Page 8 of One Bossy Date

“Yeah, just don’t run from them.”

“I don’t. I’ll seize up before I can even get them into the grooming room.”

He turned away and leaned his elbows onto the counter, looking sassy. “You’reperfectlyfine with Sausage.” Referring to his own miniature dog, who I’d met on several occasions at Jim’s place or if we walked in Central Park—of course.

“Sausage is a tiny, old sweetheart. He’s harmless, and I’ve gotten used to him. And he to me.”

I realized I was being stubborn, but I’d made up for my flaw by trying everything else I possibly could—just so I wouldn’t have to turn my cat shop into a catanddog shop. I’d secured deals with other small businesses in the area—a bakery to bake special treats and even mini cat birthday cakes; a tailor, who helped with our customized collars and outfits; and even an artist, who created some of the most amazing portraits of our clients’ cats. He’d also let me use some of his ideas and designs to create funny custom coffee mugs.

A huge portion of our income came from my cat-nanny services. I would either feed them while their owners were away or merely pick them up for grooming once a week and drop them off again. This was what I loved to do, my passion. It was why I’d moved to Manhattan in the first place—to open a cat boutique with Leo. We were aware there were many cat owners out here in Lower Manhattan—but they hadn’t quite shown themselves yet. I realized I needed to increase my marketing even more…

But with what money, Zoe?

To my absolute frustration (and Jim’s utter delight), I’d receive calls every so often about dog sitting. It turned out that the owner of the coffee shop that had been here previously had also looked after dogs here and there, and many of her clients were desperate for help since she’d closed her shop and left town. Of course, Jim couldn’t shut up about this “perfect, free advantage” to the whole “taking in dogs” idea. He loved dogs, as did many of his friends with their own tiny Chihuahuas or Yorkies. But unfortunately for them—and my business—I just couldn’t help myself. I wastooterrified of dogs.

It started when I was about ten and was bitten on the front of my thigh by a stranger’s dog in the park. I was rushed to the doc for a tetanus shot. Then, a few months later when we were visiting relatives in Sweden, they had several dogs, and one of them jumped onto my hands! I wasn’t surewhyI’d reached out to him, but the moment I did, he jumped and ended up with his paws on my hands. The universe must have heard my pleas, because this time, it wasn’t a small dog. It was ahugebrown beast. We were basically holding hands, his huge face in front of mine. All I could see were large, sharp, and pointed teeth.

“Let go,” my aunt had yelled, once she realized I wasn’t trying to “dance with doggy.”

Problem was, letting go was not physically possible for me. First, I was frozen in shock, and second, I didn’t know how to let go without bending even further into him. He was too big and too heavy for me to let go of his paws or tear my hands away. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of agony, the dog probably got bored, and in some awkward maneuver, he jumped off to the right, and we disconnected. I still can’t forget my utter relief and the promise I made to myself: to nevereverreach out a hand—let alonetwo—to a dog again.

I remained well clear of “man’s best friend.” My three golden rules were: never look at a dog. Never go near a dog. Never ever touch a dog. Even crossing the road when I noticed dog walkers or dog parks, had become a standard ritual. Dogs and me? We’d never be friends.

So no, I wouldneverbe accepting any dog-related jobs.Ever.

As the day went by, I seriously tried to look on the bright side of things. Really, I did. It always cheered me up to chat with clients when they came in and spent a few minutes with my furry clients getting kitty-cuddles. I tried to convince myself that business would pick up, that my clients would spread the word to their cat-loving family and friends.

Hmm, hold on. Were there cat clubs out there—like book clubs, but for kitty playdates? I mean, there were dog parks, so shouldn’t cats also have some kind of get-together space?

I went to start a search for exactly that on my phone when a message popped up.

Reading it, my inspiration instantly faded away. My landlord was reminding me that my rent was overdue.

“Ahhh.” I locked my phone and slid my fingers into my hair. “Damnit.”

“What’s happening? Is there water again?” Jim ran in from the back, appearing alarmed. He found me with my elbows on the counter and my head in my hands, mere seconds away from pulling my hair out. He touched my shoulder. “Aw, honey. What is it?”

“The rent is overdue.” My voice came out mumbled. “I don’t think the landlord is going to accept my late rent much longer.”

Jim rubbed slow, calming circles on my back. “Honey, we’ll get the money. Didn’t Granny Dotty give you a loan before?”

Straightening, I rubbed my eyes irritably. “Yes, but I won’t ask her again. I just…can’task her,again.” I needed to figure this out on my own without asking Gran for help. I couldn’t bear the thought of her believing I couldn’t make it on my own. I could and Iwould.

Giving me a straight-lipped, “control yourself, girl” kind of expression, Jim wasn’t impressed. “Ask, and you shall receive, Zo. You’re making this more difficult than it has to be, and your freak-outs are becoming more frequent these days.”

I knew he was right. “I’m sorry.” The air rushed from my lungs, and I tried to find my Zen. “I know I need to stay calm, and I’ll try. I promise.”

My phone started ringing, and both our heads jerked toward the sound.

“If that’s the landlord, I’m not going to answer,” I said, reaching for my cell.

“Is it him?” Jim asked, his hand over his heart as if he would be the one to have a heart attack if it turned out to be the landlord again.

We looked at the screen. “Oh, thank God. It’s Dotty!”

I answered, and Jim disappeared into the grooming room, but not before urging, “Ask her.”

“Hey, Gran.”

---