mulligan’s dad out there—you can take Mulligan out to him if you want.’
Hmm, handsome dog, handsome owner , I think to myself. ‘Mulligan, your dad’s here,’ I say to the Westie and as though he understands me, he cocks his head, flicks his little carrot-shaped tail up and trots over to the gate and waits for me to let him out.
‘Well, see you, I guess,’ I say to Robert.
He’s flicked his phone out of his pocket, and he barely glances up as he says, ‘Later, kid.’
Mulligan’s dad meets me at the door. ‘Hi Mully, hi boy,’ he says as the dog jumps up at him and looks super excited to see his person.
‘He’s a cute dog,’ I say, giving Mulligan a pat as he comes over to me, his mouth wide open as if he’s introducing me to his dad. ‘I’ve got a Westie back home.’
‘Oh cool,’ he says and then squints at me. ‘And home is ... England?’
I laugh. ‘Australia.’
‘Oh wow, I really can’t guess accents,’ he laughs and then pauses as though he’s got something else to say. ‘Um, do you need to check me out?’
My cheeks heat. Check him out? ‘Oh, I ... ah ...’
‘You’re all set, Lucas,’ Hilde’s voice comes from the desk and I finally realise he meant check him out of the store. ‘Hey Brynn,’ she says and I swear there’s a twinkle in her eye.
‘Well, thanks for looking after Mully. See you around,’ Lucas says to me.
I stammer out a goodbye, feeling mortified and hoping he couldn’t read my thoughts. The bell on the door tingles as he and Mulligan leave.
‘I didn’t know you were working today?’ I ask, going around the back of the desk to retrieve my bag.
‘I do a lot of midday starts,’ Hilde says. ‘So, it might be obvious, but just in case it isn’t, Doug doesn’t like us to fraternise with the parents,’ she warns.
‘Oh—okay,’ I say.
‘But checking them out is totally fine.’ She grins. ‘And that man is fi- ne. ’
We burst out laughing. ‘When are you working tomorrow?’ she asks, and I double-check the schedule Doug left in my locker.
‘Seven o’clock,’ I say.
‘Urgh, open. You need to book yourself off opens so you can come to Cat’s. It’s too hard to do the morning shifts after working at the bar all night.’
‘How do you do it?’
‘What, work two jobs? The cost of rent is a good motivation and Mason and I are moving into a new apartment at the end of the month. Oh, actually, here.’ She turns to the lockers and retrieves a sheath of envelopes from her bag. ‘Invite to our housewarming. I just did one for you and Corey since you’re the same household.’
I can’t help but smile as I take the invite out of the envelope and read the details. A party invite, a new job, a great housemate. Sure, Dogue’s is just a stop on the way to my dreams, but this is it: my life in New York City.
The late afternoon is warm as I head towards the subway, watching squirrels darting up trees in City Hall Park. My chest aches from the change of temperature and as I puff on my inhaler, I wonder how my wheezy lungs will cope with the even colder weather to come. The job isn’t what I expected, but it’s sparked a feeling I haven’t had since arriving in New York: as though, if there was a place anywhere in the world where miracles could happen, it’s here.