The Greatest of Ease

I had no trouble climbing the skinny metal ladder up to the platform. I had no trouble standing on the suspended platform. And I had no trouble holding onto the fly bar with my right hand. But when the trapeze instructor told me to reach out for the bar with my other hand, I panicked. The two ropes connected to the fly bar were so taut that holding it with more than just my right hand meant that I would be leaning so far out as to be nearly horizontal to the ground thirty feet below.

I glanced down at my twin nine year old daughters, fidgeting on the ground, watching and waiting to see if their mother would actually go through with it. Their father stood on the other side of the trapeze rig getting the whole thing on film. I swallowed hard and reached for the can of will power I've always relied on.

The can was empty.

When did I turn into such a pile of quivering jelly?

I used to be intrepid; fearless and persistent in the pursuit of whatever I was after. In 1984, when I was a sophomore in college, I designed my own year abroad and flew off to Sydney University on my twentieth birthday. None of my friends even knew where Australia was. This was before Crocodile Dundee and "putting another shrimp on the barbie". I got ripped off by the taxicab driver right after stepping off the plane, but I didn't care. I was on an adventure.

After graduating from college in 1986, I followed my dream of working in the movies and moved to Hollywood. I got a lowest-of-the-low job as an office production assistant on the movie, Nightmare on Elm Street 4. I worked upwards of twelve hours a day for two hundred and fifty dollars a week. It was boring grunt work--making copies, picking up items, getting lunch for everyone. I longed to be where the action was--on the set. Then one day, the producers suddenly needed to get a truck full of camera equipment to the set.

"Can you drive a truck?" someone asked.

"Absolutely," I lied.

Cut to me on the Hollywood Freeway. I couldn't get the truck out of second gear, people were honking. I sweated out more sweat in that ten minutes truck ride in L.A. than I did the entire rest of the year. But I did it. I got to the set and talked my way into staying at the center of the action.

When I wanted to work with animals, I moved to Northern California to work for Guide Dogs for the Blind. When promoted to Apprentice Trainer, I lived blindfolded 24/7 for ten days so that I could begin to understand what it was like to be visually impaired. I took the blindfold off only in a windowless bathroom with the lights off and only then so that I could take a shower. After the first couple days, I began to have wild, colorful hallucinations but I stuck with it and became a better dog trainer for it.

I used to have moxie. When I got scared, I just powered my way through it. Nothing got in my way. But there I stood on the platform, too scared to move. It felt like the flybar wanted to rip me off the platform. My brain was confident that it was safe--I had a safety belt attached to two ropes and there was a net below--but my body was convinced I would die if I left that platform. I backed away. I clung to the platform guide wire with both hands. I babbled. Worse, I babbled in an unaturally high voice--Mickey mouse on helium. I said I couldn't do it. I was disappointed to be so transparently afraid. I wanted to feel less exposed. I had pictured myself swinging out in the air, people marveling at what a natural I was, my children, impressed.

The whole trapeze thing was my idea. My friend, Lizette, had been "flying" for years and she told me about a guy who had a trapeze rig on an idyllic ranch a few towns over in Sonoma, California. For the last six years, my husband and I had spent every weekend chained to a never-ending list of things to do on our fixer-upper house. It was time we had fun on the weekends. I thought trapeze lessons would make a great little family adventure.

Instead, it felt as if I had chosen a beautiful place to die; a remote ranch at the end of a winding path complete with a babbling brook and beautiful oak trees. It was a pitch-perfect autumn Saturday afternoon in Northern California. The sky was a gorgeous cerulean--not a cloud in sight, the kids wore shorts, and anything was possible.

Marek Kazsuba, a gregarious Canadian, met us at the rig. He wore a black shirt pulled tight over muscular arms and black warm-up pants. He and his wife were expecting their first child any day but that hadn't stopped him from scheduling a weekend teaching flying.

The first thing we did was sign waivers. I tried not to read the fine print as I signed away not only my own life but the kids', as well. My husband's shoulder was bothering him and he couldn't participate. I think he was relieved to have an excuse, though Marek badgered him for the next two hours, telling him that the trapeze might actually be good for his shoulder.

The small print on the waiver said to write the date in the European style. This allowed Marek to segue into a lecture on how we needed to be in the moment, let go, and trust in the instructors' directions. My blood ran cold. This is not my skill set. I am self-directed, tight, I have lots of voices in my own head. Letting go is not my forte.

My goose was cooked. But what could I do? Grab my family by the hands and run for it? Is this what Mike and I taught our children? I thought of the time at the roller skating rink when my daughter Lily participated in a kid's race around the rink. The prize was a free soda. The race started, she took three strides, saw she was not winning and collapsed into a heap of tears. We told her, in this family, we finish what we start. "We don't expect you to win--if you do that's wonderful--but we expect you to finish the race."

It's too late to back out, I thought. Practice what you preach.

After signing the waivers, we practiced our moves on a trapeze bar suspended eight feet off the ground over a thick blue mat. Against all odds and Earth's gravitational pull, I swung my legs up, threaded them through my arms, and hung from my knees with Marek's help. I felt humiliated--like a walrus on dry land, all dead weight, awkwardness and blubber. I hadn't hung from my knees since I was ten years old.

It's too late to back out, I chanted. My new mantra. It's too late to back out. It's too late to back out.

I asked the kids if they wanted me to go first and they said yes. I thought they would want to go first. There I stood on the platform next to Marek, telling him that I just couldn't do it. I might have told him several times. Maybe ten or twenty.

"It's a one-way ladder only--nobody is allowed to climb back down," said Marek softly. Oh god, I'm being handled, I thought. They lower you down into the net if you can't make yourself step off the platform.

Hello, Body? This is your brain, speaking. My children are here. I am trying to show them that one must confront their inner demons. If you continue with this frozen-in-fear routine, I am going to have to fall back on the very lame parental advice of "Do as I say, not as I do." You don't want that do you?

Marek, was still standing there holding the flybar for me. This was it. I reached out with my right hand and grabbed the bar. Then I pried my left hand off the guide wire I was clinging to. "Hep!" said Marek. This is trapeze-speak for "Go!" I jumped off the platform. I was instructed to jump straight up instead of out and away but it was no use. Self-preservation--what little I had left--made me want to avoid hitting the platform as I plummeted down to earth so I jumped straight out. This had the effect of putting several beats of slack in the trapeze ropes which my shoulder muscles had to pay for as the ropes straightened out.

As soon as I was off the platform and swinging, I was fine. I swung back and forth, hanging by my arms. Down below, the other instructor, Darryl, called out friendly instructions for swinging my legs up and swinging from my knees. Not interested, thank you. I am quite content to hang by my arms. Nice of you to think of me, though.

I didn't feel pure joy and delight, the way some people do, but I felt like this was a do-able thing--I could get through it. The kids each took a turn. They were terrified, too. "Fear is a sign of intelligence, "Marek said. I flew three more times, concentrating on my dismount into the net and ignoring Darryl's suggestions on how I could get to the next step. Lily was as scared as I was and ignored Darryl's advice, too. Hanna, an expert on the monkey bars at school, got over her fear and swung by the knees. She almost made two "catches"--grabbing hold of Marek's hands as he swung from another trapeze.

I didn't realize until I stood on that platform that fear has crept up on me with age; with age, assorted surgeries, childbirth, parenting, and a hundred and one things to worry about. I can no longer just power through things. My body and brain have to reach an agreement about what is acceptable and what is not. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe now I am the complete package.

On Death...

**This is a work in progress**

When I die, don't go cheap on me.

Don't worry. I don't even want a casket. They sell them at some Costco locations. They are there by the food counter, nestled in among the kiosks selling carpeting, chandeliers, and cheap travel tickets. People must figure that since they can save on paper cups, they can probably save on a coffin. Who buys a coffin at Costco? Do they nip out the day dear old Ma dies and order the Lady of Guadalupe Casket made out of 18 Gauge Steel with expedited shipping (they definitely want the expedited shipping for obvious reasons) for $1,299.99? Do they know that the coffin comes with all sorts of labels which mention that being buried in a box made out of steel doesn't mean the whole thing won't eventually become part of the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust? The disclaimer reads, "THERE IS NO SCIENTIFIC OR OTHER EVIDENCE THAT ANY CASKET WITH A SEALING DEVICE WILL PRESERVE HUMAN REMAINS"

Nah, you go ahead and cremate me. I don't even want an urn; just let me swim with the dolphins, for real, no tourist attraction where they say "time to get out of the pool so the next group can have their turn". No, I'm with the dolphins forever.

Back at our house, the dog is dying and has to be put down. We've told the kids that it's our responsibility to make sure she doesn't suffer. We had four black dogs, all the same age. They have slowly gone to doggy Heaven. All three had to be put down in their old age but this one, Weasel, lived the longest. We had to dig four holes. My husband dug four holes as they all met their maker. Hud. Bear. Foxy. And now Weasel.

The kids understood. But not really. They understood that she was going to die but we shielded them from the reality of it, the physicalness of it. We waited till they went to stay with their grandparents and then we dug the hole. What am I saying? I watched through the window as my husband dug the hole. How horrible to dig the hole while the future inhabitant is still alive. Thank god she was too old and decrepit to make it to the back of the property to see what he was doing.

We took Weasel to the vet to be put to sleep with an overdose of anesthesia. I tried to be strong for Mike. She was his dog, his line to the past. She pre-dated out fourteen year relationship. She pre-dated me, pre-dated marriage, kidsour life together. I hate to see my husband cry. I hate to cry. But this racking sob came up in me in front of the vet and the silent vet tech just as the dog's heart stopped as if I was struck by the change in electricity in the room. I thought of that movie "21 Grams" in which they said that the human body weighs twenty-one grams less after death, suggesting the soul has a physical presence. Twenty-one grams is the weight of five nickels. After that movie, I put five nickels on my bureau and I sometimes pick them up and hold their weight in my hand.

And I made my husband cry by sobbing like that in the vet's office. Weasel was a good dog. She saw my husband through. Criss-crossed the country with him in a U-Haul.

We took Weasel's body home in the back of our red pick-up, a white sheet covering her. We lowered her into the three foot hole. It seemed very deep to me, I don't know how people dig all the way down to six feet. Six Feet Under, like the TV show. It's hard work. Mike remembered the terrible sound the dirt made hitting the first animal he ever buried--a cat--so he told me to carefully and softly add the first layer of dirt. No coffin, just a sheet so we didn't want to hear the heavy clods hitting her ribs.

I visited a funeral home in Sebastopol the day we buried the dog. It was pure happenstance that I visited that day. My writing class gave me an assignment to go somewhere I wouldn't normally go. A woman I knew from my kid's school was married to a mortician. So I called him up and made an appointment to visit. What do I know about funeral homes? The same day Mike's father went into the hospital. They say he won't leave there alive. I don't know if I'll ever see him again. You can't dig the hole before he dies. It's hard to even ask him what his funereal wishes are.

The funeral home in Sebastopol had a coffin selection room. I don't get it. What difference does it make? Who cares if the coffin has an ice-blue crepe lining, an embroidered Lady of Guadalupe head panel and gold-colored stationary handles with Lady of Guadalupe appliqus?

I saw the two giant furnaces where they cremate the bodies. It takes a couple of hours and then an hour or two to cool. Then an attendant sweeps the remains onto a metal tray. Being a neatnik, I wondered if they ever missed some by accident. They take the remains and put them into a large, metal Cuisanart-looking thing that they privately call "the Margarita-izer". This pulverizes the remains because people have a misconception that the remains are "ashes"--a term a mortician never uses. Morticians use the term "cremains". People aren't expecting Uncle Harry to be in recognizable pieces when they hire a boat to take them out to spread his cremains on Lake Tahoe. So the "the Margarita-izer" makes the pieces smaller but it's still not the ash people think it is.

Did you know that after you purchase a coffin, you have to purchase a coffin-sized vault to put the coffin in? This is to keep the ground from caving in over the grave site. If you look at old cemeteries, you'll see that the ground is wavy and uneven for this very reason. Now they've taken care of that problem and passed the cost on to you.

It costs approximately ten thousand dollars for the coffin and vault and headstone and cemetery plot; more, if you get fancy, want a funeral, want the little extras which I suppose include maintenance of the site, regular flowers, etc. Most people don't pre-pay for their funeral expenses. Maybe 20 - 25% do according to Kirk, my tour guide. And most of those are elderly people for whom death is an imaginable end. For the rest of us, we steadfastly practice denial. That ain't us.

In the corner of the coffin-selecting room hung a couple of pink dresses with faux pearl necklaces. Kirk said the casket company sells outfits but that he usually advises people to just go pick something out at Kohl's because it's cheaper. He said often the deceased comes from a rest home and so they don't have appropriate clothing for an open casket viewing. My mind wandered, imagining the trip to Kohl's to purchase an outfit for Great Aunt Gertrude whom you hardly knewWhat kind of dress would she have preferred? What was her size? And what about those missing twenty-one grams?

I noticed the casket supplier was named "Batesville" making everyone think of the Bates Motel from Psycho. It was written discreetly on the ends of the "demo" caskets. I decided to visit the Batesville Web site where I learned that even the funeral profession tries to be as trendy as MySpace.com.

Personalization is in. Batesville offers a "MemorySafe" drawer built into the casket and can be used to display cherished keepsakes during the viewing, or to secure private mementos and farewell messages.

They also offer "Commemorative panel designs" in the lid of the casket. The designs let you highlight your loved one's interests, hobbies or values. Choices include spiritual symbols, organizational emblems, favorite pastimes, or special relationships.

The "MemoryShelf" inside the casket allows families to put keepsakes and mementos on display during the visitation and viewing, providing, in the words of the company, "a simple, subtle way to highlight the interests and personality of your loved one."

Remember Costco where you can buy twenty-six portions of anything you want? Afterwards you can go to Mickey-D's and super-size your selection. So naturally, large-sized caskets are in greater demand today. Batesville's "Dimensions" line provides attractive selections for those families, and I quote, "seeking a more comfortable fit for their loved ones."

I am definitely back to wanting to swim with the dolphins. Throw a party, throw my cremains, but don't, above all, choose the Lady of Guadalupe Casket for me. I've taken my twenty-one grams and I'm gone.

Hard Core Coffee

The other day my nine year old daughter, Hanna, and I waited in the car while her twin sister had basketball practice in Sebastopol.

"Hey, let's go get some hot chocolate," I said.

We drove a short stretch up the road to Hard Core, a legendary coffee place among west Sonoma County coffee drinkers. I had driven by it for years but I had been too intimidated to stop there. The establishment looked so squalid from the road that I always felt too un-hip for it--like the regulars would nudge each other and ask, "who's the square?" somehow sensing the Costco shopping list in my pocket and the Cher songs on my iPod. I felt better having my daughter with me; motherhood a cover for my fish-out-of-water feeling.

Hard Core looks like a devastating natural disaster--an earthquake or a typhoon--has recently struck and this is the only make-shift housing available or maybe it just looks like a modern day homeless encampment. It's little more than a lean-to stuck onto the front of the old Frank's Market, now an empty building, with tarps strung up on three sides like asymmetrical bat wings. There is no "inside" to the place, everything is outdoors under carport canopies and makeshift roofs that look like they'll give up the ghost at the first sign of inclement weather. It's a mystery how this ramshackle structure continues to stand upright at all, never mind how it ever received business and building permits. Maybe it was magic and sheer desire.

I had heard things from friends and co-workers about Hard Core. It has a large contingent of loyal customers. It's an eclectic group--people carrying on the spirit of Woodstock, though most are too young to have been there. They are pony-tailed computer programmers or self-help book writers or growers of organic lavender; all are appreciative of the bohemian lifestyle. These regulars would rather die than step inside a Starbucks. Hard Core's the only place for them. The fresh-roasted coffee is excellent and the chance to meet like-minded people (or at least people-watch) is even more of a draw.

Hanna and I pulled into Hard Core on a December day just as the numerous pot-holes in the muddy parking lot were beginning to fill up with rain. We parked under a large hand-painted sign that read, "Integrity from the tree to the cup". This, I gathered, was a reference to the fact that Hard Core's own brand of coffee had been proudly organic since 1995. As the cars zipped by on Highway 116--a small two-lane byway heading due west from Highway 101--customers hunkered down with their beverages under the makeshift roofs. A woman in a bright orange, homemade-looking knit hat sat on a brown automobile bucket seat. A man with a scruffy gray beard and mustache and Einstein hair sat next to her in a vinyl dentist's chair, complete with a ghoulish metal headrest.

Hard Core is a workout for your eyes. Everywhere you look, you'll see something seemingly incongruous. One wall sports faded cardboard cut-outs of fish and seahorses and outlines of palm trees on peeling plastic sheets. These, along with the assorted shells scattered around serving as ashtrays, suggest that at one time someone had tried for a Hawaiian theme. Right when I decided the whole look was pretty cheap, I saw something even cheesier--a $2.99 plastic Strawberry Shortcake kite nailed to the wall.

On one side stands a motley collection of toys--an old metal pedal-car from the fifties missing its seat; a plastic 'Little Tikes' house, a three foot long metal fire engine. Hanna and I observed a tow-headed boy harassing his two year old sister as they sat in tiny "My Little Pony" chairs. The boy's mother threatened him with a nap if he didn't give his sister "her space". An eight year old girl with red pig tails stood in the rain, pushing a heavy broom through the puddles. The group of adults she came with sat on a naugahyde bench that appeared to have been discarded from Denny's or maybe IHOP. They took turns sipping their coffees and applauding the girl's efforts.

The lone person on duty on the day Hanna and I were there was a young man of indeterminate age--he could have been anywhere between 22 and 42--with curly blonde hair and a purple, long sleeve waffle shirt. He had a vacant look about him, as if only his corporeal body was slinging coffee, not the rest of him. While he busied himself making our hot chocolate we studied a tiny doll purse with a ripped dollar bill that was arranged artfully near the cash register.

"What's that?" Hanna whispered.

"I don't know," I said. "Let's ask."

The man shrugged, indicating that he had no idea. Then he added, "You know, a guy said to me the other day that Fort Knox is actually empty. I think maybe he's right."

"Huh," I said, unsure what to do with this information. "What do you think that means?" He was busy fixing our drinks so I gazed at a propped-up wooden door papered with customer snapshots, ancient cellophane tape, fruit-shaped magnets, and a note that read, "Dear friends, due to too many rotten apples, we will end the tab book this year and go to pre-paid cards. Thanks, Molly."

"You're right," the man behind the counter said, apparently reading something into my earlier reply.

"If we have all agreed that this--" he indicated the whipped cream canister in his hand, "--is worth ten dollarsthen it just is."

I snuck at peek at my daughter whose brow was as furrowed as my own. "Huh," I said again. After all, he thought I was right.

The man seemed satisfied with my response and he handed over our hot chocolates. We ducked under a pair of wool pants hanging from a hanger overhead--a handwritten tag indicated they were for sale for five dollars, and walked over to a chest-high table that held milk, napkins and metal spoons. A battered copy of "India: A Survival Kit" was propped between the Half & Half and the rice milk containers. Overhead, a cheap black child's purse with Tinkerbell on it, winked down at us. There were two holders for the spoons. The one marked "clean" had a picture of naked hippies on it. The one marked "dirty" featured a rear view of a woman wearing some sort of laced bodice. You don't get that at Starbucks.

Hanna and I walked back to our car. We passed flyers advertising enrollment at the "Nonesuch School", a journaling workshop, and spirit boxing. A white bench was plastered with bumper stickers; "Yes on R", "Stop Buying Lies", and the surprising, "I Love Cops".

"What a wild place," I said to my daughter. "I liked the energy there."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

I explained that places can feel really different from each other. Some places you want to spend more time at, some make you want to leave as soon as you can. "You know, like the Department of Motor Vehicles," I added, to illustrate a negative-feeling place. We had recently been there to renew my driver's license.

"But Hard Core was really cool, don't you think?" I said. "We should come back next week."

"Yeah!" she said.

I glanced in the rearview mirror as we bounced our way out of the parking lot. The old building listed to one side, not a plumb line in sight. A metal bed frame painted bright yellow leaned against the barn-red wall looking like a Georgia O'Keefe painting. Why had I thought Hard Core looked squalid? Suddenly it looked eccentric and alive. I guess the secret was that you had to get out of your car, go in and buy something, chat with a stranger.

Maybe I wasn't so square after all.

Idiot!

"Idiot!" muttered my husband as the driver in front of us made a right hand turn from the left lane. I glanced into the backseat to see if the kids were listening. They were busy arguing over whether one of them should stop humming just because it was irritating the other one.

I don't remember my husband having road rage when we first met thirteen years ago. He had an ancient, red Nissan Sentra which he drove because it got great gas mileage and a pick-up truck which he used for work. The Sentra smelled like gasoline, had dust everywhere, and the passenger door creaked very loudly announcing one's arrival in the quietest of neighborhoods but it was the car he courted me in so I had a special fondness for it. Mike knew his way all around the San Francisco bay area and I loved leaving the city driving to him. He was a good driver; never tailgated, never spoke ill of other driver's mothers, and never got traffic violations.

The week before our wedding, Mike and I drove to the San Francisco airport to pick up the matron of honor and her husband who were coming from Sweden. I was driving and as we exited Golden Gate Park onto 19^th Avenue, the driver in front of us suddenly double-parked in the right-hand lane and hopped out in front of a bar. Feeling confident and happy at seeing my best friend within the hour, I beeped to tell him he was blocking traffic.

The driver of the car jumped back in and roared after us. He caught up at the next light. We were surrounded by three lanes of traffic but he maneuvered aggressively in behind us. He threw his car into Park and left it running right in the middle of 19^th Avenue. Then he stalked up to our car, all pumped-up muscles and menace.

"Jesus, he's coming around to your side!" I said as he arrived on the passenger side, presumably choosing to go a few rounds with my husband rather than with me.

"Get out!" the man growled through the partially-opened window. It was a hot October day and he wore a wife-beater and half a dozen gold chains around his neck.

My husband had a tight grip on his door. He was seated and the man standing close to the door had every advantage. Mike told me later that he was prepared to kick open the door and try to catch the guy off-guard if he made a move.

My mind, unable to cope with the idea of a disfigured groom or the mortal danger we were both in, decided to worry about my car--a beat-up Volvo station wagon with 150,000 miles on it. Embarrassed at the car's rattiness, I had spent the previous day detailing it. I had carefully washed all the windows, vacuumed out the dog hair, and disguised the tears in the faux-leather seating with seat covers from Kragen Auto. Now, in the midst of all this seething testosterone, I was worried the car would be damaged. I knew as I was thinking it that this was a ridiculous thing to worry about but I couldn't help myself.

"Guys!" I pleaded. "This isn't worth it." I looked the man in the eye. "I'm sorry for beeping at you. Let's just forget it, huh?"

The man stood there a few more moments, growled a few unprintables, then swaggered back to his car. The light changed and stepped on it. He followed us up 19^th for a long way and until finally turning off.

Since then, I rarely beep at anyone. It's not worth it. I witness driving transgressions and let them go, water off of a duck's back. Mike, on the other hand, talks constantly to other drivers. He honks, rolls down his window, calls names. He seems genuinely surprised every time he's on the road that other drivers make poor decisions. I have had to forbid him recounting to me all the day's driving transgressions against him. I just don't want to hear them. Let it go, I urge him. Why carry this around with you? When I asked him why he honks he said it's because he's hoping other drivers will see their mistake and change their ways. I reminded him what Benjamin Franklin said, "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."

I checked the backseat again to see what the kids were doing. They were staring out their separate windows. A car swerved away from the curb in front of us and Mike tapped the brake.

"Idiot!" muttered one of the kids.

The Dog Trainer

**This is a work in progress**

Antonia Steele flung open the door of her Mill Valley mansion just as I was about to ring the bell at the back door. "Oh, Thank God you're here!"

Antonia never did anything at half-speed, and coming into her orbit meant breathless conversations and frequent bewilderment trying to figure out what in the world she was talking about. Still, I instinctively liked her irreverence and sense of humor. She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into her kitchen which was in complete disarray due to their massive house remodel. A plumber lay on the floor, the upper half of his body inside of a maple, half-finished sink cabinet.

"Look! Look!" Antonia said, oblivious to the fact that the man could not see anything from inside the cabinet. "This is the dog trainer. She's helping us train Float!" I closed my eyes with embarrassment. It wasn't exactly the second coming. When I opened them again, I could see the plumber shimmying out from under the cabinet. He rolled over, got awkwardly to his knees, stood up, wiped his hands on his brown canvas pants, and then held out his right hand. I stepped forward and shook it. Long ago he had lost the war with his beer gut. His furry belly peeked out under his stained white t-shirt like a smiling mustache.

"Dog trainer, huh?"

He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his pants and hitched them up. I tried not to think about plumber's butt. "I got a Rotty in the back of my truck, maybe you could do something with him. He's a real dumb ass." He stopped, remembering Antonia. We both turned to her to see if she minded the mild swear but she was lost in thought, staring out the window at something in the un-landscaped front yard. "Well, chop, chop, back to Float!" she suddenly said.

I looked around for her Cavalier King Charles spaniel. "Oh heavens," she said, "He's not down herein all this horrible mess! He's upstairs in the bedroom."

I followed Antonia through the great room and upstairs. Her husband was a famous movie producer and they had oodles of money but they didn't seem to mind living in the chaos of their remodel. There was plaster dust everywhere and they hadn't even bothered to put away many of their objets d'art. There was a silk kimono on one wall, along with an African headdress, and some sort of ancient weapon that had a whole bunch of feathers on one end. The great room had eleven foot ceilings with intricate crown molding, a grand piano in one corner and a beautiful brown leather sectional. The fireplace was taped over with plastic. Plaster dust covered everything, including the grand sweeping staircase we took to the second floor.

I followed Antonia down the hallway. There were framed and autographed movie posters hung everywhere. This was my third visit to the Steele's house but I had never been upstairs. My first visit had been before they got their puppy. They wanted coaching on how to introduce him to the household and that sort of thing. The second visit we discussed a housebreaking regimen and other puppy essentials.

We reached the master bedroom. The California king bed was draped with an eight inch thick down comforter, encased in a beautiful white-pattern-on-white-cotton duvet.There were five or six yellow stains on it. I gulped. I had just priced duvets at Macy's in San Rafael and even the cheap ones were way out of my price range. In the exact center of the bed, a three month old orange and white Cavalier was stretched out sleeping. When Antonia entered, Float lazily opened one eye but didn't even consider getting up to greet us.

"Oh, he's soooo lazy," Antonia said.

I decided to get tough. "I thought we agreed he was going to stay off the bed until he was housebroken."

"Oh, I know," said Antonia as she picked the dog up, "But what harm can he do if he's just sleeping?"

I pointedly eyed the yellow stains. "Is he still sleeping with you or have you got him sleeping in his crate at night?" Antonia started jumping up and down, excitedly. "Oh! That reminds me! I need you to settle an argument Frank and I had this morning!"

I struggled to switch gears. "I don't think--"

"No, no, it's related to Float" insisted Antonia.

I snuck a peak at my watch. We weren't making progress. Oh well. I was trying to learn that if the client wanted to pay me to stand there and listen to them talk then that was what the client wanted.

Encouraged by my silence, Antonia pressed on. "OK. SoI woke up this morning and as soon as I did, I got my period--"

Oh Jesus, what on earth could this have to do with dog training?

"--I mean, I reallygot it. So I jumped out of bed and I'm running to the door, you know how it is, right, because there's gonna be a mess any moment?" Antonia seemed to want something so I threw her a non-committal smile.

"So I'm passing Float's crate and he starts to whine because he wants to go out and do his business. Then Frank says that I should stop and take Float out first because now I've woken the dog up. But I couldn't wait! I couldn't believe he didn't understand this. Of course I would have taken Float out first but, I couldn't! So then we had an argument about that and Frank went off all mad this morning."

"Well, in the first place--"

"--Except for we talked a few minutes ago and made up about it but I told him I would ask you what I should have done."

I took a deep breath. Remain calm, I counseled myself. Don't get sucked into the vortex. "Your dog should wait for you sometimes. Maybe even all the time. You are in charge. Not Float. If Float has to wait while you, uh, do your thing, then Float simply has to wait. I mean, that's ridiculous, your husband, could have gotten out of--" I stopped talking when I realized that Antonia was dialing a cordless phone.

"Barbara? Put my husband on!" she said into the phone.

There was silence for a few seconds. Then, "Darling? I love you, too. Hey! I just wanted you to know that the dog trainer is here and she says I can use a Tampax any time I want to!"

Entering My House