Worst in Show

1

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?”

He nods toward the corner that harbors his alcove bed and a robust closet. Then he looks at his watch and stretches. “Today’s going to be a good day,” he says, like he always does. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“If you say so, Pop.” I go to find a new top and holler to him, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

His footsteps are already receding, so I take to rummaging through his clothes. The closet smells like soap and cedar with a faint old-person undertone. Familiar and safe. In the back, there’s a bag of my grandma’s things, and in it, I find a soft denim shirt that must be decades old but also, somehow, once again fashionable. I pull my stained top off, and then out of habit, I glance out the window. I’m too high up for anyone to be able to see me, but I duck down regardless at the sight of activity across the street. No Tuesday morning peep show here. What are they doing over there anyway? Did someone finally lease the empty space?

Cholula’s beady eyes watch me from the doorway, her tongue flopping limply out the side of her mouth. She really is the ugliest little cutie pie. I dig in my waistband for lingering pieces of kibble, and she comes scampering closer.

“Here you go.” I hold my hand low enough for her to find the straggling goodie that had been stuck near my belly button and then stand to redo the messy bun on top of my head.

“Who cares what we look like, am I right?”

Cholula sits, anticipating another snack, but this time I’ve got nothing.

“Come on, Cho.” I scoop her up and head down to the store.

“Do you know what they’re doing over there?” I ask Harvey after setting Cholula down. I nod toward the street.

“Huh?” He blinks at me.

There’s an envelope stamped FINAL NOTICE in his hand that makes my stomach tighten. I thought I had tucked the late notices at the bottom of the pile when I brought in the mail, but clearly that wasn’t enough. What makes the situation even worse is that I moved back out here to Batavia three years ago to help him with the store, and all signs so far point to failure. Online retail chains obviously make it hard for small mom-and-pop shops like ours to stand out, but still. We’re well established, so I don’t know what we’re doing wrong.

“Across the street?” I point. “Looks like someone’s moving in.”

Harvey walks to the front and squints out the window. “I think you might be right.” A grin spreads across his lips. “Exactly what we need. Another store means more foot traffic, more commerce. New customers!” He slaps his thigh, which immediately sets the two smaller dogs running toward him. Boris only lifts his head from the ray of sunlight where he’s currently lounging.

“Fingers crossed.”

“That reminds me. End of month.” Harvey opens the till and pulls out an envelope. “Your paycheck.”

It’s tempting. My piggybank has seen as little action as I have this past year, but I just can’t. “I think you already paid me.” I look away and pretend to focus on Cap waddling toward me like a bowlegged cowboy. When I glance up again, Harvey has something soft in his eyes.

“You found Martha’s shirt,” he says, resting his hand on the counter.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, it suits you.” He sighs and looks down at the envelope. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.” He opens the till, extracts a few bills, and presses them into my palm. “You need some for rent at the very least. Normally, I’d insist you take what’s owed, but since I had to get the car fixed last month, I put off the phone company, and it can’t wait any longer or they’ll cut the line and the internet.”

“Pop, it’s fine. I’m fine.” I put on my most reassuring smile, pocketing the money. “We’re going to have a great fall. I’ll start making more clothes tonight, so we’ll have some ready by this weekend. How’s that?”

“Yes, excellent, excellent.”

Harvey is a young eighty-four. He and my grandma tried to retire twenty years ago, but that lasted only about as long as one of Cholula’s peanut butter treats when she’s hungry. Which is always. My grandpa is what the twinkly eyed ladies at the senior rec center call spry , but he shouldn’t still be working at his age. Unfortunately, he won’t even entertain the idea of slowing down. “Even if I didn’t have the dogs to care for, I refuse to be a charity case,” he always says. If only I could find a way to make us profitable enough that he could get some real help in here. Then I might…

No. I shake my head. Daydreaming doesn’t put food on the table, and this isn’t the worst place to be. There are a lot of memories here. The maple shelves have darkened with age, but this store mostly looks like it always did. I used to crawl into one of the big crates in the corner with a book when I was little. I found my first zit in the latticed mirror behind the cat toys. And I’ve stacked hundreds if not thousands of cans of food into humble pyramids on the tartan-covered display tables. Grandma looks down at me from a framed photo behind the counter. She’s grinning wide, holding up a blue first place rosette ribbon next to a lanky dalmatian mix in a Santa hat. It was taken when I was around twelve years old at the annual Winter Fest’s Amateur Dog Show. Patch was the only rescue ever to take her all the way. If I remember correctly, he found his forever home shortly after. That didn’t stop Grandma from participating year after year, though, just for “a bit of holiday frivolity.”

“Put that check away, Pop,” I say. “Time to open.”

“Fine.” He rubs his hands together. “I’m ready, are you ready?” As if we have a long line of customers outside in a frenzy over two-for-one bully sticks.

I chuckle. “I’ll set out the A-frame. Then I’ll take the dogs for a walk.”

He waves me off and starts arranging the bandanna display next to the register.

The late September air is still warm, the sun on its way to turn this into another beautiful day, but in the park down the street the tips of the trees are turning, slowly but surely. I don’t mind—fall is my favorite season. Sweaters and warm drinks all the way. I make sure our sale sign reflects our current specials and say hi to a few morning walkers. Then I take a deep breath and turn my face to the blue sky. Whatever Harvey needs me to do, I’ll do. So what if the pet store isn’t my dream?

I’m about to set off when the squeak of the scissor lift across the street stops me in my tracks. It’s coming down, revealing the name of our brand-new neighbor. I shade my eyes as the shiny letters come into view.

Canine King

I blink and read it again. And again.

“Well, fuck me,” I mutter as the implication sinks in.

We’ve got competition.