The Queen Gene by Jennifer Coburn

wearing high-heel shoes again. “I’m buying six-inch strappy shoes when this thing heals,” she said.
    “I’m getting total Hoochie Mama shoes,” I added, remembering my Aunt Bernice and her Ho Chi Minh models.
    The next morning, Anjoli called. “What do you think of entering Spot in a dog show?” she asked.
    “Good morning, Mother.”
    “You have no idea how many people stop me to tell me that Spot is simply the most gorgeous dog they’ve ever seen. Frankly, I couldn’t agree more. I’m walking him home right now, and two people have stopped me to tell me how cute he is. Why shouldn’t he have a few blue ribbons? I remember how proud you used to be with your horse show ribbons.”
    “I take it this means Spot has stopped chewing his paws?” I asked, making my way to the window to watch the soap opera in my backyard. I knew Maxime and Jacquie were inside their home because I could see them through their windows. I saw that Chantrell had lit a fire because smoke was coming from her chimney, but for the first time since her arrival, there was no music coming from her home. I looked at the vegetable garden she had planted and wondered when they would get their four hours of cello music that day.
    “No, darling, he’s still chewing like crazy,” Anjoli sighed. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried absolutely everything to help him. Last night I gave him an aromatherapy bath. Would you believe he cried?!”
    “You didn’t by chance use lemon oil, did you?” I asked.
    “I did!” she said with a tone of concern. “Is there something wrong with lemon oil?”
    “It irritates the skin,” I said, remembering Jack’s and my fiasco with a lemon oil bath.
    “The woman at the health food store said —”
    “I know, I know,” I interrupted. “They say it’s calming, but if you read the bottle, it says that it irritates skin.”
    “Mommy is so sorry, Spot!” Anjoli cried. “I had no idea, darling.” Anjoli began interacting with the dog before I reminded her I was still on the line. “Do you think I could get him a pair of fabulous cashmere sleeves to cover his paws?”
    “Isn’t it getting warmer in New York yet?” I asked.
    “Not for warmth, silly,” Anjoli said. “For the dog show. Alfie is a whiz with knits. He could make something kicky to cover Spot’s paws, and the judges will never see where he chewed.”
    “Mother, I think you should focus on curing your dog’s anxiety disorder before entering him in any dog shows.”
    “You don’t think they’d discriminate against him because he has a psychological disorder, do you, darling?”
    I laughed. “No, I think you’d sue them under ADA if they even mentioned Spot’s problem. Maybe you should focus on figuring out what’s wrong with him before you get involved with the whole dog show circuit. How’s his therapy going?” I couldn’t believe what I was asking.
    “Slow,” she sighed. “Dr. Ken says Spot has abandonment issues.”
    I didn’t know what I found more laughable — Dr. Ken or a dog having issues of any sort. Nonetheless I was drawn in to my mother’s bizarre world. “I thought you said you got Spot from a breeder. Why would he feel abandoned?”
    “Dr. Ken says that Spot’s siblings were probably adopted before he was. Poor thing had to watch his family sold off to different homes. Can you imagine the feelings of rejection he must’ve experienced, darling?”
    “Mother, most dogs are separated from their litter. They don’t need psychotherapy to get over it. Maybe the dog just hates the mundane name you’ve given him.”
    “Nonsense! The numerologist said Spot was his true name,” Anjoli said.
    “Please. How could Spot be the name of a Mexican breed?! Spot belongs to Dick and Jane, not Paco and Maria. At least translate the damn name to Spanish.”
    “Oh my God!” my mother cried. “Do you think that’s it?”
    “No, Mother, I was kidding,” I replied.
    “How do you say Spot in Spanish,