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Authors: Susan Conant
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his skin on contact. He managed to leap out of the tub only once, but as usual, he shrieked the entire time, and when I’d finally finished rinsing him, he shook hard before I’d grabbed a towel, and the whole bathroom got sprayed with damp dog hair.
When Steve arrived, the kitchen table was shoved against a counter, and the grooming table and my new high-power blower occupied the center of the floor. Kimi, I must brag, looked fabulous. My wrists ached from brushing her. Rowdy was now on the table, the blower was roaring, and the kitchen looked like what it had become: a grooming shop. Although more tiring and messy than assuming the lotus position to chant ohm and envision irises, grooming is nonetheless a form of meditation in which subject and object, you and the dog, achieve a state of mystical communication and blissfully transcendent unity. When you’re done, you look like hell and feel wonderful.
Steve didn’t feel wonderful. For once, he didn’t even look wonderful. He wore green scrubs, which usually bring out the green in his eyes, but he was spattered with drops of blood, his eyes were a flat blue, and his face was expressionless. I turned off the dryer and needlessly asked how he was doing. Instead of answering, he just said he needed a shower.
“I haven’t cleaned the bathroom yet,” I admitted. “It’s still filled with hair. I’ll do it now.”
“Don’t bother,” he said.
“I don’t mind. And don’t open the bedroom door. There’s a cat in there. I need you to take a look at it. There’s no hurry.”
“Good.” He opened the refrigerator door, got a glass from the cupboard, and started to pour himself some milk. Before drinking it, he stuck in a finger and removed what must have been a dog hair. “You couldn’t do this somewhere else?”
“I always groom here in the winter.”
“At seven-thirty on Friday night?”
“It’s not seven-thirty. Is it? I lost track of time. The dogs haven’t even eaten yet.”
“Neither,” said Steve gloomily, “have I.”
Three hours later, the dogs were in their crates in the guest room, and Steve and I were in bed. He was asleep. I was reading Sherlock Holmes. Holmes hadn’t had a sex life, either, I was thinking. Abstinence didn’t seem to have done him any harm. I put the book down, turned off the light, passed out, and had erotic dreams. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by a soft noise or perhaps by the crack of light that showed through the half-open door. Steve wasn’t in bed. I threw on a bath-robe and padded barefoot toward the kitchen, which was now clean. In deference to Steve’s fastidiousness, I’d vacuumed everything and washed the floor. I’d also cleaned the bathroom, taken a shower, and made some pasta and a salad. While we were eating, I’d told Steve about the cat. In return, he’d said almost nothing. Uncharacteristically, he hadn’t even wanted to peer into the cat’s hiding place to take a look at it.
Now, in the middle of the night, I peeked into the kitchen. All the lights were on: the overhead light, the one over the sink, the one in the hood above the stove. The kitchen table was padded with a layer of newspaper. In the center, Steve had neatly spread one of the clean old towels I keep for the dogs. The emergency kit he always carries in his van sat open on a chair. Smack in the center of the towel was the ugly cat. Its eyes were gooey with ointment. In front of it was a small bowl of semimoist cat food. It was eating. Steve was bent over the cat, gently palpating and stroking it. The damned thing was purring loudly.
Chapter Seven
A T THE SHOW ON Saturday, which was just that, a conformation show, with no obedience, my beautiful Kimi got a three-point major, and my wonderful Rowdy took the breed. If you don’t show dogs, you probably imagine that Kimi sank her teeth into a sort of low-ranked version of a four-star general and that Rowdy literally swallowed the competition. I’ll
When Steve arrived, the kitchen table was shoved against a counter, and the grooming table and my new high-power blower occupied the center of the floor. Kimi, I must brag, looked fabulous. My wrists ached from brushing her. Rowdy was now on the table, the blower was roaring, and the kitchen looked like what it had become: a grooming shop. Although more tiring and messy than assuming the lotus position to chant ohm and envision irises, grooming is nonetheless a form of meditation in which subject and object, you and the dog, achieve a state of mystical communication and blissfully transcendent unity. When you’re done, you look like hell and feel wonderful.
Steve didn’t feel wonderful. For once, he didn’t even look wonderful. He wore green scrubs, which usually bring out the green in his eyes, but he was spattered with drops of blood, his eyes were a flat blue, and his face was expressionless. I turned off the dryer and needlessly asked how he was doing. Instead of answering, he just said he needed a shower.
“I haven’t cleaned the bathroom yet,” I admitted. “It’s still filled with hair. I’ll do it now.”
“Don’t bother,” he said.
“I don’t mind. And don’t open the bedroom door. There’s a cat in there. I need you to take a look at it. There’s no hurry.”
“Good.” He opened the refrigerator door, got a glass from the cupboard, and started to pour himself some milk. Before drinking it, he stuck in a finger and removed what must have been a dog hair. “You couldn’t do this somewhere else?”
“I always groom here in the winter.”
“At seven-thirty on Friday night?”
“It’s not seven-thirty. Is it? I lost track of time. The dogs haven’t even eaten yet.”
“Neither,” said Steve gloomily, “have I.”
Three hours later, the dogs were in their crates in the guest room, and Steve and I were in bed. He was asleep. I was reading Sherlock Holmes. Holmes hadn’t had a sex life, either, I was thinking. Abstinence didn’t seem to have done him any harm. I put the book down, turned off the light, passed out, and had erotic dreams. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by a soft noise or perhaps by the crack of light that showed through the half-open door. Steve wasn’t in bed. I threw on a bath-robe and padded barefoot toward the kitchen, which was now clean. In deference to Steve’s fastidiousness, I’d vacuumed everything and washed the floor. I’d also cleaned the bathroom, taken a shower, and made some pasta and a salad. While we were eating, I’d told Steve about the cat. In return, he’d said almost nothing. Uncharacteristically, he hadn’t even wanted to peer into the cat’s hiding place to take a look at it.
Now, in the middle of the night, I peeked into the kitchen. All the lights were on: the overhead light, the one over the sink, the one in the hood above the stove. The kitchen table was padded with a layer of newspaper. In the center, Steve had neatly spread one of the clean old towels I keep for the dogs. The emergency kit he always carries in his van sat open on a chair. Smack in the center of the towel was the ugly cat. Its eyes were gooey with ointment. In front of it was a small bowl of semimoist cat food. It was eating. Steve was bent over the cat, gently palpating and stroking it. The damned thing was purring loudly.
Chapter Seven
A T THE SHOW ON Saturday, which was just that, a conformation show, with no obedience, my beautiful Kimi got a three-point major, and my wonderful Rowdy took the breed. If you don’t show dogs, you probably imagine that Kimi sank her teeth into a sort of low-ranked version of a four-star general and that Rowdy literally swallowed the competition. I’ll
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