CHAPTER EIGHT
Huge glass windows showcase what feels like hundreds of dogs, bouncing, sniffing, barking and playing. Barks in the Park has an indoor-outdoor setup, with mutts roaming freely from a fenced outdoor play space to an indoor area behind a high counter. I open the door and a bell rings, setting off waves of excited barking.
A woman in hipster glasses and a denim shirt with rolled sleeves approaches the counter. “I’m here to pick up a dog,” I say, and she doesn’t blink.
I struggle to remember the dog’s name. “Jasper?”
“You made it.” Her eyes narrow and she stares at me as if I spent my morning tormenting puppies.
I give her a company check for the jaw-dropping boarding fee. She scowls and gets a form from her file for me to sign.
“Jasper!” she calls, and a half-dozen dogs come. I wonder who it will be—the black standard poodle? The glossy golden retriever? I pray it won’t be the tiny toy Chihuahua—it would be too embarrassing walking that dog and picking up its crap with a tissue.
Angry Dog Lady reaches into the pack and retrieves an auburn-and-white dog with triangular ears that stick straight up. He has white socks, a white stomach and very short hair. His coiled tail sits like a donut right on his butt.
“He’s all yours,” she says and drops a leash in my hand. I’m grateful that Jasper isn’t too big to handle; he has a slim body like a deer but his head barely reaches my knees.
I stumble out to the street as Jasper tows me eagerly toward new smells beyond the confines of the kennel.
I feel the way I imagine a new mom feels when her brand-new baby is thrust into her arms for the first time. Only, I didn’t ask for this. I haven’t been planning it for nine months.
And I don’t even know where to start—my mom’s apartment didn’t take dogs and she’s allergic to cats. The closest thing I’ve ever had to a pet was a rabbit in my third-grade classroom.
Jasper tugs me up the street despite the fact that I probably outweigh his scant twenty pounds seven to one. I’m tired, my laptop drags down my messenger bag, and my feet ache from this new walkathon that is New York City. I thought Oregonians were so darned healthy, but New Yorkers walk everywhere.
Jasper and I cut through Central Park on our way to The Gavin Slater’s apartment. Now that I know who he is, I can only think of him as The Gavin Slater. He’s an abstraction, an image, more of a product than a person. He’s the bad-boy rocker whose flame burned bright, but he disappeared off the map with equal abruptness.
Jasper and I walk deeper into the park. Something about the trees and the verdant stillness of The Pond calms me. It’s like I’m back in Eugene, walking along a path that edges the Willamette River. It gives me breathing room and I can finally think.
Stella’s apartment is a no-go. She kept up the text campaign this morning until I finally replied with “I’ll call you after work,” to make her stop, but I still don’t know what I’m going to say to her.
I wonder if I’ll even get my rent money back? After my run-in with Blayde, I doubt it.
At least housesitting for The Gavin Slater buys me time to find somewhere else. I’ve got his keys, I’ve got his dog—moving in is practically a requirement to take care of his screwed-up life. Once again, I find myself astounded by his utter lack of responsibility.
Who raised this caveman?
I steer Jasper to the crappy hotel and skip past the front desk clerk so she doesn’t see me with a dog. I pack quickly and glare at Jasper as he hops up on the bed and curls into a perfectly round dog-bagel. He covers his nose with his paw.
No respect.
Like owner, like dog.
I buckle on my camping backpack and bump my fifty-pound suitcase (which I am coming to think of as That Bitch) over the doorsill and out through the lobby, dropping my cardkey on the front desk.
“You can’t bring your dog in here!” the clerk is indignant, as if I’ve just trespassed on her grave.
“Not my dog,” I sass back. “He’s just along for the ride.”
I leave the clerk open-mouthed and push through the double doors to the street, where That Bitch swerves wildly as I navigate uneven sidewalks, curbs, brick-covered tree planters, and bags of garbage. To his credit, Jasper doesn’t yank on his leash much.
Good boy. Maybe there’s hope for Jasper, even if not for his owner.
I can’t get a taxi because I’ve got Jasper. I can’t take the subway, and anyway I don’t relish hauling That Bitch down subway stairs. So I walk every last block to Gavin’s apartment on the Upper West Side. By the time the immaculate doorman sees me huffing and puffing, I’m not sure if the squishy liquid in my shoes is sweat or blood.
“Well, hello Jasper, we’ve missed you!” the man’s rich baritone is strong and warm, maybe a distant cousin of James Earl Jones. “And who is your beautiful lady-friend?”
Smiling broadly with the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, the doorman takes That Bitch and I see his nametag: Charles.
“You must be a friend of Mr. Slater’s. Can I help you up to his apartment?”
He reaches for my camping backpack and I nearly cry with happiness.
“I was actually here earlier, sorting out some of his things. With Keystone Property Management,” I wheeze.
“Of course,” he says as he walks me across the marble-tiled lobby. “I saw it in the log.” He leans across the reception desk to sign me in again and hands me a cold bottle of water from the mini-fridge tucked behind the desk.
“Not to be forward, Charles, but I think I love you.” I guzzle half the bottle in the few seconds it takes for the elevator to arrive.
“And I love you, too, Ms. Sutton,” he says. “For breaking Jasper out of jail, and for taking care of Mr. Slater. We’re pals.”
I don’t ask, but I think he means the dog, not the rock star.
I unlock Gavin’s apartment and again I’m hit with that smell—mildew, old garbage, rancid food, leftover beer, and ashtrays. Charles seems not to notice, unhitching Jasper from his leash and filling one of the two stainless bowls on the kitchen floor with water. Jasper laps it up like a cat.
“Where would you like the suitcase?” he asks.
I shrug—I have no idea yet where I’m sleeping, or even if I can find clean sheets in this nasty mess. But there are a bunch of rooms I still haven’t explored, so I tell him to just leave That Bitch in the foyer for now.
“Do you—” he starts, and fidgets. “Do you have any news on when Mr. Slater might be back from his trip?”
“I don’t even know where he is,” I admit. “But I’m taking care of this…” Hellhole? Dump? Glorious untouchable penthouse that some ridiculously irresponsible rock star takes for granted? “… place, and Jasper, until he gets home.”
“Well, you let me know what I can do to make you feel welcome.” Charles’ eyes smile kindly. “I’ll help you any way I can.”
And just like that, I’ve made my first new friend in New York.