(Murphy's Law: Colloquial axiom which originated with an engineer by the name of Murphy which states that anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and usually at the worst possible time.)
You should have paid attention to your horoscope this morning. "You will face many challenges today. Colleagues may be less than cooperative. Your organizational skills will be called into question and your patience will be tested."
Phooey. These things are never right anyway, you thought as you glanced out the window. Raining again. Then you tripped over the cat, spilling your coffee all over your clean uniform. Somewhere in the far reaches of your mind an ugly thought was beginning to form. Will this be one of those "Murphy's Law" days?
When you get to the shop, you have a phone message from your most talented groomer who is calling in sick again. She's a wonderful person but she has one flaw: she's a world-class hypochondriac. She should never read the newspaper or watch the evening news if the topic is health related.
If a rare disease makes the news today, this girl will be showing symptoms by the end of the week. She's had them all from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome to Legionnaire's Disease, but today's excuse is really stretching it. As far as you know, there haven't yet been any cases of the Ebola virus in Eastern Massachusetts.
Before you get the chance to take off your raincoat and arrange your appointment cards on the counter, Mrs. Johnson arrives with Leroy, her extra large cat squeezed into his extra small carrier. She sets the crate down gingerly and bolts for the door, telling you she's already late for work. "By the way, Kathy, he's really in a mood today," she says as you watch the cat carrier hurtle across the floor like a mini tornado, its occupant hissing and sputtering inside. "Have a nice day," the owner smiles.
Next comes Mrs. Obermeyer with Clyde, her Airedale who stops to relieve himself on the welcome mat by your door. Here we go, you think glumly. Nobody walks their dog on a rainy day.
You make a beeline to the back room to fetch the disinfectant and the paper towels.
(Who is this Murphy person and what have I ever done to him? Did I know him in a past life?)
Now here comes Helen Higginbottom, a lonely retiree and Pomeranian owner with her purse clutched tightly to her breast as if a mugger might be lurking behind the rawhide display. You hate to call this woman cheap but every time she opens that pocketbook, moths fly out. Like a jeweler examining a diamond for flaws, she squints at each chew stick, each all natural biscuit.
"Did you go up on these?" she demands. "They're two cents cheaper at that new Woofer's Warehouse down the street." Helen's skinny fingers fidget with her change purse, digging for that last lint covered penny as the commuting crowd lines up behind her, their dogs straining at their leashes. Slowly the frowning senior citizen counts the change you just counted out to her and asks for some free food samples as the business bound pet owners check their watches, stomping and snorting like the bulls of Pamplona awaiting their signal to run.
(Enough already, Murphy. I sincerely apologize for any slight I may have cast upon your esteemed ancestors. Now take a hike!)
You proceed to check them in like a short order cook: shorter feathers, fleas and ticks, out by noon, we'll call you soon, oatmeal bath, file the nails, strip, clip, bathe and dip, closer on the butt, thanks for the tip, degrease, deskunk, big pink bow, hold the anals and away we go.
Phew! Oh oh. Here come the bickering Browns, Bob and Beryl, with their cranky pet, Louise the Lhasa. You say the words that you know will start the squabbling: "Hi. What would you like us to do for Louise today?"
He: "Leave her long and don't cut the hair on her face. I don't like the way she looks at me with those beady little eyes.
"She: "Oh, for heaven's sake, Bob! The poor little thing needs a good haircut. God knows YOU never brush her! Oh no that's MY job like everything else around that house! I want that hair layered back on her head. She almost walked into the lawnmower the other day when he was cutting the grass!"
Bob shrugs his shoulders and glowers at the dog, looking like a man who just lost the lottery jackpot by only one number. Louise curls her lip and growls. I mediate.
"How about a teddy bear cut? She will be short but still fluffy and not shaved. I'll thin and trim her head as well. She'll look adorable you'll see!"
I pat the little tyrant on the head as she shows me each and every one of her teeth. I flash back to the movie "Jaws." After husband and wife duke it out over whether or not they want a flea collar, I take little Louise to her waiting crate and make a quick detour to the bathroom to grab a couple of aspirin, wishing I knew Dr. Joyce Brothers well enough to call her up and ask her to come down and release the dog when the Browns return.
The staff trickles in, everyone in the place complaining of PMS except George, the new guy. He threw his back out playing racquetball last night. "If I have to lift anything larger than a mini poodle, I'll need help," he announces.
(Murphy, you are the scourge of my life. What can I offer you to make you cease and desist? My soul? My first born child? My Phantom of the Opera tickets?)
You resume your post at the cash register just in time to wait on Agnes Carp, a woman whose life makes Bosnia look like a dance party. She's never had a happy day and doesn't plan to. Like a lamb being led to the slaughter, you proceed with the opening line. "Hi Agnes. How are you today?"
It seems she's got a head cold and a post nasal drip, despite the fact that she's been wearing a clove of garlic around her neck to ward off germs. You don't have to tell me, you think as your eyes fill up and your nose twitches.
She would love to buy a new sweater for Pookie the poodle but she lost all her money last night at her church Bingo game. "Don't tell me that game isn't fixed! I notice Father O'Brien is driving around town in a brand new car." She nods her head knowingly, narrowing her eyes
"And now those no good bums in Congress want to increase our Medicare payments and tax our Social Security," she continues, obviously outraged at the prospect. "The next thing you know, I won't be able to afford to go to the podiatrist to get my bunion treated!"
You nod sympathetically, wishing you could at least offer her Dr. Jack Kevorkian's phone number but the way your luck is running, his line would be busy and he wouldn't have Call Waiting.
By mid-afternoon, things are looking up. The groomers may even finish on time. You munch on a candy bar but bite down on something much harder than a peanut. What is this, a rock? You examine the jagged particle which resembles a small meteor. Your tongue takes an instant inventory around your mouth and you discover the answer a cavernous hole where a twenty year old filling used to be, in one of your back molars. The flimsy tooth surrounding it feels like a picket fence around the Grand Canyon. Swell. Time to return to that excessively cheerful dentist and hear yet another lecture about Mean Old Mr. Tooth Decay. You throw what's left of the candy bar in the trash.
(Murphy, do you remember what Kathy Bates did to James Caan in that Stephen King movie "Misery?" Well, she's my role model if I ever get my hands on you.)
The day is winding down when Dennis, the handsome new mailman, strolls in. You usually don't find men with red hair attractive but in his case, you'll make an exception. You note that in spite of the weather, he's wearing shorts. Just as you're smiling and exchanging the pleasantries, your little French bulldog darts from under the counter and sinks his teeth into the letter carrier's socks. ""Don't mind him he's just playing," you say, smiling weakly and trying to dislodge the dog from the man's ankle. Unfortunately, he's dug in like a tick. You realize this puppy needs more than obedience school. Where exactly would one locate a reform school for dogs?
(This is it, Murphy. The last straw. As soon as my ex-brother-in-law Frankie gets out of the Federal Witness Protection Program, I'm putting out a contract on you.)
After detaching the demented dog, you are glad to see that no skin is broken but you do owe the young man for a new pair of running shoes and the socks to go with them. As you reach for your checkbook to make restitution, you ask him his full name. "It's Murphy," he says, flashing a toothy smile. "Dennis Patrick Murphy."
The weird thing is, you're not even surprised.