Walking the Dog by Elizabeth Swados Page A

miniature, delicate work. I was bereft when she got her release.
    I was sitting in my room trying to concentrate on a book about dog grooming. I figured if I was a fully equipped walker, one of those multitudes of new places that had sprung up might hire me. Doggy Day Care seemed to be a new enterprise that had come about because most families had both parents working: holding down two jobs in technology, fashion, design, architecture, law, publishing, medicine—with odd hours, no lunch break, and too much socializing for proper dog care. People were opening coffee shops and boutique clothing stores. Everyone was working hard. Holding on to the edge of the recession like a cliff. People were impelled to travel more. New York could only be the base from which they spread their products and expertise to smaller brand-name satellites. The economy had imposed a kind of vocational ADD.
    But certain businesses flourished, and the Doggy Day Care grooming enterprise seemed to be one. I thought maybe I could get away from Hubb and land a position at Dogs’ Love, Pet House, Best Pets, Puppy Palace, Darling Dogs, or some other disgustingly named enterprise. A steady paycheck might ease my anxiety and I could stop popping the pills I was downing like Tic Tacs.
    I was reading about the undercoat of certain breeds when a scratchy voice called out, “Kepper—visitor.” I froze. I’d learned to expect the worst: A phony story about my conduct. A drug test. A trip to the lawyer’s office. The news of a death. A false occupation. A wrongful identification in a major crime. I’d seen it all happen. Once you’d been an outsider from the day-to-day world, you were never safe—freedom had a chip attached to it.
    But when I snuck into the visitors’ area (check out the enemy before they gain sight of you), I saw a stunning princess in her late twenties. She was tall and thin. Her black hair hung straight and shiny to her waist. The color of her skin was white and clean like a model in a soap commercial. She wore a simple black dress that went to her calves and fit her, not too baggy, but not so tight that you could call her sexy. Her face was the most striking thing about her. She had a beak for a nose, but it was birdlike—stunning. Full lips with light, tasteful lipstick and large brown eyes, almost almond in shape, lined with kohl. She was wealthy and radiant and most definitely Jewish.
    She had an easy confidence. If I were a girl in a halfway house being stared down by women resembling truck drivers and whores, I’d twitch or bite a nail. But she stood serene. I knew immediately that she was Pony’s tutor, and the only thing that stopped me from going straight back to my room was that she was wearing cowboy boots. Shiny. Expensive.But still cowboy boots. So she clearly wasn’t a total rabbi’s emissary. I was ashamed because I was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with two huge flannel shirts on top and baggy, ripped jeans and motorcycle boots. It was one of my dog walking outfits. My hair was still black with white and gray stripes. It was thick and long and hung all over my face to hide my scars and identity. I hated her. Nonetheless, I feigned disinterest and walked toward her.
    â€œHey,” I said.
    She jumped a little, which relaxed me, but when her beautiful eyes inspected me, they immediately took everything in. I knew I came off like a hardened, bitchy, sarcastic con. I saw pain in her eyes, not pity.
    â€œI’m Elisheva,” she said. “Batya Shulamit’s tutor.”
    â€œI figured that out,” I said.
    â€œI thought we should meet.” She held out a long, smooth white hand. I realized how rough and arthritic my own hands were, particularly my right. I’d creamed them and repeated grueling exercise after grueling exercise to maintain a wounded painter’s grace. Not the product of a spa, but I held out what I perceived was still a strong