Chapter 25
SNICKERS
Iwatch the dog squirm in the back of my limousine, the Brooklyn Bridge fading into the distance in the rear-view mirror.
Piglet. What kind of name is that for a dog?
“Hank,” I say into my phone, “meet me at the Tipsy Leprechaun in thirty. I’ve got a situation.”
Hank’s laugh crackles through the line.
“Always a situation with you, my friend,” he says with a chuckle. “I’ll be there.”
I grimace at the dog making himself at home in the corner of the limo, noisily gnawing on a bone one of the lunch caterers gave him.
“Just keep him entertained, fed, and watered,” Kit had told me as she unceremoniously laid him in my arms.
“And make sure he’s spruced up when you two meet us at Chez Henri at seven.”
Spruced up? Since when do dogs 'spruce up?'
Especially shelter dogs like Piglet here.
Dogs that would still be pining away at that shelter had it not been for Pip and her ‘kind heart.’
Our limousine stops. I tug at Piglet’s leash, forcing him onto the cold asphalt. He lands awkwardly, looking up at me with what seems like pure indignation.
Located in the highfalutin Upper East Side, The Tipsy Leprechaun gleams with polished brass and emerald-green accents.
Dark wood paneling and vintage Guinness posters give the place a trendy yet authentic vibe.
My favorite barmaid, Moira, embraces me.
Once she spots Piglet, she scoops him up and gives him a dozen kisses.
“Oh, what a wee darling! Hold him a minute! I have something for him.”
Before I can protest, Moira darts into the back room, returning with a miniature knitted sweater boasting a shamrock pattern.
“This adorable doggie outfit was left over from last St. Patrick’s Day. It’ll fit your tiny pooch perfectly,” she says, wrestling Piglet into the costume.
Piglet looks pleased with the attention.
“Now go on inside. Your friend’s waiting for you.”
Hank stands as I approach.
“Well, well, well,” he says. “I see you’ve been busy. Congratulations to the proud papa. Who’s his mama?”
“Long story, Hank,” I chuckle, slapping his back.
As I pull away, I see he’s not alone at the bar.
A blonde sits at one side of his stool, a brunette at the other.
“Snickers, I’d like you to meet… ah, well, no need for names among friends. Girls, this is the famous Sheldon Woodward III, better known as Snickers, the internationally famous DJ.”
I wave hello to the girls. They’re gorgeous—tall and sleek, with that model-slash-actress look.
Just like Hank to think ahead and warm up the girls before my arrival.
But the entire reason I called Hank was to get some man-to-man time.
“Hey, is that your dog? Can we pet him?” says the blonde.
“Sure,” I say as I hand her the leash.
I watch for a moment as she and her friend kneel to pet Piglet on the floor.
Hank doesn’t bring up the inevitable until we’ve downed a few pints.
“I’ve heard whispers that some of the big five want to absorb your company. What’s your plan? Sell out or fight?”
I take another long pull from my beer.
“I never wanted the CEO position. When Preston passed, the role was pressed upon me. I thought I’d come in, see what it was like, and if it didn’t suit me—and I knew it wouldn’t—I’d sell out and leave. Go back to my old life.”
“So what changed?”
“I’m not sure.” I laugh. “It’s almost like Preston’s ghost has surfaced to give me a guilt trip.”
Hank’s brows shoot up. “So you’re finally taking a stand, huh? Good for you.”
I nod. “I have to. There’s no one left. Just me.”
A chill descends over my body as I say the words. It’s still hard to believe that after 200 years, I’m the last man standing at Woodward & Co.
When I go, so does 200 years of history.
Assuming the company even lasts that long.
That Hallmark or another conglomerate doesn’t swoop in for the kill.
Suddenly, I hear squeals of laughter and something that sounds like a rude snort.
I look to my right and see the two girls on the floor. Between them is Piglet, his little sweater pulled up over his fat pink belly, his bandy legs splayed apart.
The girls take turns tickling him and kissing him. From the joyful sound of his yips and the way he’s nuzzling against their fingers, lips, and hands, Piglet can’t get enough.
“Man, that dog of yours is in exactly the position I planned to be at about five o’clock tonight,” guffaws Hank. “Some dogs have all the luck.”
“You’re right about that,” I say, thinking of Pip.
Kit told me that Pip doubted I’d be a responsible dog parent for the afternoon.
But I’m doing okay. Piglet’s getting his ego—and his entire body—stroked.
I have a good mind to send Pip a picture so she’ll see I can show her dog a good time.
“I’ve been following this ridiculous campaign of yours on social media,” says Hank. “Pictures of you and that Pip woman are all over the tabloids. You make a cute couple.”
“Me and the Pipsqueak? Please. Look, I better go while I’m still sober enough to be a responsible parent to that Frenchie. Come on, Piglet.”
After tearing Piglet away from the girls, I make sure his leash is secure and walk toward my apartment at Columbus Circle.
After I walk a few blocks with Piglet trotting dutifully by my side, I feel an odd sense of what might be called affection for the little guy.
We only just met today, yet he’s already adjusted himself to my gait, neither dashing ahead of me nor dragging behind.
Even better, I’ve seen evidence he’s a great chick magnet. A benefit I hadn’t counted on.
Feeling confident that Piglet properly regards me as his master, I unhook his leash.
The Frenchie rewards me with a lick on my hand, and a heart-warming gaze into my eyes.
“That’s a good boy,” I say, ruffling his fur. “Now let’s go home.”
My heart swells with pride as Piglet accompanies me down one block, and then the other, occasionally smiling up at me with that silly doggy grin.
But as we round the corner to 58th Street, Piglet suddenly stops.
I turn to see a brightly colored playground. A group of young kids shriek from their sandbox, laughing as they shape the snow-wet sand into a sandcastle.
Piglet looks up at me.
“No,” I say firmly. “Absolutely not.”
But it’s too late. He’s already scampering toward the kids with the determination of a small, stocky missile.
A brat with pigtails and a sparkly unicorn T-shirt spots him first. “Puppy!” she squeals.
Time slows.
My college quarterback instinct kicks in. I give chase, hoping to scoop him up before he hits the muddy sandbox.
But it’s too late.
In an instant, Piglet transforms from a pristine French bulldog in a lime-green shamrock sweater into a mud monster.
His compact body is now a canvas of wet, glistening earth.
Only his eyes—bright, mischievous—remain unchanged.
I take in every disgusting detail. Mud cakes his fur. It drips from his snout. It splatters his ridiculous shamrock sweater.
Then I look down at my own mud-covered suit.
My pristine white shirt—now speckled with brown.
My Italian leather shoes. Ruined.
And Piglet? Piglet stands proud and regal. Triumphant, even. Like he’s experienced a bizarre canine rite of passage.
Is it my imagination, or is he flashing me a ‘what are you going to do about it?’ doggy grin.
I try to remember where my eccentric aunt took her ridiculous poodle for his weekly grooming. The salon was in a fancy hotel—the Plaza, wasn't it?
I make the call, and ask the receptionist to put me through to the dog groomer.
"An appointment today? We're booked. But I'll take your number and call if there's a cancellation," she says.
I spend the next fifteen minutes speed-dialing every dog grooming shop in the city. But this late in the afternoon, they’re either closed or don't have an appointment available.
I have only two choices: deposit the dirty pup at Chez Henri and have Pip sneer at my dog-parenting skills…
Or bathe him myself.