Chapter 29
ENOUGH BAD MEMORIES. The day after we go to the pool is another busy morning here at the Harrison house.
Amber is playing in a mixed-doubles tournament at Somerset, and her team is favored to win.
Lily is thriving, thanks to a week of my exquisite care.
As of the last bowel movement, she’s gone from a size two diaper to a size three and seems happier in the larger size—surely the last time in her life this will happen.
But the highlight of the day: Jane and Austen are getting their monthly grooming. Amber dropped the two of them off this morning on her way to the club. Now I get to pick them up.
Both Jane and Austen are AKC-registered, which, as I understand it, means their canine ancestors came over on the Mayflower. So of course, just any old dog groomer won’t do. Their facility of choice (actually, of Amber’s choice) is the Kennelworth, a Groom-and-Board Spa.
Like Somerset, the Kennelworth has a strict set of rules for its canine “clients” (their word, not mine).
Also like Somerset, there’s a waiting list to get in.
Woe to the snarky Pekingese or pointing griffon who has the audacity to snap at his groomer.
Like an unruly first-class passenger, he will be tossed out on his registered ass.
I wait at the reception desk as Jane and Austen are paraded out to greet me.
They walk proudly, heads held high. No invisibility for them!
Jane, a standard chocolate Lab, wears pink polish on her toes and a matching bow on her head.
She smells like lavender, the spa hostess tells me, because she was given a lavender-scented bath.
If I were a dog, I think I’d prefer a sirloin-scented one. But, hey, that’s just me.
Austen, ever the alpha male even though he’s a small, curly-haired white poodle, carries himself like the Smartest Guy in the Room.
He struts around in the doggy equivalent of a tuxedo: a white collar and black bow tie.
No girlie lavender for him—Austen smells like patchouli.
Together, the two dogs radiate more self-confidence than the entire Kardashian clan.
Naturally, all this care, coddling, and cleaning comes at a price. Miranda, the spa hostess, hands me a bill for $540.
The services are itemized:
Bath with de-shedding shampoo
Full haircut and blowout (Austen)
Trim and shaping (Jane)
Tearstain undereye treatment (Austen)
Nail, paw, and pad trim
Ear cleaning
Sanitary trim
“Do you have any questions?” she asks.
I can’t resist. “Yes. What exactly is a sanitary trim?”
“An anal-gland cleaning,” she says. Clearly, Miranda has been trained never to crack a smile. Or maybe it’s just her Botox.
Am I supposed to tip? Amber didn’t say. But surely the lucky gal who does the anal-gland cleaning deserves a little something extra.
The dogs look so elegant, I’m a little embarrassed to have them back in my beat-up car. Fortunately, they don’t seem to notice—truly a sign of good breeding. The two of them hop into the hatchback seat and snuggle down.
The dogs are happy, but Lily seems, well, not quite herself.
Something’s not right. She’s unusually crabby.
I check the internet and learn an off day could mean teething, colic, digestive problems, hunger, thirst, tiredness, boredom, anxiety, or insecurity.
The same reasons I get crabby. Teething seems the most likely.
I rummage through the diaper bag and pull out a cold rubber pretzel that’s been in the freezer for days.
But when I give it to her, she pushes my hand away.
My phone rings. It’s Metcalf. Not a text? An actual phone call? In the middle of the day?
“You gotta get right down here,” he says.
“Right down where?”
“We’re holding a guy named Carlos. Could be the guy who threatened you.”
“The guy at the front door? He didn’t threaten me. He—”
“But we have to release him soon. The twenty-four-hour rule.”
“I can’t come now,” I say. “But later—”
“It’s gotta be now,” he says. “He’s been in jail since yesterday. If we can’t charge him with something in the next hour, we have to let him go.”
“Metcalf, I’m in a car with two dogs and a crabby baby. I can’t.”
“You have to. This could lead to something.”
“The traffic will be—”
“One hundred Centre Street, nineteenth floor. You now have fifty-seven minutes.”
“I can’t possibly.”
“Do it,” he says.
Then the bastard hangs up.