6. The Stick

six

Violet

Why are golden retrievers so cute and simultaneously complete psychopaths?

I pry a fluffy ginger puppy's jaw off the sleeve of my sweatshirt, a small puncture torn through the fabric from his razor-sharp teeth.

"Okay Tex, I think it's time for you to go into the Party Pen," I say, draping a leash over his head. I wave Brooke, our genius kennel tech, over. Literally, she's a genius. The girl is sixteen and has already graduated high school. I'm pretty sure her IQ is in the 190s. Why she's working at a pet resort instead of taking classes at Harvard is a mystery to me. But I'm not upset about it, seeing as she's one of my favorite coworkers.

"What's up boss?" she asks, brushing her pin-straight platinum hair out of her face. She boasts a cheerleader smile, the kind that is so big and bright you can't help but return it.

"Can you please take Tex to the Party Pen?" I ask her sweetly. "He's getting a little bit too… extreme for these guys." I gesture to the crowd of small puppies surrounding me.

At Furry Friends Pet Resort, we divide our dogs into four playgroups. There's the Small Dog Pen, the Large Dog Pen, the Puppy Pen, and the Party Pen. As I'm sure you can guess, only the absolute nutjobs go into the Party Pen. I think Tex is really starting to earn his spot.

"Absolutely!" Brooke responds cheerfully, before grabbing the leash from my hand. I always appreciate her optimism, as it reminds me of when mine starts slipping. Managing a pet resort is all fun and games, except if fun and games were also hell. Don't get me wrong. I love dogs. They're pretty much my entire life. But try being in charge of one hundred and fifty of them, then see how you feel.

I exit the Puppy Pen behind Brooke and make my way to the Big Dog Pen to receive Reese, my six-year-old boxer who may as well be my child.

"Can you guys please send Reese out of the play area?" I ask through my walkie. The message travels to the employees in the large dog play area, and I retrieve my dog from the gated cell. His broad, white body strenuously wiggles, his short nubby tail practically reaching his face as his body curls with excitement.

"You wanna..." I ask in a high-pitched voice, clapping my palms to my thighs. Reese grows even more animated, loud snorts coming from his shortened nose. He jumps up, his front paws digging into my knees. "You wanna go on a walk?"

Reese lets out an excited growl from the back of his throat, before tilting his head to the ceiling and bellowing a loud noise somewhere between a bark and a howl. I can't help but laugh. "Alright bubs, let's go!"

I get an hour lunch break every day. And every day, I spend it walking Reese to Al's Taco Truck a couple blocks down. I order my lunch, then sit on a nearby bench and feed him the scraps of chicken that inevitably fall onto my lap. Reese trots seamlessly next to me, each step matching perfectly with mine. My phone rings in my pocket, and it's no surprise to me when I read the name dancing across the screen. I click the "answer" button, then lift the phone to my ear.

"You fucked one of your employees?!"

Typical Ruthie. No "hi," no "how are you?" I blow an elongated sigh through my pursed lips.

"Well hello to you too," I say sarcastically, but I could never be mad at Ruthie. Like Reese, she's pretty much my child too. Or was. She's all grown up now.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," she says. I can practically hear her waving her hands in the air dismissively. "Details. Now."

"It..." I pause, trying to choose which details I want to include and which would be better left out. "It was a misunderstanding."

Ruthie waits a beat before answering. "So, she wasn't your employee?"

"No, she was. I just—"

"Well, you're being confusing, Vi! Just get to it!"

I don't know how exactly Ruthie grew up to be so bossy because it sure as hell didn't come from me.

"Will you stop that?" I shoot back. "It isn't funny! I could get into serious trouble if Angela finds out."

I hear a quiet babble in the background, which is probably my niece Willow. Next, a loud, "Don't touch it Willow, you're ruining it!" which would be my older niece, Tyler. Ruthie says something inaudible to her, then comes back to the phone.

"Sorry. Willow is trying to draw on top of Tyler's cat drawing. Oh-dog. Sorry. Does she know that?"

I furrow my brows. "What?"

"This Cam girl. Does she know about the giant stick up your boss's asshole?"

I can't stop myself from letting out a hearty laugh, then clasping a hand over my mouth, ashamed for it. Angela might be a really strict boss, but it was still mean. Mean and funny.

"I-I don't know actually."

"Well, you better figure it out. Next thing you know she's bragging about shacking up with her manager, and you're both sleeping in my backyard. I'm out of space, Vi. No vacancy."

I sigh, shaking my head. "Maybe you should kick them out then," I say. "But I don't think she's going to be bragging about us anytime soon."

Ruthie ignores my comment about our parents taking up residence in her home. "That bad huh?"

"Well…" I think about what to say. It wasn't bad. Not at all. It was amazing, actually. Up until it was suddenly not happening anymore. "It was good while it lasted."

Ruthie chuckles, clicking her tongue.

"Well, that's probably normal for someone who just went through a divorce. Don't take it too hard."

"Shut the fuck up," I say.

Then, we say our goodbyes and hang up. Ruthie never says hello, but she always says goodbye.

When we arrive at the taco truck, Al already has one chicken taco and one tostada ready to go when I approach the window.

"Whatchu smiling at?" Al asks, his thick mustache like a small nest over his upper lip.

"What, I can't smile?"

I take the food from the man's outreached hands and replace it with four wrinkled dollar bills and three quarters.

"I just haven't seen it in a while." He shrugs and tosses a piece of chicken to Reese, who snaps his jowls closed around it mid-air.

"I smile all the time!"

Al shakes his head. "No. No, not like that." He gestures to me, as though that explains something. "Not that kind of smile."

"Well," I say, pinching a piece of shredded cheese between my fingers and popping it into my mouth. "I guess I'm having a pretty good week."

"Good," he responds, as he hands me a pile of napkins. "You deserve it."

Al has such a genuine demeanor about him, which is part of the reasoning behind my daily lunch routine. He knows more about my life than my parents, and he actually seems to care, even if sometimes he gets a little too personal.

"Hey, how'd it go with Mal?" he asks. The sound of the metal spatula scraping against the grill makes me cringe, or maybe it was the name that came out of his mouth at the same time. I can't help but scrunch my nose at it, which feels mean even though it was a biological reaction.

"Okay, okay, nevermind," he says defensively. He quickly changes the subject. "That new girl start yet?"

The mention of "the new girl" makes my stomach do a strange twist. I don't know if has to do with the heat of the interaction, the embarrassment at being ditched, or the shock that she now works with me. Still, it's better than talking about Mallory. I consider telling Al about what happened, but there are some things that should remain unsaid. No matter how amazing those things may be.

"On Monday," I say, tucking my food into the side of my cheek while I speak. "She's kind of a mess."

"Okay," Al says with a confused, breathy laugh. "And we're smiling about that because?"

Because I had her tongue down my throat a few days ago.

"Because she's going to be great!" I say instead.

"You just said she was a mess."

I swallow a mouthful of crunchy tortilla and spicy green tomatillo salsa and ponder for a moment how both things can be true at the same time. Sure, I may have said it to deter from the fact that we had an… encounter, but that doesn't mean I'm lying.

Cam is different. She's definitely more reserved, like Avery, and maybe even a bit unfriendly at times. Messy too, given the random stains on her dress and the cute little mascara smudge. Of course, that could all be circumstantial.

I've peeked through the salon window multiple times to check on her (not to check her out, obviously), and she just looked happy. In her element. Even when I saw her struggling with a rather snappy Shih-Tzu, she controlled her emotions and took the time to gain his trust. The dog's mom was ecstatic and said every other groomer has had to muzzle him.

It's the same reason I hired Avery. You wouldn't expect this large, masculine guy to be such a softy. Yet, he knows every dog in the facility, maybe even better than I do. Not just their names, but what they like, what they don't like. How old they are, what they're allergic to. If they were rescued, rehomed, or purchased from a breeder. He even remembers to take pictures of them wearing birthday hats on their birthdays. When I offered him the assistant manager position, his only concern was that he wanted to still be able to work with the dogs.

I get the same sense of dedication and patience from Cam.

"I just know she can take it."

Al bobs his head, understanding. "Yeah, well, I don't know how y'all do it. Dogs are assholes. I can barely handle Remi."

I chuckle, taking another bite of my tostada. Al isn't wrong. Dogs are assholes, and this job isn't just playing with puppies like everyone thinks. Your day is spent in piss, shit, vomit, shit-vomit, then vomit-shit. Dogs will jump up, bite, snap, and pummel you. You have to know which dogs get along with which and who hates who.

It's a lot, but I like it enough. Well, I like the dogs. The job itself, I could do without.

"You should've thought about getting a Basset Hound or something. I told you Rotties are a lot of work."

"Whatever."

I crumple the foil wrapper into a tight ball and toss it from the bench into the garbage can, missing horribly. After getting up to throw it away properly, my fingers dip into the fabric of my front pocket, and I pull out a smooth, round black stone. I hand it to Al, who looks confused.

"What's this one? Doesn't look very healing." Recently, I've been teaching Al about crystals.

After he lost his daughter to cancer, I didn't see him for a really long time. When I finally noticed the little white truck parked down the block again, I went to say hi. The man was a wreck. He could barely speak more than a few words at a time. Frankly, it broke my heart. I'm not religious. I don't believe in God, or Satan, or any higher power at all really. But I do believe in energy.

"I mean, Einstein stated that energy cannot be created nor destroyed, so when you die, where does it go? It has to manifest somewhere," I said to Al one day, after staying up all night researching. A lot of the things I read sounded like bullshit, but when I came across the idea that energies manifest again, it made sense to me in some weird way. "Life came from the Earth, so who's to say it doesn't get recycled when it's over?"

He laughed at me when I brought it up, but I didn't mind. It was the first laugh I had heard from him in months. He took the first stone, an amethyst for healing, while still making fun of me. It only took him two weeks to ask for another. That's when I brought him a clear quartz, for clarity. Four weeks later, I gave him a Topaz for good fortune, and coincidentally (or not), his truck started to get really popular. Though he hasn't yet asked for another, I know he needs it.

"It's obsidian," I say, placing it in his palm. "It helps get rid of negative energy and releases any emotional blockages you're having."

"Sounds like you could use your own," he grunts, though he slides the rock into his pocket. I'm about to give him a snarky response when I'm interrupted by a loud chime from my back pocket. I wave goodbye to Al, then beckon Reese to my side as I pull out my phone and begin to walk back to work.

Hi Violet, it's Angela.

How is the new groomer?

Did you cut any labor this week?

Also, I want to raise prices in December.

I look around before allowing myself to see each crease in my brain as I roll my eyes. An aggravated sigh escapes my mouth. She raised prices only a few months ago, and customers were upset enough.

But of course, when you spend 80% of the year on cruise ships in other countries, there's never enough money.

The new groomer is great. I was able to cut 6 hours of labor this week.

I'm worried that raising prices again will drive people away.

6 hours isn't enough.

It won't. We're the only resort in a 45-minute radius, they'll pay whatever we ask for.

Raise it by 2% and cut more hours next week please.

Yes ma'am.

Hope Thailand is awesome!

I slide my phone back into my pocket, letting out an exasperated sigh. Angela has always been this way. Greedy. Demanding. Immoral. But that's what it takes to run a business, right?

I settle my annoyance by forcing a smile, even though nobody is around to see it. The walk back to Furry Friends Pet Resort brightens my mood. Martha greets me eagerly upon my arrival.

"Hey Vi! How was your break?"

I know it's just a formality, but that's what makes Martha's customer service so great. She knows exactly how to make people feel like she's actually interested.

You mean how was the pushy phone call from my sister or the greedy texts from our insufferable boss?

"It was good! I'm going to take Reese back, then I'll swap you."

Martha couldn't really handle the stress of being a kennel tech, but the customers loved her, so now, she mostly just answers phone calls and schedules appointments. I didn't mind keeping her on because, even though I'm the manager, I hate customer service.

I would rather spend my day in the grossness of the dogs, watching their body language and scooping poop than answer a single phone call. It's what I miss most about dog training. Ruthie's friend runs a training business in Clarkston. When I lived there, I would train dogs while they boarded at my house. I don't miss being tied to my house all the time, but I do miss the rest of it. I miss understanding every aspect of my job. I miss teaching dogs how to sit and settle and heel. I miss building a connection with them.

I understand dogs. I do not understand people. They always seem to get upset over the most mundane things, and their words and body language rarely match. I'm never sure which thing to trust. Dogs, on the other hand, wear everything on their sleeves. If they're stressed, or happy, or nervous, or angry, you will know. Even though some people have trouble reading them, to me, they're straightforward.

"Sure thing, Vi," Martha says, shuffling a stack of papers around on the desk.

I beckon Reese to my side and lean down to pet him as we walk through the swinging door to the back. I look down at the dirty residue left on my palms.

"Ew, Reese. You're disgusting," I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. That is the one and only thing Mallory ever did for Reese. I always took care of all the vet appointments, nail trims, and ear cleanings, but Mallory took him to get a bath every three weeks. With everything going on, it's the one thing I've let slide. I wonder if Cam has any extra time.

I peek through the salon window at the frizzy-haired woman, who's brushing out a small white poodle. Despite her overall abrasiveness, she really is gentle with the dogs.

I knock on the frame twice before stepping into the fur-filled room. Cam's head snaps up, her eyes wide and her chest tight, like she's trapping the air inside her lungs. I think she's scared I'm going to bring it up, but I think we both know the best way to navigate the situation is to pretend it never happened at all. Still, it isn't easy. Every time I see her, I just wonder what it would have been like if she'd let me finish the job.

"How's it going in here?" I ask, trying to find a good segway for "do you have time to bathe my dog?"

Before answering, Cam smiles. Like, really smiles, and it catches me completely off guard. She had given me a few upturned twitches before, but this is a smile. Straight, white teeth shine through her pink lips, and the smallest dimple on her right cheek reminds me that dimples exist.

Her attractiveness isn't news to me. How do you think we ended up in the bathroom together? But this dimple? This dimple is news. It's small and deep and placed at just the right spot to have me recounting the events that led to her disappearance, wondering what exactly I did to make her leave.

Of course, now we know it was for the best. But trying to look at someone you've kissed like you haven't kissed them feels impossible.

"It's great," she says. Her gentle voice doesn't stutter. For the first time, I think, her tone matches her warm appearance. I wonder if the Ice Princess is still somewhere inside. "I really love it here, and Eddie's being a pretty good boy."

That dimple consumes me. I can't help but smile back. Not a forced Sunny smile, but a real one. The kind that makes my cheeks burn.

"Great! I'm glad you're liking it. Everyone's being nice to you?"

I try to think of the questions I've asked other employees, making it a point to prove to myself that this one is no different. I think part of me is buying it, but most of me isn't.

"Everyone is great," she responds. Tufts of fur stick to her messy, dirty-blonde ponytail, and her eyes are a deep, dark gradient, like a brown agate. I'll have to research later on what brown agate is supposed to do. I nod, looking down at Reese, then remember my reason for coming in here in the first place.

"Are you super busy?" I ask. Cam lets out a short laugh, gesturing to the dog on her table. I smile. "I mean your schedule. Is it super full?"

"Not really," she shrugs, gliding a metal comb through the poodle's thick hair. I gesture toward Reese, grinning sheepishly.

"Want one more?"

Cam nods, and that stupid contagious dimple returns. "Sure."

I lean down and unclip Reese's collar to let him loose into the salon. He stays attached to my ankle.

"He's not a fan of people, especially people he doesn't know. But he won't bite or anything. He'll just stand all stiff and uncomfortable."

"Same," Cam mutters. She looks embarrassed when she realizes I heard her say it, but it entices a hearty laugh out of me.

The Ice Princess is definitely still there.