At 7 a.m. Sarah Carter strolled down Main Street’s grass-flanked sidewalk with her red and white Australian Cattle Dog Whiskey at her side. He was off-leash as usual and none of her neighbors seemed to care as they greeted them both with head scratches for him and “Good mornings” and “Nice days” to Sarah. It had been six years since she and Whiskey had moved to Cottageville from Seattle, where she had gone to university. But in some ways, it felt like Sarah had been here her whole life. Cottageville was where her grandmother had lived for thirty years, and Sarah and her parents had been frequent visitors, so Sarah had been adopted by the locals as one of their own.
The bald-headed grocer George, age unknown but Sarah thought was definitely over 65, was unlocking the front doors of Produce and More and called out, “Good morning, Sarah. The missus will bring Chutney by at eleven for a nail clipping.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, George,” Sarah said. Nail clippings didn’t need appointments, but grooming did at Carter’s Canine Coiffure. Sarah appreciated the forewarning of Chutney’s arrival. He was a rescued Chihuahua who acted like a Tasmanian Devil with bared teeth and frenzy when it came to anyone touching his feet or when he felt threatened—and being at the groomers instantly triggered all of his fears. The last time he had come in, his razor-sharp claw scraped a bloody line up Emily’s arm. Sarah couldn’t afford to place her assistant in that precarious situation again. Yes, scratches and bites could be a hazard of unwanted washing and clipping, but the deep dig-in almost sent Emily to the ER.
So instead of continuing their usual morning stroll, Sarah and Whiskey detoured into the hardware store, which opened early, to buy forearm length tough leather work gloves as a precaution and a way to get the Chutney nail cutting job done. Whiskey wiggled his nose at the scents of metal, wood, and paint, and tried to sneak down the aisle containing bird seed. Sarah spied him and commanded, “Follow.” He stopped, acknowledged her with eye contact, and then dropped his bushy red and white tail and flattened his ears like he was sad to disappoint her before slinking in her wake.
Sarah pulled three pairs of gloves over her pale, freckled arms before deciding which ones were best for the job and then walked to the cash register. She greeted Daniel, the offspring included on the store’s The bald-headed grocer George, age unknown but Sarah thought was definitely over 65, was unlocking the front doors of Produce and More and called out, “Good morning, Sarah. The missus will bring Chutney by at eleven for a nail clipping.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, George,” Sarah said. Nail clippings didn’t need appointments, but grooming did at Carter’s Canine Coiffure. Sarah appreciated the forewarning of Chutney’s arrival. He was a rescued Chihuahua who acted like a Tasmanian Devil with bared teeth and frenzy when it came to anyone touching his feet or when he felt threatened—and being at the groomers instantly triggered all of his fears. The last time he had come in, his razor-sharp claw scraped a bloody line up Emily’s arm. Sarah couldn’t afford to place her assistant in that precarious situation again. Yes, scratches and bites could be a hazard of unwanted washing and clipping, but the deep dig-in almost sent Emily to the ER.
So instead of continuing their usual morning stroll, Sarah and Whiskey detoured into the hardware store, which opened early, to buy forearm length tough leather work gloves as a precaution and a way to get the Chutney nail cutting job done. Whiskey wiggled his nose at the scents of metal, wood, and paint, and tried to sneak down the aisle containing bird seed. Sarah spied him and commanded, “Follow.” He stopped, acknowledged her with eye contact, and then dropped his bushy red and white tail and flattened his ears like he was sad to disappoint her before slinking in her wake.
Sarah pulled three pairs of gloves over her pale, freckled arms before deciding which ones were best for the job and then walked to the cash register. She greeted Daniel, the offspring included on the store’s outside signage: Buck and Son Hardware. The s had been removed years ago after his parents discovered Daniel would be their only child.
“Gorgeous weather,” Daniel said as he ran Sarah’s credit card and gave a beef jerky treat to Whiskey. Whiskey inhaled it and then crept behind the counter and pawed Daniel asking for another.
“Ignore him,” Sarah said, shaking her head. “He’s insatiable and lacking in manners.”
Daniel laughed. “His big, sad brown eyes certainly make it seem like he’s saying, ‘Please, please, please.’”
“Something like that. But still, he doesn’t need another.” Sarah smiled and appreciated the warmth in Daniel’s eyes, which were almost the same color as Whiskey’s. Sarah knew that Whiskey would be given another treat when they stopped to say hi to her best friend Ginger who owned Java and Juice and that he’d get a biscuit from Bill, an elderly man who read his morning paper and drank his coffee—rain or shine—on his big wooden front porch next to a gallon-sized glass jar of dog biscuits. Every dog in the town loved to stroll through the town and stop at Bill’s. And if Bill had a tail, Sarah mused, he’d wag it, as he seemed just as excited to see the dogs as they were to see him and his treat jar. He was a widower, and Sarah thought all of the visitors made him feel less lonely.
But before they could go to the end of the block and to Bill’s, Sarah pushed open the painted red door on Java and Juice, which tinkled the brass bell attached to the top of the frame. Ginger’s back was to the door as she was frothing foam for the top of someone’s latte. Her blond curly hair was pulled into an unruly high ponytail that peeked from under a colorful abstract print scarf. Ginger kept her hair covered so it didn’t interfere with the fabulous food and refreshing drinks she made and served.
A few of the regulars stood in line catching up on the latest town gossip. Sarah heard a snide comment about the elementary school principal and two women at the far table had mentioned the name of Sarah’s next door neighbor Janice Jenkins before the conversation paused. The regulars greeted Whiskey and Sarah and then went back to their conversations. Sarah didn’t catch what was said about Mrs. Jenkins, as the women at the table dropped their voices after Sarah’s arrival.
Whiskey parked himself next to the counter and waited while Sarah eyed the daily specials. She felt the chocolate croissant calling to her like a Siren.
Sarah walked to the end of the line and waited while Ginger’s employee Jared filled the orders of the customers in front of her and Whiskey, and then he greeted them with a huge grin.
“Give me five, Whiskey!” he said, reaching his hand over the counter. Whiskey popped onto his hind feet and swiped Jared’s hand with his left front paw.
“That’s my man!” Jared exclaimed, before throwing one of Ginger’s homemade chicken bone-shaped dog treats in the air for Whiskey to catch. Whiskey’s jaws snapped like a piranha and the treat vanished from sight. Then he gave Jared a cattle dog smile, black gums stretched back and upward towards his ears and just a bit of teeth.
Jared said, “He gets me every time with that smile,” before his deep blue eyes met Sarah’s. “And what will you have today, mi’lady?” Jared bowed from his waist in playful chivalry, and Sarah cracked up.
“The chocolate croissant, my lord, and the usual.” She handed Jared her twenty-ounce reusable coffee tumbler and then held her arms out as if clenching the sides of an imaginary skirt and curtsied.
The usual was the largest black coffee, dark roast, Java and Juice served. Sarah hated sweeteners and all of the pretentious milks and flavors people added to coffee. She liked coffee simple and high octane. And hot, never cold or on ice, no matter the outside temperature. She cultivated those tastes while in the Emerald City, birthplace of Starbucks.
“Your wish is my pleasure, mi’lady.” Jared turned toward the coffee machine and filled Sarah’s cup and then screwed its lid tight.
Sarah grinned. Jared was attractive, if Sarah was honest with herself. He was tall, definitely over six feet, maybe six foot two or three, with naturally ginger hair, similar to hers. She figured he was maybe three or five years younger than she was, possibly twenty-five or twenty-three, and he was a huge flirt. But she didn’t take him seriously. It was difficult to with all of his joking around; he reminded her of her younger brother.
Jared handed her the croissant in to-go paper.
Before Sarah and Whiskey left Java and Juice, they met Ginger at the far corner of the counter. Sarah whispered, “How was your date?” She knew Ginger didn’t want anyone to know she had a first date with Daniel last night. If people knew, the news would spread like a virus and people would have opinions that neither Ginger nor Daniel wanted to hear.
“Good,” Ginger whispered. “I packed a picnic and we met at Shiloh Creek.”
Shiloh Creek was a forty-five-minute drive up the interstate. Sarah thought that was wise if they didn’t want to be seen by their neighbors. “And?” Sarah wiggled her eyebrows at her best friend.
Ginger laughed. “It was nice. I’ll tell you more over a bottle of wine. Tonight?”
“Sure,” Sarah said. “We’ll be home around six. I’ll make us a quick supper.”
“Sounds great,” Ginger said. She was happy not to have to cook or bake after doing so all day at the café.
Sarah gave her a quick hug, and then she and Whiskey left. She ate and sipped coffee as they finished their walk up to Bill’s and then through the town square, the park and rose gardens, and then back to the yellow Craftsman style one-story house with the white fenced yard she inherited from her grandmother.
When they returned home, Sarah showered and dressed in her sort of uniform: jeans and a t-shirt featuring something dog related. The weather determined if the shirt would be short or long sleeved. She had a dresser full of shirts in every color in the rainbow, some with cartoon dogs, dog photos, or dog-related sayings. Her favorite was her black one with “easily distracted by dogs” emblazoned in white on the chest with a big paw print. Many of the shirts were gifts from clients, friends, and family. Sometimes she’d don an apron or a lab coat (bearing cartoon dogs or fire hydrants, balls, and frisbees, of course) over her t-shirts for the messiest of grooming jobs—such as the annual chow lion cuts, poodle shears, or the St. Bernard named Sebastian that shook a lot— but most days she tackled (sometimes literally) her canine customers in a t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes or lug soled boots. The Coiffure’s floor got very wet, so it was important her and Emily’s shoes had traction.
Sarah styled her hair by putting it through an elastic once and then pulling her hair partway through again to make a messy bun. She grabbed her phone and house keys, and she and Whiskey locked the front door and walked back through the park and passed Main Street to the road that ran parallel to it, Rosewood Drive. And while, yes, there were many roses and rose bushes on Rosewood Drive, it was also home to two blocks of connected shops on the street level with apartments overhead, followed by former homes that were now businesses, starting with Carter’s Canine Coiffure on the north side of the street, followed by the town’s only bakery, an architectural design firm, a lawyer’s office, and an Italian restaurant, before actual residences started again.
Sarah and Whiskey’s walk to work took fewer than ten minutes. When they stepped foot on the big hydrant shaped doormat, Whiskey hit the door once with his paw like “let me in.” Sarah unlocked the cottage’s green front door and pushed it open, and Whiskey bolted through the living room converted to a waiting and drop off area into the kitchen, which had been transformed with big stainless steel bathing tubs and more spigots and sprayers than in its original single-family home design. And now, instead of counters, the space had three stainless steel tables and stands with leather loops to hold dogs’ heads steady as they were being groomed.
Whiskey, the Coiffure clients’ emotional support companion, embraced his role as only a super sensitive heeler was bred to do. He greeted each dog as it walked through the door with its human. He licked the ones that seemed most anxious and put a paw on the ones whose fear filled the shop. Last month Whiskey had even jumped up on the grooming table and encircled a panicking Pekinese as Emily was attempting to express its anal glands. Little Ming-Chi wanted no part of that, but Whiskey wrapped himself around her and assured her everything would be okay.
As Sarah checked the levels in the shampoo bottles to see if any needed to be refilled—she bought the stuff in bulk—and ran through the list of clients they’d see today, she mentally acknowledged that part of her business’ success was owed to Whiskey and his skill with sensing the emotional needs of people and dogs alike. He was one intuitive dog.
