by Sandra Cunha
I know, we’ll go to Yorkville and check up on my mom’s bag. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since I last laid eyes on it. The vintage shop is practically around the corner from here. Having the dogs with me will make it seem as though I live in the neighbourhood. It’s not as if someone would purposefully bring their dogs to Yorkville to show them off. (Maybe they would.)
It’s a shame the dogs aren’t wearing any clothes. That will affect my credibility a bit. I’m glad I wore my red heels; I wouldn’t want people thinking I was hired to walk these dogs. Big faux pas.
We walk south on Yonge Street, passing a small park along the way, so technically, I took them to the park. As we approach Yorkville, I decide I’ll do my usual loop to show-off my new friends before dropping in at the vintage shop. That should be enough exercise for these small guys.
I walk by a café where a couple stops me. They’re not your typical Yorkville couple (they’re wearing Crocs), so I’m hesitant to stop. They ask a bunch of questions about the pug. I make some stuff up, but how am I supposed to know who the breeder was or what kind of diet he’s on. They already looked at me funny when I said he was eighty-years-old. I don’t know why because he does look old with all of those forehead wrinkles.
I manage to get away, then take the dogs by Sassafraz, where the elite go to eat.
A woman dining in the outdoor patio literally gasps when she sees my brood. She gets up from her chair and runs over to us, dropping the white cloth napkin from her lap in the process.
“Oh, my—aren’t they darling! Look at that pug! Honey, do you see this cute, little pug?” she asks her husband, who is digging into a piece of steak and oblivious to the fact his wife has left the table.
She turns her attention back to me. “We had a pug.” Her eyes tear up. “He passed last year. We were fortunate: he made it to seventeen. Most pugs don’t make it that long.” (Oops.)
After I give her my sympathies, I tell her about my goldfish that died when I was eight. And how my sister and I debated for days whether to have a proper burial or flush it down the toilet. We took so long to decide that our mom threw it in the garbage.
She makes a horrified face as I tell her this and backs away, saying something about her food getting cold.
I smile and walk on. I have bigger fish to fry.
I have to admit: the pug is really popular. Maybe I should get one. I’m considering ditching the other two; they’re weighing us down. I’d get more mileage with just the pug.
But then, a big fish does appear: a tall, dark, and handsome one. He gives me a sly look and bends down to pet, of course, the pug. He’s about to make contact when the pug squats and takes a dump. On my shoe.
This is beyond embarrassing. The guy laughs and walks off. (Jerk.)
I’m in Yorkville with poo on my shoe.
Mortifying . . . and gross.
I immediately go into emergency response mode. I grab one of the dog baggies and try to get as much of the crap off my shoe as possible. I don’t have any water on me, but I doubt the fake-suede could handle it. So I search in my purse for a wet wipe and get rid of most of the remaining traces. My new ankle bootie may never be the same again, but at least it doesn’t look as though there’s poo on my shoe anymore.
Having put everything in the nearest garbage bin, I apply a few generous rounds of hand sanitizer. I can’t help hearing snickers from some passersby who witnessed the event. But my new motto is: if I don’t look at them, they don’t exist.
I’m just about done with this dog walking business when I remember my original purpose. I cut the walk short and head straight for the vintage shop; practically dragging the mutts behind me.
Trying to think positive thoughts, I visualize myself months from now, wearing my Chanel bag, on this same street. Everyone will gaze upon me with admiration and stop to ask about my bag, not some pug that can’t control his bowels. This is merely a necessary step to get me to that place. I have to remember that.
As the shop comes into view, I look towards the window display to draw strength from my lovely bag, except . . . it’s not there.
My mom’s bag is missing!
Don’t panic, Erin! Don’t panic!
They may have moved the bag inside the shop. Yes, that’s the most likely scenario. I tie the dogs’ leashes to the nearest bike post and sprint towards the shop door. Once inside, I look around frantically.
I can’t see it! I can’t see it!
“Is there something I can help you with?” (I recognize that voice.) “Oh, it’s you.” Apparently, the mean salesgirl recognizes me, too.
“There was a vintage Chanel 2.55 bag in your window display yesterday. I was, um, wondering where it is?” I say, trying to play it cool, but I’m totally hyperventilating at this point.
“Hmm, we sold it.”
“You. Sold. My. Chanel. Bag?”
“Yes, an hour ago,” she says, beaming.
Evil, stuck-up bitch. I want to punch her in her hot-pink lipstick mouth. But I’m too angry, and I don’t know if I’d be able to stop if I did. I actually want to cry . . . because of a bag.
As I go to leave the shop, with my head hanging low, a voice coming from behind me asks, “Excuse me, miss? Did you say you were looking for the Chanel 2.55 bag?”
I give a slight nod without turning around.
“We sent it out for repairs. Nothing major, the clasp needed some tweaking. We should have it back in a couple of weeks.”
I quickly turn around. Standing there is an angel, a Betty-White-lookalike angel. Before I can help myself, I give her a hug.
“Thank you,” I whisper in her ear.
When I release her, she smiles and winks at me.
The mean salesgirl scowls and says, “I thought she said the vintage Chloé.” (Yeah, right.)
Disaster averted, I can safely leave the shop. Everything is right in the world again.
I untie the dogs. They seem wound up; probably thought they’d been abandoned. I should be nicer to them. It’s not their fault they got stuck with the one person who doesn’t love dogs.
“C’mon, Huey, Dewey, and Louie—let’s go get you a treat!” I say to win them over.
The chihuahua and pug look up at me anxiously.
Where’s the terrier, um, Louie? I double-check the bike post, but he’s not there.
Oh, my God. I lost her favourite.
CHAPTER FOUR
Project Coco Fund = $0.00
THINK, ERIN! THINK!
If you were a dog, without a dime on you, where would you go? Where would you go?
I start running around Yorkville, asking people if they’ve seen a terrier. Most show concern and offer to help, but a few look at me as if I’m some kind of unfit mother. I am an unfit mother. I can’t even take care of three little dogs.
Louie must be so scared, wandering around lost in this big, busy city. What if he gets attacked by another dog or dog-napped? Without the fancy dog clothes, the dog-nappers might not think he’s worth much, but what if they figure out he’s purebred and lives in McMansionville?
I check the time. It’s almost three. I have an hour to find Louie and get the dogs back before my cover is blown.
Why did I agree to this? There had to be an easier way to make some money.
Oh, no—Betty!
She’s going to hate me! But she should’ve known this was a bad idea. I hope she doesn’t get fired because of this. Greta is fairly high-up at the accounting firm.
I sit down on a bench and try to think logically.
What are the facts? One hyperactive dog went missing at approximately 14:45 hours. He has short legs, so he couldn’t have gotten outside the city limits in less than a fifteen-minute period. Search area can be confined to the City of Toronto (unless dog-napped, then he could be anywhere).
Other known facts: enjoys chasing tail and wading in doggie pools.
Enjoys wading in doggie pools . . . maybe he went to the dog park? Is that possible? Could he know
how to get there on his own?
There’s still time to make it to the dog park and back before I have to face the music. It’s worth a shot. I’ll do it for Betty, and for Louie, and for all dogs everywhere! As if on cue, Huey and Dewey both bark at that exact moment.
I get up from the bench and decide we’ll have to take the subway to save time. I’ve seen dogs on the subway, so I know they’re allowed. They don’t even need a token.
As the train pulls into the station, the chihuahua’s legs begin to shake. Poor thing, I bet he’s never ridden the subway before. He probably travels exclusively by hired car. He’s totally slumming it today.
Feeling a new sense of motherly-love, I pick up the two dogs and cradle them in my arms.
While on the train, the pug gets all the attention again. I feel bad for the chihuahua now that he’s the only one being ignored. I gently pat his head and tell him he’s a good boy.
When the train arrives at our stop, I get up and make my way towards the subway doors while still holding both of the dogs. As I do, I hear some muffled chuckles.
What’s so funny? Why is everyone looking at me?
I glance down and see what they’re laughing at. The chihuahua has determined this to be the perfect time to pee on my favourite jeans. Not only have I been peed on, but it looks as though I peed my pants.
Ugh. These dogs need some serious potty-training. But I don’t have time to worry about that now. I’ll deal with all of this one day in therapy. I have to find Louie!
I make my way to the park, using the map Greta gave me. My feet are killing me. Why, oh why, did I wear three-inch heels? Heels that haven’t been broken-in properly. Cheap heels that defy the laws of physics. I hobble the remaining way to the park.
The park is huge, and, of course, the wading pool is on the opposite end. I take off my heels and start running. I have to: I’m losing precious time. Whatever infectious disease I get will be treated later. It’s the price paid for vanity.
As I get closer to the wading pool, I see dogs everywhere: big dogs, little dogs, skinny dogs, fat dogs. And I can’t help thinking how much dogs are like people.
I spot a terrier, but he’s wearing a plaid kerchief around his neck, so unless Louie stole it, that’s not him. Maybe Greta wouldn’t notice. Or maybe I could buy her a new dog. Where does one buy a terrier?
I’m about to ask someone when I see another terrier, splashing in the wading pool, with a green-coloured leash trailing behind him.
LOUIE!
Thank you, God! Thank you, God!
Dropping my ankle booties, I run to the wading pool, holding on tightly to the other two dogs. I don’t want to lose one of them now that I’ve found Louie.
“Louie! LOUIE! Get over here!”
Louie looks over at me, and I swear he gives me a mischievous smile as he paddles to the center of the pool.
Damn dog. He’s not going to make this easy. But I’m calling his bluff; I’ve suffered enough for one day.
As I make my way into the pool, I hear a man shout, “Hey, lady! Dogs only! No humans allowed!”
I ignore him.
When I get to Louie, I try to grab his leash while still holding onto the other two dogs. But they're excited and think we’re playing a game. I lose hold of Dewey, who paddles over to Louie. It’s as if they haven’t seen each other in years the way they’re carrying on. Huey is wiggling in my arms like crazy, so I let him go.
I give up!
I walk out of the wading pool and head to a grassy area. On a positive note, it no longer looks as though I peed my pants because my jeans are now completely soaked. I lie on the grass to enjoy the warm afternoon sun and to dry out my pants.
Just as I’m beginning to nod off, I’m awoken by Louie, licking my hand. Soon, Huey and Dewey join him. (They must have mixed up the names in the Swedish version of DuckTales; Louie definitely should’ve been named Huey.)
“You little rascals!” I say, tickling their bellies. “Let’s go home!”
I quickly grab their leashes before they take this as a command and dash off again.
We make it back to Greta’s castle with a minute to spare.
“My babies! My babies!” she says as they jump all over her. “Thank you for bringing them back in one piece. I hope they were not too much trouble.” Greta smiles and hands me an envelope with my earnings.
“No trouble at all,” I say, smiling back.
“Well, then, if you are not busy two weeks from today, our regular dog walker is out of—”
“Sorry, I can’t. I have plans,” I say before she can finish. (I don’t have plans.)
I wave goodbye to the little guys as Greta closes the gigantic door.
Those were the two longest hours of my life. I open the envelope and count six, twenty-dollar bills.
But was it worth it?
I got pooped and peed on; one-half of my new ankle booties are damaged; I have a potential infectious disease from running barefoot in the park; I almost lost Betty her job (which she won’t ever find out about); and I’m convinced I suffered a minor heart attack from all of the day’s excitement.
So no. Although, conquering my fear of chihuahuas was a nice bonus. At least, it’s over, and I made some money to put towards Project Coco.
As I’m walking back across the impossible terrain of the circular driveway, I smell something bad.
It’s me. I smell like a wet dog.
Definitely not worth it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Project Coco Fund = $120.00
THIS TIME, I knew I was dreaming.
Well, maybe not at first.
I was sitting at my cubicle—work dreams are usually the worst—reading one of my favourite blogs, when all of a sudden, I felt a drop of water on my cheek.
Except, it wasn’t water. It was a cold, silver dime. All I could think was Carol had lost it and was throwing her loose change at me.
When another dime hit my hand, I stood up and looked over my cubicle wall towards her desk, but she was nowhere to be seen.
The dimes soon turned into paper bills: five-dollar bills, then tens, twenties, fifties . . . until a small hill of hundreds was forming.
It was raining money!
Money was coming out of the filing cabinets, the phone, the computer, even the garbage can.
It was everywhere!
I started laughing and dancing around because I finally realized I was dreaming, and I knew it was some sort of a sign: a sign from above.
So I began stuffing as much of the money as I could into my shirt and pants.
The best thing about the dream was the overwhelming feeling I had that everything would work out. I would be okay.
But suddenly, instead of raining money, it was raining for real.
That’s when I saw her.
Carol was standing in the entryway of my cubicle with a look of pure contempt on her face. She said something, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying because everything had gone mute. I could see only her lips moving.
I glanced down, and all the money had vanished.
And then, I could hear again.
What I heard was Carol laughing; a twisted, evil laugh.
I know what I have to do now. What I’m meant to do.
I have to start a business . . . from my cubicle.
It makes perfect sense. There’s no way I can earn enough money to buy my mom’s bag in my spare time. I have to make money during working hours, too.
And why shouldn’t I start a business from my current job? It’s not as if they appreciate me or pay me that much. I’ve worked there for almost five years, and I’ve never been promoted. Sure, I haven’t done anything to deserve a promotion, but I haven’t been given the chance to, either.
So maybe there’s a slight ethical issue. But aren’t these the same people, the same company that has squandered my innermost potential by giving me menial, mind-numbing tasks, day-after-day, for years?
Exactly.
&nb
sp; I’m finally taking initiative. Misdirected, perhaps, but initiative nonetheless.
Ethics aside, there’s just one, small, teeny, tiny problem: I have no idea what sort of business to start.
Think, Erin! Think! What are you good at? What are your skills? Strengths?
I clearly love brainstorming in the third person. (I can’t help it. It makes me feel as though I’m not doing it on my own.)
Hmm . . . people are always telling me I have pretty handwriting. Maybe I could do calligraphy and create fancy invitations and certificates, or whatever people need calligraphy for these days.
I Google it.
Dammit. Apparently, it takes years to become an expert. I don’t have years.
What else? I like to doodle during meetings. I could start a greeting card business . . . but that seems as if it would take a long time to get up and running, too. I need something that is low cost with immediate cash flow.
I conduct another Google search, clicking on a link to a site with a list of small business ideas. I scan the page: Freelance Writer. If only I could write. Gift Basket Assembly. Too suspicious to do at work. Wedding Photographer. All my photos are blurry. Dog Walker. Yeah, right, maybe if people needed walking.
Wait a minute. People may not need walking, but they do need help with other things.
Glancing further down the page, I see it: Personal Errand Service.
An errand service sounds perfect for me. It’ll get me away from my desk every now and again—I’ve already mastered the art of the extra-long lunch break, and I’m a pro at setting-up fake meetings. I can run errands during those times, instead. And it’s practically no cost. I can post ads on Craigslist and Kijiji; maybe print some business cards.
All I need is a catchy business name: Erin Bettencourt Personal Errand Services. Yawn, boring. Erin Bettencourt for Hire. Sounds illegal. Girl Friday. Very cool, so it’s probably already taken. Errands by Erin. Better. Errand Girl. Errand sounds a lot like Erin.
