Miranda sighs. “I care about you, Charlotte, I truly do, but I’ll never understand you.”
I notice the clock, and see that the day is getting away from me. “So, is there a chance you’ll come to Christmas brunch or dinner, or is it an absolute ‘no?’”
“One moment Charlotte… I beg your pardon! Of course we cannot supply cocaine to the on-air talent. Who do you think I am? The concierge of the Chateau Marmont.”
I put the phone down on the counter. Maybe I can make some apple butter, I think to myself while Miranda rants on, with lots of clove. That’ll be so warm and yummy for the winter. Hmm…when will I be able to hit Fairway to see what they have in the way of decent New York State apples…?
“Charlotte, are you there, darling?”
“I’m here,” I say firing up my Nespresso machine to make a nice, steaming double-shot cappuccino.
“As I was saying Charlotte… Actually, hold the phone. You’d better tell that talent wrangler that if any pop star, politician, or for that matter, Muppet, is too high to sing in the final number, he’ll be looking for a job come New Year’s! Sorry darling, it’s a madhouse here. Tell you what, come down to the tree lighting tonight and we’ll discuss. I really can’t stay on the line.”
“No thanks,” I say, pulling my antique, hand-cranked food mill from under the sink. “I’m going to watch it on TV.”
“Darling, you must come. It’s the pinnacle of my event-planning career to date, and I’m not going to be very English about it and pretend it’s really nothing. Taking a leaf from the Americans’ books, I’ll simply say it. If I pull this off, I’ll frankly be one of the top global Production Directors, period. Hello Cannes! Hello coronation of Prince William! Say you’ll pop round.”
I glance over at Hudson snoring lightly in his warm bed. I don’t want to go out for walkies today, much less eject myself into one of the single-most crowded events on the island of Manhattan.
“I don’t know…”
“Super. The broadcast starts at 7, and the lights go on at 9. I’ll phone or text you later. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Before I can argue, she’s put down the phone. I’m on a schedule, too, you know. Maybe I’m not organizing the lighting of the tallest tree in the Northeastern U.S., but I have responsibilities. I stomp my foot and let out a scream of exasperation, waking Hudson.
He leaps out of his bed and runs from the kitchen to the hallway. I hear a ching ching and I don’t even have to turn my back to know that my determined little roommate is rattling his tags, leaping up against the wall under the little blue plastic IKEA hook shaped like a dog’s rear end. He’s trying to grab his leash.
“Seriously? I have a countertop covered in mincemeat and dough waiting to be made into tiny pies. You’d love a mincemeat pie, wouldn’t you, boy?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait.
“Besides, I haven’t had enough coffee yet. Do you really need to change the game plan?”
With one concerted leap, he snatches the loop of the leash in his muzzle. He stands there, staring.
“No, I won’t do it.” I cross my arms in defiance.
“Both you and Aunt Miranda need to learn to respect my boundaries.”
No response.
“I know you don’t need to do business. You always hold it until 11:30.”
More staring.
“The answer is no.” I turn my back on him. “Schedules are healthy. I read that all the best parents keep their children on schedules. I had no parameters when I was little, no rules. I read in Psychology Today that can make you feel unsafe.” I peek over my shoulder.
Hudson hasn’t moved a muscle. I wonder if he’s breathing. He doesn’t even blink.
“Hudson…”
Still as a statue.
“Oh, OK!” I heave myself out of my desk chair and pull my coat from the rack.
Hudson breaks his freeze, and begins a frenzy of circling, first one way, and then the other. I crack up. “Do you love me?” I ask him. He runs at me, and banks off my calf. He’s scratching frantically at my leg, as if to climb me. I know he wants to give me a kiss, so I bend down so we’re nose to nose. He gives me a bounty of face-licks, then stretches his neck out so it fits in the crook of my own. He rubs his cheek against mine, with a few upward jerks. “Aw … huggies!” I say. It’s a thing we do. “You do love me! Sweet boy. OK, we’re going out,” I explain, pulling on my knit hat, “but we’re not going to the dog park. This is just a quick relief break, then I’m coming back to make coffee, and get back to work. Got it?”
I click the ring of his leash onto his harness, and hold open the door.
“Did you hear me? Five minutes. That’s final.”
For a quick second, his eyes twinkle before he bounds onto the landing, and skitters down the stairs.
*****
Scratching to get in the park gate, Hudson pulls hard on his leash as I juggle my Starbucks flat white. It spills all over my mittens.
“Huddie, there’s a reason we make coffee at home. You talked me into leaving the house against my will, can you at least be patient?” I fumble with first one gate, then another. There are always two gates at dog runs: Opening them one at a time contains the “flight risks.” Once we’re inside, I squat down try to unfasten the ring on Hudson’s leash, while maintaining my balance. A man with sunny reddish-blonde, curly hair and warm, brown eyes smiles at me. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
“He’s a handful, all right,” I mumble. Hudson whines impatiently.
“Doesn’t the run look fantastic? The community board pitched in funds for all these twinkle lights and the decorations. I hardly recognize the place with all the Christmas trimmings.”
I take a minute to glance around. It’s breathtaking. The chain-link fence is festooned with glowing shapes made from strings of lights: A dog bone, the outline of a dog, a dog’s face, a dog dish that says “Spot,” on it. And there are various sizes of Christmas tree in every corner, decorated with strings of popcorn.
“Oh, wow,” I whisper involuntarily.
“I know, right? I heard they chose popcorn for the trees since it’s biodegradable. Peeing on them is encouraged. By the dogs, of course. Merry Christmas to them.”
Now I'm on my knees in the dirt and gravel, still struggling to free Hudson. I perch my coffee carefully on a large rock.
“Listen, Puppy Dog,” I say, “you have to stop pulling if you want me to undo this.” He’s spied some of his neighborhood dog friends and he’s eager to get into the mix.
“Hold still,” I tell him. “And before you run off, remember this: We’re only staying five minutes. Don’t
