dogs that fuck for money

  A customer came in today to wash his dog. He was letting his golder retriever soak in the shampoo so he came over and sat next to me in a chair behing the counter. He looked at my crotch before he looked at my face and then started asking me about myself. He told me he was 72. He had sad blue eyes but would never look directly at my face. It was awkward and quiet so I turned on the music  again and watched him wash his dog.

The shop is lonely but I keep busy. I strung christmas lights along the shelves and leash displays today and pulled out bloxes of reindeer lined christmas collars and those annoying velvet scarfs with bells hanging off them. It reminded me of back in California when I worked at a dusty Hallmark that no one ever came into. Using spray disinfectant on stuff that’s already clean and stealing figurine pill boxes. Those were the days.

I like my new job. No bosses. In control. I can print out signs and run specials and charge whatever I want for a sanitary or a feather trim. I can text on my phone or surf the internet or do cartwheels between the tubs or masturbate in the back room. But I don’t really do any of that. I use Windex and clean the plexiglass that hangs over each tub and I refill the shampoo bottles and I talk to the customers about how they just flew out their new english  bulldog from montana.

I’m sick of the doggie business. I don’t care about dogs anymore. I don’t want to save them or wash them or give a fuck when they fall off my table, tumble on the floor, and nearly break their neck. But I do because I’m lame like one of those girls that has no passion about anything except she’s a PETA member and tries not to eat meat.

It’s overcast today and I’m looking at the back patio of a Mexican restaurant that probably has a really good happy hour right now. 2 dollar domestic drafts or 3 dollar domestic pints. 3 dollar you call its. 

On the right side of the shop there is a fitness center specializing in personal training and weight lifting. On the left side there is a tanning salon. Pulling into the three parking spaces near my door it is one of three people: a buff man whose muscles are about to consume his shoulders and possibly his neck, a swanky north scottsdale bitch with big tits, stringy blonde hair, and a fake tan in December, or someone coming here: either of those two only with a dog in hand. The women will have a pocket size yorkie someone who uses her dog as an accessorie and only cost slightly less than the bag she carries it in. The man will have a lab or a retriever; a dog he can wrestle with but is starved for attention because he spends all his time at the north scottsdale bars trying to pick up on girls who only own yorkies. or chihuahuas depending on the season. 

I’m a big believer in karma. not. 

day two of my diet is bringing about two things: 

1. starvation

2. weight loss due to starvation

Sometimes I hear a grunt from the men in the fitness center next door

grrrrrrrrrrrrahhhhhhhh!

It is slightly less annoying than the growl of the shepherd that pees on my christmas display stand.