Almost overnight, the park had gone from being an oasis, to a place where I wished I didn't know anyone. Because of this, Lucas and I had reverted to the early shift at the park where we were only familiar with Scott the dogwalker and a few other dog owners. There was no traction on any of my writing projects and the post 911 employment situation was dire. My days were all about numbers. Every morning I woke up, weighed myself then logged onto the Internet and checked my steadily dwindling bank balance. The only writing I seemed to be doing was keeping track of my Weight Watchers points. Were it not for all of Lucas' activities, my waking hours would have been completely without structure.
A small assignment with Premiere Magazine called Tom Cruise Slept Here, which had been tossed my way by an editor I routinely pestered, had been killed. The piece, which was about the first homes of celebrities when they arrived in Hollywood was more research than writing and had kept me busy for a couple of weeks. My network of television commercial casting directors and talent wranglers turned out to be fruitful resources and within a few weeks I had come up with the first-time addresses for just over a dozen then unknown television and movie stars.
The manager of the Farmer's Daughter Motel on Fairfax confirmed that Charlize Theron had been a guest for a few weeks. An assistant director went on record with a hilarious story about James Gandolfini living in a shed overlooking the Hollywood Bowl that very inconveniently didn't have a bathroom. Renee Zellweger's manager shared that he had discovered her outside an apartment building on Larchmont where Mae West had once lived.
Instead of getting a greenlight from the editor once I turned in my research, he surprised me with his decision to hand my research to an established magazine writer and turn it into a larger article. Despite my contract with the magazine, he made no mention of a kill fee and I didn't know how to ask.
My afternoons felt endless. I spent at least an hour everyday thinking about Carrie Bradshaw. She only spent a few hours every week writing her column between sexy trysts and glittering social events and it afforded her a closet full of designer clothes and shoes. I identified more with Nicolas Cage's hapless character in the movie Adaptation. Every time I sat down to write, I was plagued by thoughts about my finances, which inspired me to find a secure corporate job. This decision always left me feeling ambivalent so I would either clean my bathroom or take a hot bath. The hot bath always led me to think about the last time I had had sex and I wondered if it would ever happen again.
Most days Lucas and I met up with Bonnie and her crew for a hike or her playgroup at the park. One afternoon Bonnie asked if I would be interested in walking some of her client dogs for her so she could take an overnight trip to Las Vegas with one of her girlfriends. The proposal came with the offer of a couple of paid training days. I wasn't sure how I felt about walking dogs or if I could handle more than my own dog but I needed a change of routine as much as I needed the money.
The very next morning Lucas and I were up before our alarm and ready for our first day of training. He knew before I did that Bonnie had rolled into the alleyway behind our apartment in her perpetually dirty SUV she affectionately called, "Stinky." Fig yapped at us from Bonnie's lap as we trotted out to the car. Lucas excitedly hopped in, kissed Fig and dances around the back of the car. A pungent elixir of dog secretions stings my nose as I slide into the passenger seat. Bonnie crinkles her nose.
"Sorry about the smell. The scary part is, in half an hour, you won't even notice."
We both laughed as she put the car into drive and we began the morning route.
We picked up just one dog, a female Golden Retriever named Chelsea from a condominium just south of Wilshire, before hitting the congestion created by the 405 freeway. By the time we made it Westwood, Chelsea is panting heavily and pokes her head up between us to get Bonnie's attention. Bonnie glances over her shoulder at the dog.
"She needs to poop. They have a newborn and probably didn't have time to take her out."
Bonnie speeds through the Wilshire Corridor where there is only concrete and nowhere to stop.
"Hang on, Chelsea."
It isn't until we turn north onto Whittier Drive where the Beverly Hills homes have sprawling green lawns that Bonnie pulls over, puts on her hazard lights and hops of out of the car with Chelsea. Lucas and Fig hop to the back of the SUV and watch Bonnie and Chelsea through the window. After a couple of minutes, Bonnie lifts the back hatch, helps a much more relaxed Chelsea up into the car and tosses a blue plastic Sunday Los Angeles Times delivery bag full of dog poop into the car. The potent odor wafts up to the front of the car.
"Don't worry, we'll get rid of that at our next stop."
By the time we travel the couple of miles to the Beverly Hills Hotel and make our way into Benedict Canyon, I already know there is no topic off limits to Bonnie. I had already heard about her first husband who was too traditional and her second husband who turned out to be gay.
"I should have known. He loved shopping at Barney's with me and was obsessed with David Schwimmer."
I couldn't help but laugh.
"I think he married me just so he could get a promotion at work. The other gay guy at the law firm where he worked was made partner, so I think he decided to try being straight."
As we turn onto one of the most prestigious uphill streets in the canyon, Bonnie explains she is on standby to housesit for a client whose brother is in hospice care. The situation is impacting her cash flow and vacation plans.
"I wish her brother would just hurry up and die."
I don't know how to respond to her outrageous statement so I avert my eyes and randomly spot Jay Leno coming toward us in a vintage roadster. Bonnie points at the late night host through her dirty windshield.
"You can set your clock by Jay. He comes down the hill in a different classic car every morning."
Finally, we pull up to a stately black iron gate with gold spires at the top. Bonnie rolls down her window and presses a button on the intercom.
"Hi, it's Bonnie."
Without any response, the gates draw open and we continue up a red brick paved driveway that is easily a quarter mile long. A Latino man in a golfcart speeding along in the opposite direction waves to Bonnie. She waves back cheerily.
"That's Salvador. He's the house manager."
I peer up through the windshield at the magnificent neo-Georgian mansion that sits atop an impeccably landscaped hillside. Bonnie looks over at me as she blows the dog hair off the lid of her metal coffee cup and takes a sip.
"Ted, my client who lives here, is a movie producer AND he owns an NFL football team. The house was just featured in Town & Country magazine. The whole family was in the photographs. Even the dogs."
We park in the elegant motor court behind his and hers matching Mercedes S-class sedans. A team of uniformed Latino gardeners sit on a low brick wall with a pair of blue-eyed, boy girl twin toddlers alongside a Latina woman who I assume is their nanny. Bonnie places a rough hand on her door handle then pauses. She drops her voice to a whisper.
"Bonzi is the nanny. She raised all of Ted's children from his first two marriages then retired. He asked her to come back when he got married again and had the twins. I don't know all of the gardener's names."
She pulls on the door handle and drops a leg out.
"Come on, I'll introduce you."
We hop out of the car and walk toward the group. The children are eating tangerines peeled for them by the one of the gardeners who stands behind the children. Another gardener crouches in front of the little boy and gently trims his fingernails with a Swiss Army Knife nail clipper. Bonzi tenderly pulls the little girl's silky blonde hair into two small clips on either side of her head then looks up from her work and smiles at us.
"Good morning, Bonnie!"
One of the gardeners offers us a pair of tangerines which we graciously accept.
"Thank you! This is my friend Brenda. She's going to walk the dogs for a couple of days while I'm out of town."
I wave at all of them.
"Muy buenos dias. Mucho gusto."
Another gardener opens the gate to a small space where the trash cans and recycling bins are kept. Before he can open it all the way, two chocolate Labradors burst out of the concrete area, panting and whining with excitement. One of the dogs is obese and the other has a severe limp but they run at us with unbridled glee. Bonnie opens the back hatch and without any instruction, the dogs hop into the car almost bulldozing over Lucas whose excitement is equally out of control.
Our next stop is a charming storybook house behind the Chateau Marmont hotel where we pick up a deaf pit bull named Suzy-Q. Suzy-Q doesn't notice us when we walk in because she is busy eating a bowl of cereal with milk at the feet of her sixtysomething owners who sit at a banquette also enjoying their morning cereal.
From here we drive across Laurel Canyon, passing the white Grecian columns at the base of Mount Olympus then wind up into the shade of Nichols Canyon. The roads are like scandent vines and at one point we are almost vertical. By the time we reach our destination, a modest contemporary house on a secluded street, I am car sick but I keep it to myself. Bonnie parallel parks across a short driveway and whispers.
"This is actress Reese Witherspoon's house. I walk her English Bulldog Frank and her chihuahua, Cheech."
Bonnie hops out her side of the car and I slowly slide out of mine, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea. Just steps away is a patio with Zone Diet delivery bags and packaging strewn all over it. Bonnie shakes her head at the debris.
"Every morning they toss the dogs out on the patio and every morning, Frank the bulldog eats their Zone breakfast."
She gently knocks on the front door then lets herself into the unlocked house. After a minute she returns with a fawn colored Chihuahua in her arms and an obviously disgruntled English Bulldog on leash. Fig yaps and Lucas barks as she tosses Cheech into the car then hefts and muscles the Frank into Stinky. On the way to our next stop, there is a scuffle in the back of the car. Bonnie looks over her shoulder accusatorily. All of the dogs freeze.
"Frank, don't be an asshole!"
Frank closes his chubby paws in around a worn tennis ball as he guiltily stares back at Bonnie.
By the time we reach the trail, the farting and the energy of the dogs has created some kind of chemical chain reaction that makes the car feel as if it is about to burst. Lucas leads the barking which is so loud my ears are ringing and I can't hear a thing. I also can't breathe because of the noxious smell in the car. Bonnie looks over the heads of the dogs who have wedged themselves between us. She shakes her head and yells.
"Are you having fun?"
The car comes to an abrupt halt as we park illegally on the street at the edge of trail that sits alongside a Mediterranean style villa that looks as if it was abandoned during construction. Bonnie hops out and flings open all of the doors on her side then lifts the back hatch. With the exception of Frank who needs a hand from Bonnie, all of the other dogs fly out in every direction. For a moment it is utter chaos until all of the dogs almost in unison, migrate toward the trail head and take care of their respective business. Bonnie hands me a wad of clear Los Angeles Times delivery bags.
"Here."
There are countless piles of poop to be collected. Some of the dogs even poop twice. Holden, the obese Chocolate lab produces something that makes me wince. I warily approach to clean up after him not entirely trusting the thin repurposed plastic bag will protect my hand from his mess on the ground.
Time is of the essence as we collect the poop because the dogs have meandered to a downhill fire road that leads to a large rock formation. Fig is the only one who lingers nearby waiting for Bonnie. Lucas and the Labradors are hundreds of yards away. Chelsea and Daisy, a sweet blonde Labrador who was our last pick up, run up and back alongside the fire road, beaming. Cheech sticks close to her bulldog brother at the rear behind Suzy-Q who waddles like a duck.
Jogging along to catch up with Lucas and the chocolate Labradors I wonder how I will do this on my own? How will I keep track of the dogs by myself? I am only training to do the small morning group and a handful of dogs in the afternoon but right now it seems untenable.
Off in the distance, I can see downtown Los Angeles and Catalina Island. When we finally reach the thirty foot rock formation about half a mile away, Bonnie stands at the base of the black bulging rock face as if she were a ticket taker at an amusement park. One by one, she helps each dog step onto the narrow path as if it were a thrill ride. The dogs are all still full of energy as we make our way across the ridge and down the slope on the other side. Once we are back down on the trail, we all take a seat on the sandy dirt. The dogs chew on sticks, chase one another through puddles and explore the nearby brush. Whatever they choose to do, they are all wagging their tails. They are so happy. Their joy is infectious. I can't stop smiling as I watch all of them.
The training is taxing mentally and physically. There are so many details to remember. Besides the addresses of the houses and the most efficient route from one house to the next, there are also details about each home and each dog at drop off. There is a procedure for everything. Some dogs get treats and others get medication. There is mail to bring in, specific lights to turn on and alarms to set when I leave.
I am exhausted from the two days of training but in the best possible way. It feels good to have earned some money and splitting a sandwich and a bag of chips with Bonnie at a bakery near the dog park was fun. I have learned that having someone to have lunch with is not to be taken for granted.
Lucas and I are so tired from the training that we oversleep on our first day off and miss the early shift at the dog park. Without giving it any thought, we stop by the park during the second shift. Miriam and Schorsch are standing along the third base line of the infield when I arrive. Lucas runs up to Miriam's Golden Retriever, Sammy and does a play bow. Brenda and her dogs off in right field area strolling around with her friend Mia. Miriam bounds over to me in her energetic way.
"Where have you been young lady?!
"I've been training to walk dogs."
Miriam grins at me.
"Walking dogs?! Soon you'll be cleaning houses."
Her words sting. In the short time I have known Miriam, I have been a good friend to her. I brought Sammy to the dog park one morning when Miriam had a doctor's appointment. Another day, I had taken her roller blading when she had expressed interest in trying it.
Schorsch makes eye contact with me and grimaces.
"Ooh, wow, walking dogs."
It is no surprise he jumps in to highlight that he feels I've been reduced to circumstances. For the few months that I've known him, Schorsch has never missed an opportunity to make sarcastic and belittling comments to me in front of others. Fortunately, his attention doesn't stay on me long this morning. His radar has gone off. He peers over my shoulder. I don't have to turn around to know that Brooke and her boyfriend have arrived.
Schorsch can barely stand still, his body is almost in spasm as he tries to get Brooke and Jake's attention. Lucas breaks into an excited play bow and darts back and forth between Brenda's two dogs as they stride over from the outfield where they had been. Lucas finally rolls over onto on his back for Benny, the Golden Retriever mix, who is always a bit on the grumpy side. Brenda waves to me.
"Hi Bren."
I am not thrilled to see her but I still engage in what has become our comedic greeting routine. I wave back and mimic her exact tone.
"Hi Bren."
She quickly turns her attention to Brooke and Jake who have stepped onto the infield with their American Bulldog.
Brenda is hopeful of getting Brooke to become the face of her jewelry making charity. Even though she is very friendly with Brooke, she is hesitant to ask and has tasked Anderson with feeling out the situation for her.
Schorsch jogs away to greet Brooke and Jake near the pitcher's mound on the infield. I can't help but laugh with disdain as he animatedly greets them.
"Jesus. Schorsch looks as if he's about to pee his pants every time Brooke shows up."
Out of the corner of my eye I see Brenda's big brown eyes go wide and her jaw drop but in that moment I don't care.
Even though I had seen the look of judgment on Brenda's face, I was still surprised by her phone call late the next morning. It started as a friendly chat then quickly shifted into what felt like a workplace disciplinary hearing. Her tone and choice of words are clinical as she offers me "feedback, on your caustic behavior towards Schorsch." She encourages me to seek feedback from other friends on what she refers to as my character defects.
When the call finally ends, I am gutted. I tearfully called Anderson as soon as I hang up with Brenda but Anderson is not her usual self. There is no comedic Ralph Kramden style greeting and as I recount my conversation with Brenda, she is tense and her words are terse. Just when I thought I was being paranoid, Anderson nervously launches into what sounds like a prepared speech outlining what she feels were my character defects. First on her list is my habit of sharing examples from my own life when she expresses frustrations she is feeling. Anderson continues on but the shock of the ambush reduces her words into sounds that I can't make sense of.
This conversation with Anderson is far more devastating than my conversation with Brenda. All this time I had considered Anderson a sister. We had shared intimate details about our feelings and our family dynamics. I had listened thoughtfully to her frustrations about her husband and supported her as she took steps toward rebuilding her relationship with her estranged father and her brother for the sake of her daughter.
I had never shared the details of these conversations with anyone. I was the only one who didn't gossip about her marriage or make jokes about her husband when he was recently laid off from his high-profile job as CEO of a tech start up. I had been naïve to think Anderson and Rob were the only ones being gossiped about. I had no idea what I was going to say when the ringing in my ears finally stopped.
"Anderson, have you ever heard of the expression kicking a person when they're down?"
She had no response to this.
I suddenly wondered if Cara had been part of these conversations since it was her husband who was at the center of the drama. I considered calling her but thought better of it. I felt the urge to talk to someone. There were a few other girlfriends I thought of calling but I was embarrassed that at my age, I was involved in what seemed like a teenage melodrama at the dog park.
Maybe it was because I was fresh off daily contact with Bonnie and she had proven immune to embarrassment that I found myself dialing her. I could hear the dogs panting in the background when she answered and could picture exactly what each one of them was doing. She didn't have much to say but suggested Lucas and I meet her at the park later for a walk.
Lucas was blissfully oblivious to everything that had just happened. For him, it was just another trip to the park to see his friends. He was particularly fond of Ed and George, the Basenjis. As we circled the field, Bonnie deftly cleaned up after her clients with the city issue pooper scooper as I rambled on. My confessional was occasionally interrupted by Bonnie yelling at one of the dogs for running off in the wrong direction or for trying to hump another dog.
When the pooper scooper was finally too heavy for her to carry, we stopped at a metal trash can so she could dump the unsightly load. As she banged the handle to get the last of the poop out of the scooper, I waited for her assessment the situation. She was surprisingly spare in her words.
"I've never liked groups of girls."
As we continued strolling around, I looked up and noticed the beautiful blue sky. It made me sigh. Bonnie looked over at me.
"Don't you feel better now that you're outside?"
Somehow the simple act of getting outside had made me feel better. After our walk with Bonnie, Lucas and I ran some errands then returned home to a voicemail on my landline from Anderson asking me to call her. When I finally called her back a couple of hours later, she tearfully apologized. I accepted her apology with a hard heart, knowing I would be taking a step back from her and the group. With the exception of Cara and Erin, I don't feel like I have anything in common with any of them anymore and I don't want the reality show style drama in my life.
A few mornings later, Bonnie calls me just before 7am. She sounds congested and her words are halting. Earlier that morning she had received a phone call from her stepfather back home in Kenosha, Wisconsin delivering the news about her fifty-two-year old brother. He had gone to work then left his office shortly after arriving because he wasn't feeling well. He had arrived home and almost immediately, suffered a devastating heart attack. His wife had called 911 and performed CPR.
Bonnie is waiting for an update from her stepfather and needs help with her morning dogs. Bonnie only lives a few blocks away so Lucas and I jump into our Honda Sedan and make the short drive to her condominium. She is still in her flannel pajamas when she steps off the elevator into the dim parking garage carrying Fig, who is uncharacteristically quiet.
The tires of my car screech as I make a sharp left turn into the guest parking space. Even from a distance I can see that her eyes are swollen and bloodshot from crying. She shakes her head at me as I step out of my car and unload Lucas.
"He didn't make it."
Words escape me as we ride up in the pale yellow elevator with her and Fig. In her condo, Bonnie packs while I get on the phone with the airline to see about getting her a bereavement fare. When she is done packing, she sits down next to me and starts handwriting a list of dogs she will need walked while she is gone. Her friend Kay is walking the bulk of the afternoon dogs but will still need help. The plastic key tags, Bonnie has placed on every key scrape against the kitchen counter as she slides the keys into a gallon size Ziploc bag. She also gives me the password to her work voicemail along with instructions of when to check it.
It isn't the right time to remind her that I only trained to walk her morning group. I also don't have the words to tell her I don't think I can handle walking a dozen dogs in the afternoon. Before I know it, I am behind the wheel of Stinky pulling out of her garage. Unlike Lucas who enthusiastically hops around the empty car, I feel disoriented. I feel like I am dreaming as I push down on Stinky's heavy accelerator and head south to ward Wilshire Boulevard to make our first dog walking pick-up.