Sleeps with Dogs by Lindsey Grant

happen at some point. I much preferred the control a leash afforded me.
    Charlie and his owner, Katherine—some kind of advertising executive, single, late thirties—lived in an ultra-manicured corner of Piedmont. At our introductory meeting, Katherine had said to me, “My house isn’t even that nice. I hope you won’t mind staying here.”
    Her single-level home was nestled among the expansive mansions of the Oakland hills: a neighborhood of flawless lawns, long driveways punctuated by luxury cars, high fences, and even higher mortgages. Porta potties dotted the sidewalks, accommodating the countless contractors that swarmed over the estates by day, to perfect what was already arguably perfect.
    So by some standards, one might have called her house, without a second floor or five-car garage, humble. But the long hallways of shining hardwoods, the monogrammed towels and sheets, the French-provincial living room and meticulously landscaped terrace garden, and even the dog, all smacked of quality. And a cozy relationship with some well-paid interior designer.
    At roughly six foot two, Katherine was one of the few women taller than me that I’d ever met. I was inclined to forgive her feigned modesty about her house and like her for being one of us. “Large and in charge,” as my sister says. Katherine surely understood the plight of the outrageously tall woman, and I took note at our meeting how she did it with such class. She was clad in ballet flats, jeans, and a luxuriously soft-looking cropped sweater. Cashmere, probably. Her short chestnut hair was shiny and bobbed, and she had very creamy skin—something I’ve aspired to and still fall horribly short of. I’ve always sported more of a well-scrubbed Scottish complexion. Florid, one dermatologist called it.
    I thought Katherine and her greyhound made a handsome pair; equally long, lean, and refined. For his part, Charlie had a glossy sand-colored coat, great teeth (another thing I could onlydream of), and a spring in his coltish step. He could have stepped out of one of the old English paintings in the dining room.
    At that first meeting, Katherine had started the tour in the living room.
    â€œThis is Charlie’s teddy bear,” she said as she gestured toward a slobber-dampened lump on the green tartan dog bed. “Make sure he has it when he is outside during the day, and at night when he is in his crate. He needs his teddy with him.”
    Katherine glided from the living room, through the formal dining room, and into the kitchen. She opened the freezer to reveal an array of homemade dog treats. There were jerky sticks and dog biscuits hidden in frozen cottage cheese, peanut butter–filled toys, and cheese-stuffed kongs.
    â€œBut his favorite,” Katherine said as she opened the refrigerator below, “is egg. There are two egg crates here with hard-boiled eggs. He eats them with his morning and evening meals, crumbled over three cups of kibble. Then he can have a treat from the freezer.”
    Listening to all of this, I couldn’t imagine the havoc it wrought on Charlie’s digestive system. All that dairy. And on top of the outrageous amount of food he was fed in a day! His craps had to be the size of smart cars. I was no stranger to dogs’ unorthodox dietary habits, but usually the questionable food wasn’t being pushed quite so forcefully by the owners themselves.
    I followed Katherine down the hall to the guest bedroom.
    â€œThis is where you will sleep,” she said as she gestured to the matching twin-sized sleigh beds, dressed in monogrammed yellow gingham. “Charlie’s bed is through here.” She continued down an adjacent hall into the master suite, where Charlie was already waiting for us. He was sprawled across Katherine’s unmade king, his head on her pillow.
    â€œHis crate was too heavy to move, but perhaps he’ll be happiersleeping with you in the guest