asked.
I told her pretty much everybody did.
“Poor Eva Gabor,” she said.
8
T HERE’S SOME BIG STUFF TO TELL YOU, BUT I’ LL START WITH THE morning and how I got my butt sniffed on Rodeo Drive.
Since Renee is off work for a week, we dolled ourselves up and drove into Beverly Hills for what Renee is fond of calling “an elegant day.” We were standing outside Bijan, window-shopping and looking as tastefully blasé as we knew how, when this big, ugly dog appeared out of nowhere and, without so much as a howdy-ma’am, stuck his big, wet nose up my dress. Renee shooed him off several times, to no avail. He’d caught his first whiff of condensed woman and could not be contained.
“Oh, gah,” groaned Renee. “I hate it when this happens.”
“ You do?”
She giggled, then shooed him some more and told me: “Don’t. We can’t laugh.”
“Why not?”
“He’ll think you’re friendly.”
“Maybe I am,” I said.
“I mean it, Cady. Look mean.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Back up against the wall, then.”
“He’ll just go for the front.” I reached up with both hands and pushed the dog’s muzzle away. “How ’bout it, Renee? This elegant enough for you?”
“Shut up.”
“He doesn’t have a boner, does he?”
We were both crippled with laughter when a snippy-looking woman in red leather came out of the store and gave us the evil eye. “Is there something I can help you with?”
I don’t know why that was funny, but it was. I lost it so completely that Renee had to explain things for me. “This dog has been…harassing her.”
“Is it your dog?”
“No.” Renee sounded terribly accused. “We’ve never seen it before.”
I was holding my waist now, gasping for breath. The dog had backed off a little, observing my madness, his head tilted in genuine puzzlement.
“Are you all right?” asked the woman.
I nodded.
The woman studied us a moment longer, then went back into the store. I leaned against the building, trying to compose myself, while Renee proffered a sickly, mortified smile to a pair of matrons who’d stopped to gawk. Almost as if he’d realized the fun was over, the dog lost interest and sauntered off down the street.
“Thanks a lot,” Renee said sullenly.
“Who? Me or him?”
“You.”
I wiped my eyes, then waved at the gawkers, who eyed each other nervously, then skulked away. “It was funny,” I said, trying to explain myself.
“You could’ve said something .”
“No way.” I held up my palm to show her how much I meant this. “I could barely breathe.”
“She thought you were having a fit.”
“I know.” I tried to look contrite. “I’m sorry.”
“And you messed up your mascara.” Renee knelt in front of me, pulled a Kleenex from her purse, and began repairing my face. “I always forget about dogs.”
“It’s OK,” I said.
She just kept on dabbing away. “Where do you think he came from?”
I thought for a moment, then said: “Got me licked.”
She laughed really hard at this, so much so that her face began to squinch up and her big, friendly knees squared off in a disquietingly familiar way.
“Renee…?”
She squealed incoherently, like some old-time movie damsel trying to shake off a gag.
“You’re peeing your pants, aren’t you?”
All she could manage was a nod and another squeal. She was doing a full jackknife now, impressively enough, yet somehow remained standing.
“They’re gone,” I said. “Go for it.”
The morning was not a total washout, I am happy to report, because Renee keeps an extra pair of panties in her purse for just such emergencies. She picked up this helpful hint, she explained, during her kiddie pageant days, when unnasty undies were apparently a point of real pride in the dressing rooms. After skulking off to a rest room in a nearby coffee shop, she joined me for pie in one of the booths.
“Why do you suppose they do that?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Dogs.”
I shrugged.
I told her pretty much everybody did.
“Poor Eva Gabor,” she said.
8
T HERE’S SOME BIG STUFF TO TELL YOU, BUT I’ LL START WITH THE morning and how I got my butt sniffed on Rodeo Drive.
Since Renee is off work for a week, we dolled ourselves up and drove into Beverly Hills for what Renee is fond of calling “an elegant day.” We were standing outside Bijan, window-shopping and looking as tastefully blasé as we knew how, when this big, ugly dog appeared out of nowhere and, without so much as a howdy-ma’am, stuck his big, wet nose up my dress. Renee shooed him off several times, to no avail. He’d caught his first whiff of condensed woman and could not be contained.
“Oh, gah,” groaned Renee. “I hate it when this happens.”
“ You do?”
She giggled, then shooed him some more and told me: “Don’t. We can’t laugh.”
“Why not?”
“He’ll think you’re friendly.”
“Maybe I am,” I said.
“I mean it, Cady. Look mean.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Back up against the wall, then.”
“He’ll just go for the front.” I reached up with both hands and pushed the dog’s muzzle away. “How ’bout it, Renee? This elegant enough for you?”
“Shut up.”
“He doesn’t have a boner, does he?”
We were both crippled with laughter when a snippy-looking woman in red leather came out of the store and gave us the evil eye. “Is there something I can help you with?”
I don’t know why that was funny, but it was. I lost it so completely that Renee had to explain things for me. “This dog has been…harassing her.”
“Is it your dog?”
“No.” Renee sounded terribly accused. “We’ve never seen it before.”
I was holding my waist now, gasping for breath. The dog had backed off a little, observing my madness, his head tilted in genuine puzzlement.
“Are you all right?” asked the woman.
I nodded.
The woman studied us a moment longer, then went back into the store. I leaned against the building, trying to compose myself, while Renee proffered a sickly, mortified smile to a pair of matrons who’d stopped to gawk. Almost as if he’d realized the fun was over, the dog lost interest and sauntered off down the street.
“Thanks a lot,” Renee said sullenly.
“Who? Me or him?”
“You.”
I wiped my eyes, then waved at the gawkers, who eyed each other nervously, then skulked away. “It was funny,” I said, trying to explain myself.
“You could’ve said something .”
“No way.” I held up my palm to show her how much I meant this. “I could barely breathe.”
“She thought you were having a fit.”
“I know.” I tried to look contrite. “I’m sorry.”
“And you messed up your mascara.” Renee knelt in front of me, pulled a Kleenex from her purse, and began repairing my face. “I always forget about dogs.”
“It’s OK,” I said.
She just kept on dabbing away. “Where do you think he came from?”
I thought for a moment, then said: “Got me licked.”
She laughed really hard at this, so much so that her face began to squinch up and her big, friendly knees squared off in a disquietingly familiar way.
“Renee…?”
She squealed incoherently, like some old-time movie damsel trying to shake off a gag.
“You’re peeing your pants, aren’t you?”
All she could manage was a nod and another squeal. She was doing a full jackknife now, impressively enough, yet somehow remained standing.
“They’re gone,” I said. “Go for it.”
The morning was not a total washout, I am happy to report, because Renee keeps an extra pair of panties in her purse for just such emergencies. She picked up this helpful hint, she explained, during her kiddie pageant days, when unnasty undies were apparently a point of real pride in the dressing rooms. After skulking off to a rest room in a nearby coffee shop, she joined me for pie in one of the booths.
“Why do you suppose they do that?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Dogs.”
I shrugged.
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