layla

There are two ways to describe my clothes after a day of work: stretched out and/or hairy. My jeans fit every morning when I put them on, but by lunchtime they are always stretched out and look like I’ve been dragged behind a horse. Why? Because I spend the majority of my working day on the ground. I sit on the floor, because when I’m shooting I like to be at the dogs’ height. It makes them feel comfortable, and I think it helps us develop a good rapport. But the rapport you need with a high-strung, short-haired pointer who would rather lick your face and nuzzle your crotch than sit for a photo, and with a decidedly low-key, brush-cut husband who, come to think of it, would also rather face-lick and crotch-nuzzle than sit for a photo, are two very different things.

Brett’s been tough to read lately. And this whole situation is new: He was weirder than I’ve ever seen him last night, though it all ended well. There was an intensity to his lovemaking, something almost desperate. I tell myself not to read too much into it. I’ve been proposed to, but I’ve still not heard that most delightful and dangerous proposal that two people float at each other when they’ve decided they’re ready to become more than two. Maybe others feel guided by an unseen biological hand. Maybe they have love to spare and want to shine the excess on a new life. Maybe they get the feeling that something more between them is needed. In the case of Brett and me, it’s hard to say what’s prompted it.

TLC has three shoots today, and then I have my dinner with Brett. Trish is convinced he’s going to talk about us starting a family. I brought a change of clothes so, in that miraculous moment, I’m not covered in fur.

Shoot number one is of Rex, a skittish Siamese cat we met a few days ago at his consultation. When Rex and his mom arrive, Trish takes Lou and locks him in our office, so Rex doesn’t have a conniption.

“Sorry, Lou,” Trish says, as she shuts the door. “It’s a cat. You know how they are.”

“Can we not disparage the cat population?” I quietly admonish, since Rex’s cat-loving owner is a mere twelve feet away.

“Hello,” Trish says warmly to the woman to whom the cat is stuck. Literally. The cat has clawed into the woman’s sweatshirt and will not let go.

“Hmm,” I muse. “Do you want to be in the photo, too?”

“No,” the woman says. “He’ll warm up.”

What happens next happens so fast I’m not even sure how to describe it. I think the woman plucked the paws from her shirt and put the cat down, but the cat may have released its own grip and flown off. Either way, in a Tasmanian-devilish blur, the cat moves past us and out of sight.

We spend the next two hours (our studio is not that big, mind you) searching for Rex, calling for Rex, crying for Rex, and assuring Rex’s mother that he has not left the building, as there is no other way out.

But then she hears movement in the back office and insists Rex is there.

“No, that’s Lou, my dog,” Trish says.

“You have a dog? There’s a dog here?” she screeches.

“It’s just a dachshund,” I say. “They’re small. Low to the ground. Zero jumping ability. Very nonthreatening.”

“Rex!” the woman shrieks, and flings the door to our office open. Lou cocks his head and looks up at the screaming woman. “What did you do to my Rex?”

“He didn’t touch Rex,” Trish says calmly.

“It’s been two hours,” she screeches. “He could have devoured him in that time. Call nine-one-one!”

“What? Why?” Trish asks.

“Before he starts to digest! They need to pump his stomach!”

“Really?” Trish deadpans. “So in addition to you believing that my dog—who happens to actually be smaller than your cat—ate your cat, you also believe that he’s swallowed the cat whole.”

Trish is losing her patience. Part of working well together is being intuitive—knowing when your partner is sixteen seconds away from choking a customer. I see the look in Trish’s eyes, and I rush to stand as a buffer between the two. The woman is hurling accusations at Lou, Trish’s baby. And them’s fightin’ words.

“The door was closed,” I offer. “There’s no way Lou even saw Rex.”

But Lou does smell him. Lou scurries over to the kitchen and starts standing on his hind paws and scratching at the oven, wagging his tail.

“What is it, boy?” Trish says.

We follow Lou and open the oven. Thankfully, Rex isn’t in there, but Lou is insistent. We stare at the oven, at the microwave, at the cabinets … nothing. And yet Lou is now trying to jump on top of the oven, bless his tiny little legs.

“What’s he saying?” the woman asks, as if we speak dog. I mean, if anyone speaks dog, it’s us, but she’s looking at us like we have a dog-to-English dictionary.

“He may smell Rex,” I offer.

“He’s certainly not lethargic, what with having eaten your whole cat and all. Look at all that energy,” Trish muses.

And then I see a tail. At least the hint of a tail. It’s behind the microwave in a cavity that’s barely within reach. A spot that only a frightened cat would seek out as a hiding place.

“Okay, crisis over.” I exhale. “I’ve found Rex’s tail. And I’m certain that Rex is attached.”

“Rex!” the woman coos, and reaches up to coax him from the cavity into which he’s wedged. As soon as she has him safely in her arms, she whirls back on us. “This is an unsafe setting, and I am not letting you photograph my Rex. Today or ever.”

“We’re crushed,” Trish says, and I don’t do anything to contradict her.

“You should note on your website that this isn’t a cat-friendly environment, so that other cat owners won’t make the mistake of coming here.”

“We’ll get right on that,” I say, as I usher her to the door.

“I know lots of cat owners,” she threatens.

“Bye-bye,” I say, almost singsongy.

She leaves, and Trish and I have a laugh. Trish has always said we shouldn’t shoot cats unless it’s with a gun, but there’s a hint of truth in every joke, and today didn’t do much for the cause.

Our second customer is a celebutante (whose name will go unmentioned) who brings her new Maltese puppy in for their first photo session—photos she’s hoping to sell to People or Star magazine, if that’s, like, okay with me.

She walks in wearing twelve-inch heels and hair extensions—at least I think they’re hair extensions, because last week’s tabloids had her with a bob, and if they’re not extensions I need to find out what vitamins she takes asap. She holds Maggie May (whose name is not connected to anyone she’s related to or sleeping with, in case you were wondering) out awkwardly, not gingerly per se, more like she’s just really uncomfortable holding the pup. Her detached demeanor shows she isn’t used to genuine care.

“Doesn’t Maggie have the funniest belly button?” she asks, as she pulls on Maggie May’s tiny, hair-covered puppy penis. “I kiss her belly button every night.”

The look that passes between Trish and me is one of shock and awe. It’s this moment when we both realize that this poor dumb girl thinks her male puppy is a female. Hence the name Maggie May. How do you broach this subject with a tabloid wunderkind? How do you tell her that she’s not nuzzling her girl puppy’s tummy, she’s fellating her boy dog?

Trish just walks out of the room. Leaving me alone to deal with this. Awesome.

As my mind searches for a delicate way to put it, the celebutante becomes aware of a long pause and the anguished look on my face as I stare at the little fellow.

“Is something wrong with my dog?” she asks.

“I’m sure the dog’s fine,” I say. “It’s his name I’m not so sure about.”

“Her name,” she corrects me.

“Well, that’s kind of an issue, too,” I say.

I proceed to tell her about the slight mistake, and I assure her that the dog himself probably didn’t notice or mind the error, so no harm done—although maybe she should find some other part of his body to kiss good night.

She’s at first shocked, then extremely embarrassed, then almost instantly indignant. She storms out, her own handler trailing just behind as though he was on some leash of his own, and she seethes, “That breeder is done in this town.” And I think to myself, that poor breeder is probably just the latest in a long line of people to whom the little brat hasn’t listened.

Our third customer is a basset hound, and the photo shoot goes off without a hitch. Trish insists on setting him next to Lou in a contest of low-riders: whose ears are longer, whose belly is closer to the ground, which one looks more bored and depressed—in our human estimation, though, they’re both clearly pampered and overfed.

And then it’s time for dinner. I change into my clean, un-stretched clothes and put my second shoe on as I hop to the door. I’m nervous and excited, and nervous, and ready, yet nervous and happy. Most of all happy.

Trish watches me hop around with a stupid smile on my face and gets this bemused look.

“Tonight’s the night!” I yell, as I make my way out the door.

“Rod Stewart!” she calls back, thinking we’re playing some sort of game.