Story of flower

Out of the door, a right turn

Taking the asphalt intersection at the diagonal,

Nobody driving through just now.

The path is muddy where the sidewalk plow

Was misaligned all winter.

The paved walkway remains hidden

Under a shoulder-high mountain of ice and snow.

Mostly clear footing the rest of the way,

Warming spring days have melted so much.

Next past the elderly lady’s place

Haven’t seen her little dog in a while.

Suspect he has met his end — he was on a bit too.

Not long until we’ll have forgotten that he ever was.

He seemed to bring some comfort to her

As he shuffled along the perimeter of her yard.

She’d sit on the porch, and smile if you said hello.

Him off his leash, but disinterested in most things

Beyond the boundary of a shrinking universe.

Past a church and its adjacent rental hall.

Here all manner of gatherings during the week,

Bringing people by foot, bike and parking-space filler.

I’ve only been in for occasional elections,

When cardboard boxes emblazoned

With yellow check-mark logos

Collect a sample of hopes and worries

From those of us living nearby.

Across to the next block after the spot

Where the writhing roots like slow-motion anacondas

Had once lifted the sidewalk

And grabbed at your toes as you’d pass.

It was finally re-paved the year before last.

Or was it the year before that?

The next block, past the house

Of a recently-retired couple

Former clerks in a government office

At once disinterested and annoyed

They awaited a smoke break, and a pension.

On the nice days now they sit smoking

And often offer a smile

While they raise glasses of red wine

On a raised front step that reaches

To the edge of the sidewalk,

As if the pub patio at the next street

Was now close enough to save them the walk

Over and away from their boundary.

Finally a new complex of four units,

Before we reach the busy street.

This one was built just recently

And employed an innovative new scheme.

All concrete and sheet-steel forms around the edges,

It came together slowly

As builders seemed unsure how the system

Was supposed to work.

The units are all occupied now, top and bottom.

The below-grade residents, haven’t unfurled

Their freshly installed window blinds since arriving.

Denizens of the sidewalk pass the large panes

Where all their worldly possessions are displayed.

They seem to lounge in the adjoining room, mostly

Sedated by the large panel on the wall.

Their driveway crosses the sidewalk here.

And it was dry and clear all winter.

I saw the builders installing the snake-like tubes

Of a snow-melting driveway heater.

All winter it liberated the residents from the chore

Of being outside, away from their TV.

And from piling themselves a mound of icy snow

And from later, now, watching it slowly seep away

As the warmth of spring

Seeps into the sidewalk.

In the lovely spring season of beautiful weddings, my thoughts had turned to significant relationships and how they sometimes end badly. Your dreams of happily ever after are usually headed south when you hear such statements as:

“I need my space.”

“I need some time to concentrate on my career.”

“I have found the love of my life, and it just happens to be me.”

“It’s not you — it’s me.”

When your Cinderella story goes south, people are always eager to offer their advice:

“He wasn’t good enough for you anyway.”

“I never trusted him. He wouldn’t look me in the eye.”

“He chewed with his mouth open.”

“His family must have come from the shallow end of the gene pool.”

There are lots of self-help books out there to help you start your life over after such unhappy endings but there are no such helpful books about breakups between pet stylists like I was for almost three decades and our former customers.

When you spot that elderly couple in the park with their adorable Toy Poodle who used to visit your establishment every six weeks, you want to run right up to them and say, “Where are you getting Suzy done these days? Her legs looked like they were trimmed by a weed whacker.”

And what about that well-heeled matron who used to bring in her Airedale? When you run into her in the supermarket, she ducks behind the canned goods. “I hope you’re happy wherever you’re going,” you’d like to tell her. “You were so picky and demanding — I never made a penny on your dog anyway.”

You would never be that petty or childish, of course. You know you can’t please everyone. You also have your pride. But in the back of your mind, there’s always that nagging question — why?

You’ve been on the other side of this equation, when you stopped going to Cookie’s Coiffures and switched to Stefan’s Swanky Spa. You loved Cookie. She knew more about your personal life than your therapist. But for twenty years, she gave you the same haircut, no matter how many times you asked for a variation. She knew how you felt about exposing your high forehead and yet she always cut your bangs too short.

You never really intended to break up with her permanently, just to see other people for a while, but as Bill Clinton found out several years ago, that can spell trouble. Now when you see Cookie coming towards you at the mall, you run the other way.

Sometimes our former customers gave us lame stories like, “My husband gave me a pet clipping kit for my birthday,” or, “I’m taking a grooming course at the agricultural school. They’ve also taught me how to shear a sheep!” One senior citizen told me, “I don’t drive anymore. I’ve got that nice young girl with the pierced eyebrows and the jewel in her nose who comes over the house now.”

We all know we should welcome friendly competition and treasure our camaraderie with our fellow groomers but it also hurts when you visit your friend’s shop and see a former customer on her table. You feel more mixed emotions than a parent whose teenager got the highest mark in the sex education class. You grin and bear it, but inside, you’re quaking.

Some people are just groomer-hoppers. They feel the need to try every salon within driving distance. They come to your shop, bad-mouthing your fellow professionals with statements like, “That other groomer stripped my Butchie naked the last time! The poor little thing was skinned!” Of course, they neglect to tell you that the bouffant Butchie had not been groomed — or brushed — in a year-and-a-half.

“That groomer down the street had a bad attitude,” they’ll report. Could it be because they brought the dog in at 11 am and demanded to have it back by noon?

There are a few clients we groomers would all be better off without, such as:

• The woman who fed her Great Dane Moo Goo Gai Pan the night before his last grooming.
• The Schnauzer owner who is never satisfied. “Who the heck groomed Schatzie last time? Her eyebrows looked like someone used pinking shears and her skirt was all choppy. Are you training students now?”
• The accusatory gent who insists, “The last time you groomed Alfie, he came home with a case of fleas and kennel cough.” You know that’s not true, but the smart aleck inside of you would love to say, “Oh, he got a twofer, did he?” But that would be wrong.
• The mother whose kid exhibits his ADHD all over your front room, dismantling every display he can get his hands on while she agonizes over whether to buy those three-for-a-dollar rawhide chew sticks.
• The owner of the cranky Lhasa Apso whose coat is so matted he can’t even see where he’s going. The rear view is even scarier — the poor dog is sporting a poop pancake on his butt as big as a Frisbee.
• The woman who always arrives early to pick up her Poodle then stands at the door while you’re scissoring his head. “Poopsie!” she hollers.“Mama’s right here! You wanna go home, Sweetie-Muffin?”
• The caller who demands you give her an exact price over the phone for grooming her Afghan-Puli mix. She neglected to tell you that the dog had dreadlocks.

I guess groomers need to accept the fact that people can be fickle and learn to take it with a grain of salt. We need to let go of those relationships that were never meant to be. Maybe we should take a cue from my Aunt Lulu, a colorful octogenarian who was married four times and is now the belle of the bingo parlor. It was Lulu who told me, “Men are like buses, dear. If you miss one, there will be another along in a few minutes.”

The same might be said for pet owners. Call me smug if you like, but if dogs were the ones making the decisions about where to get the best hairdo, I’d like to think I would have had have nothing to worry about.