Everything changes.
The tall, athletic young woman with long strides and a patch of silver hair used the early morning for her run (like a cheetah!). Then it was a quick stop at The Clover for breakfast and on to the new job.
At nine, Brooke shouldered her red backpack, gathered her dogs, and headed down East Boulevard to Freedom Park.
The backpack from Yosemite now contained more than her mug or groceries. These days, the “dog-walker-lady” had poop bags, treats, plus a collapsible water bowl she got from the local pet store where she met Loba, a Malamute, who hung out with the store’s owner.
The new business (not a job – just a “gig” as Mel called it) started with only Brunswick, then added Louisa and Norman. Louisa, a golden retriever, stayed close on Brooke’s left, while Brunswick and Norman, Louisa’s half-brother, charged out in front.
Dorothy turned Brunswick over the first day, and the other artists from The Mill soon jumped on board.
“I’d love to hire you, Brooke,” said Louisa’s puppy mommy. “Louisa’s underfoot in the studio and makes a mess if she doesn’t go out. By giving my dog a walk you’re giving me more time to paint.”
Norman’s puppy daddy felt the same.
Blair advertised Brooke’s “gig” with a sign at The Clover; putting it smack by the register with Brooke’s number on little strips of paper at the bottom to tear off. Mel helped with the sign, printing clearly, “If your dog is lonely and needs attention, for a good time, call 704-555-3647.”
“Mel, this sounds creepy. What will people think?” Brooke said to her friend when she saw the sign.
“You want business or what? Ain’t no free rides in this life, honey. When that there phone rings, you talk nice. Okay?” was Mel’s stern advice.
Bella and Scout, two yellow labs, were next. Then came Maisy, she was an older golden but kept up with the youngsters.
They would go most mornings, and sometimes again in the afternoon. They made quite a sight. A pack of six dogs walking past old homes, just about all of them converted to offices or small businesses of one sort or another. They would wait for the traffic signal to turn green, then burst across the street, and be on their way.
Many of the old homes had become restaurants after the city worked on the street a few years back. The crews had put in more crosswalks and turning lanes, making it feel comfortable to get about on foot or, like Mel, on her bike.
The plan also added trees and public art to keep the historic boulevard friendly, preventing it from just being a cut-through the wealthy neighborhood on the other side of the park used to shave a few minutes on the way to the airport.
The plan seemed to be working as more of the restaurants added cafés by the sidewalk and life moved outdoors.
There were rich memories in many of the places they passed. There was a restaurant that once had a big snare drum on top, owned by someone from the Greek church up the street. There was a soda shop where her dad had taken her for a hot dog topped with chili when she was little. She had gone to yoga a few times on the second floor of that soda shop. Brooke remembered a fire escape to the woman’s studio, just like the one at her apartment.
And of course, there was the old house where her dad had started his business so many years before. Brooke wondered how many lives each of the buildings had known. How many stories they could tell? What secrets did they hold? Did anyone know them? Did anyone care?
Probably not. So many Charlotte buildings were being torn down, replaced by faceless structures – no character, no personality, no appreciation for the neighborhood history. Just … buildings. Perhaps it was her city’s prosperity to blame. Other towns, the ones with slower growth rates, seemed to do better, Brooke thought.
Maybe too much gratification wasn’t a good thing. Maybe more repurposing and less replacing was better, but she’d need to think about that later if she was going to get back in time to pick up her “Lunch Bunch.”
The “Lunch Bunch,” made an odd combobulation. About the only thing they had in common was being a dog. There was a Yorkie, a Maltese, and a beagle named Madeleine, who’s name the owner pronounced with a French accent, putting more emphasis on the first syllable than the rest. Perhaps the beagle was from a château in France. Brooke made a mental note to ask.
Then there was Barnegat, the pug, who always needed coaxing, especially if it was raining. Brooke would hold an umbrella for Barnegat while the dog found just the right place to go without getting wet.
Marley, the Boston Terrier, was precious, Brooke loved her even more than the others but tried not to let it show. Marley’s mommy was a sculptor at The Mill, starting to be recognized in the Southeast.
Sometimes there were more, but this gave her five regulars. Oh, and there was Patricia. “How could I forget Patricia?” Brooke wondered, realizing she had never been good at math. Patricia was a Bichon Frise with a walk like a dancer who liked to be lifted when she got tired. So there were six. “Yes, six was the number,” Brooke repeated.
Her “Lunch Bunch” would go to Latta Park. It was closer, and more comfortable on their little legs. There were a few shelter pups living in the neighborhood, but not many. This neighborhood, so willing to accept strangers, was selective about pets. Maybe that would change, Brooke hoped.
On some days Brooke would add Minka to the afternoon walk. “Mink,” as she was called, was a Great Dane / Italian Mastiff mix who belonged to the Pilates lady. Mink was still a puppy and already more massive than the others. Brooke would pick her up before the rest, waiting outside the Pilates studio for Mink to come out.
It was at the Pilates studio where Brooke met Jeannie Lee, the artist across the hall who taught painting, traveling the world with her students. “Do you paint?” Jeannie Lee asked when she saw Brooke admiring her work hanging on the wall outside her door.
“Oh, no,” said Brooke. “Well, some maybe, I did it in school, but it was never my best subject.”
“Why?”
“I just paint what I see,” Brooke said. “In its basic form, you know, without too much window dressing and all. If I can tell it’s a person or a tree, then that’s all that matters, to me. The colors don’t need to be perfect. God only needed seven to make a rainbow, right?” Brooke hoped her last comment didn’t sound like she was telling Jennie Lee something she didn’t already know.
With that, Brooke and Jeannie Lee became friends.
Brooke would be early to pick up Minka, and Jeannie Lee would be waiting to chat. Often the artist would join Brooke at The Clover where they could talk more. Jeannie Lee was the first art teacher Brooke met who would let Brooke’s right brain expand without the usual controls. The others always told her what to do without taking time to listen. “I’ve got reasons for painting what I paint, and reasons for painting it the way I do, if anyone would ask,” Brooke said, to herself, each time her former teachers graded her work, pointing out only the flaws.
Jeannie Lee was different. She let Brooke’s right brain, the artistic and creative half, give the answers. Jennie Lee didn’t spend time with Brooke on the methodical and analytical left brain answers, knowing that would come in time.
After the second week of Brooke’s gig as the dog-walker-lady, Brooke said to Blair, “Mel was right you know. I’m babysitting dogs. I went to college to get a job with benefits, and all, and now, I’m just a dog walker person.”
“How does that make you feel, Brooke?” Blair asked, sounding like one of the therapists she still saw.
“I love it Blair. I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” Brooke heard herself say, shocked by the honest answer.
That evening, relaxing after dinner, Brooke replayed the past weeks, how much fun she was having, how well she fit in with the dogs – how they didn’t know about Xennials and didn’t care.
Brooke took out a pencil and pad at the same table she and Mel shared on the rainy afternoon the dog-walker-lady was born, and used the lazy left side of her brain to do the math. If she took the “lunch bunch” each day at ten dollars a pup, along with one longer walk at twenty each, she was up to almost two hundred a day – a day! And she still had time for another walk, more dogs, and that was all before tips. Mel told Brooke, “Tips are the gravy of life.” Again, Mel was right.
Brooke pushed back her chair, folded her arms, gazing off somewhere, and thought, “Soon I can hire helpers to go for walks. I’ll get Peter to build me one of his websites, maybe an app so people can sign up, use PayPal (hopefully it allows tips) and maybe use it to track the dogs on a GPS thing. I’ll take pictures, report on bathroom breaks, all the stuff owners want to know.”
But it was time to clean up the kitchen and get ready for bed. Tomorrow she had Outlaw Josie, Max, and Uno (the stray with one eye missing). She didn’t know any of them, and it takes more time with new dogs. Like when she first met LuLu, a Shiba Inu, who belonged to a woman from Manila who lived nearby and worked at the hospital. The woman from Manila and LuLu only spoke Tagalog when they were together, so no wonder it had been so hard for Brooke and LuLu when they started.
Brooke was fast becoming the most famous person in the neighborhood. Cars honked, boys whistled, girls marveled; all for this tall, now happy girl with a silver patch of hair, and a red backpack. She was The Dog Walker Lady: bouncing along the streets with her four-legged entourage.
All thanks to Blair and Mel – and that creepy sign.
Things were also shaping up in her personal life. Brooke was becoming more attracted to Peter. They had breakfast together most mornings. She now felt guilty about wanting him to get a haircut and all. He was kinda cute, if only he’d dress up a bit. She started bringing her latest L.L Bean catalog to breakfast, showing Peter things she might like for herself. Then she’d flip to the men’s section and point to a guy in a nice shirt with stylishly longer hair and a well-trimmed beard, not bushy like a member of the Houston rock band, ZZ Top, hopping he’d get her not so subtle hint.
After no response, Brooke put down the catalog and asked Peter, “What’s going in the old building around the corner? They’re sure doing a lot of remodeling.”
“I don’t know, but Blair will,” said Peter, calling him over.
“It’s a lady named Maggie. She lives out in the suburbs somewhere, and her husband works at the bank. She wanted a hobby, so he’s doing this for her.” Blair said.
Brooke was curious as Blair continued, “It’ll be a spa for pets. One where they can spend the day, have playdates, see a Vet, all that stuff. She’s even having a splash pool built on the roof.” Blair said, walking away.
“What do you think that means for your business?” Peter asked.
“I’m not sure.”
The answer to the question soon became clear, and it wasn’t good. One by one Brooke watched as her dogs hurried past the window, headed to Maggie’s Pet Spa – for the day.
Brooke was now spending too much time at The Clover, her business slowly going ‘round the bend – or the corner, actually.