Comprehension hit home like a CHP officer’s lights flashing in one’s rear view mirror while heading home on the PCH. The newcomer rolled his eyes and intoned solemnly.

  “Hi, Stuart.”

  The terrier’s tail increased a beat as he and Jen resumed their march through the office.

  The largest office space, the one in the back of the building with the view of the small garden, was the purview of Sylvia Jensen. Not only one of Townsend’s senior agents, she was also Jen’s mother. As her daughter and Stuart entered, Jensen senior was pacing back and forth, eyes slightly glazed, her attention focused on the conversation she was having via her telephone headset. Being wholly occupied at that moment with a tenuous transaction, she failed to immediately notice her offspring’s arrival. When she finally did she easily divided her attention between the ongoing conversation and what she knew her daughter had come for. Without missing a beat, she picked up an envelope from her desk and passed it to Jen as she continued to talk.

  “You will have it by Monday. It’s with the title company right now, so just wait ‘til Monday, Mrs. Hyman.” Rolling her eyes at her daughter, she sighed silently but visibly. “Yes, I know you want to move in right away, Mrs. Hyman. Yes, I’m sure you can start making arrangements with the movers. It’s just minor paperwork. Nothing to hold you up. The former tenants were out completely several days ago.” She whispered as she nodded toward the envelope she had handed Jen.

  “Your commission. Eighteen grand. Not bad for a month’s work.” Her voice rose again as she redirected her words to the phone. “Yes, Mrs. Hyman. Yes, the title company will notify you directly so you can pick up the finished paperwork directly from their office, if you wish.”

  Jen and Stuart made it to the lobby before her mother, having finally succeeded in disentangling herself from the needy Mrs. Hyman, managed to catch up to them .

  “Jen!” She turned as her mother slowed. The receptionist scarcely looked up from her desk. Controlled chaos was the order of the day at Homestead.

  Sylvia showed her daughter a worksheet. “Here’s a lead that came in this morning. I’ll email you an electronic copy for backup, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. The guy asked specifically for the Pet Friendly Realtor.” She puffed up just a little. “I’m tellin’ ya, that was one great idea you had. Newport homeowners and pets go together like lox and bagels.” She extended the single sheet of paper toward Jen. “Here’s the address, it’s on Alta Vista. Zillow has it at six thousand square feet, not including the four-car garage. Big bucks in the offing, go now.”

  Ignoring the worksheet, Jen waved her off. Stuart sat at her feet, panting briskly, anxious to leave. There were no trees inside the office, no other dogs, and certainly no squirrels.

  “Sorry, mom. I have to get ready for a date. Can’t do it right now. Set it up for tomorrow.”

  Sylvia made a little mou with her mouth. “And when are you going to send out the announcements indicating your independence from financial matters?”

  Turning, Jen started to leave. Stuart was way ahead of her. Or as way ahead of her as his leash would permit.

  “Some things are more important than money,” she called back.

  Her mother smiled slightly. “Some ‘things’? Let me guess. Arthur?” Her expression showed her disapproval. “Men will always be there. Even Arthur.” She waved the worksheet. “Unlike them, leads like this don’t come along every day!”

  Ignoring the admonition, variations on which she had been subjected to since she had turned eighteen, Jen looked back again and raised her voice just enough. “Ciao! Mañana! Set it up!”

  Her mother yelled back. “If it’s still set-uppable! If it hasn’t gone to another agency by then!”

  “I’ll take my chances!” were Jen’s parting words as she and Stuart exited the building. Turning back toward her office, her mother let out a snort.

  “Might as well say the same thing about men.” She increased her pace. She had leads of her own to follow. Real Estate, that is.

  When it comes to eating, cats are precise, finicky, and work to a plan. Or as Sylvia Jensen would say, according to a worksheet.

  Dogs, on the other hand, operate according to the laws of mess and madness. They approach a full dinner bowl on the assumption that their already pre-masticated prey is liable to rise up and slough away, or that an invisible ghost dog may suddenly appear to devour it all. Even if they had hands it’s unlikely they would use them. Dog logic says; why put anything between food and mouth? It constitutes an unnecessary step and a waste of time. Food—mouth. Also, speed is of the essence, and if in one’s haste to consume the contents of a recently emptied can some of the contents get splattered on the ground, why, the technical canine term for that is “dessert”.

  No outlier when it came to consumption, Stuart was happily scarfing up every scrap of guaranteed organic-no-filler-no grain-all meat whatever it was. It never bothered him that his canned food came in only two hues: dark, and less dark. Or that regardless of its origins the consistency was likewise one of two varieties: chunky with gravy, or pulverized with faux gravy.

  When there was nothing left in the bottom of the metal bowl save his own reflection, he checked the immediate vicinity for any tongue-propelled scraps. This was followed by a trip to the nearby water dish. Slurping sounds suggesting the activity of a much larger creature filled the otherwise quiet realm of the kitchen. A quick glance revealed that he was still alone. No ghost dog haunted the dark space by the door and no scavengers emerged to check on the bowl. Satisfied that he was still master of his domain, he headed up the stairs in search of his beloved human.

  The hall was deserted, as was the bedroom. Softly squelching aqueous sounds emerged from a smaller room nearby. Identifying them immediately, he headed in their direction. They were indicative of the presence of liquid, but not of drinking. He knew what they signified.

  Jen lay slumped in the bathtub encased in white foam. She was in complete agreement with those who believed that a hot bubble bath was one of humankind’s greatest inventions. Furthermore, it was cheaper than a Maldives’ vacation, far more accessible, and devoid of sharks and other discourteous sea creatures. She could not spare the time to enjoy such a bath every day, but this afternoon it was a necessity. Tonight promised to be special.

  None of which would have made any sense to Stuart, who having already inhaled his dinner would not have cared anyway. Why humans chose to lie down on such things as raised sleeping platforms and couches and immerse themselves in water was a mystery he could not fathom.

  Seeing him enter, she raised a soapy hand and pointed. “Stuart, there you are. Be a good boy and bring me my scrub bush.”

  Looking in the direction she had pointed, he turned back to her, baffled. That it was a command he had no doubt. That it was more complicated than “Sit”, “stay”, or “roll over” was also not in doubt. But as always, he was game. He just needed additional input.

  She gestured again. The brush was hanging on a hook at the far end of the tub. “Go get it, go on.”

  While he could not parse the words “scrub brush”, Stuart was adept at the process of elimination. It stood even to canine reason that “scrub brush” referred to an object. Since there was nothing else in the direction Jen had pointed save bubbles, water, tile, and exposed plumbing, he walked down to the end of tub, momentarily contemplated the long object suspended there, then grabbed it in his mouth and brought it forward.

  Jen accepted it, confirming his decision. “Good boy,” she said to him. Her words were all he expected, or needed.

  A glance up and out the bathroom window revealed an overcast sky. Many were the nights and mornings near the beach when sunny Southern California was a misnomer. Expecting the invasion of the marine layer, Jen was not surprised. The weather, whatever it turned out to be, would not affect the course of the evening ahead.

  “Getting foggy, Stuart.”

  Thus roused, he turned and rushed off, returning a moment later with one of a plethora of squeaky toys. The one he had fetched was green with heavy dye despite its manufacturer’s claim of being composed of wholly organic materials. It had bulging eyes, a round belly, and splayed feet. Jen pursed her lips.

  “I said it’s getting foggy, not get froggy.”

  His fetch dismissed, he dropped the toy outside the tub. Perhaps Jen would chance a second request. She pointed to the bath towel looped over a nearby rack.

  “Sorry buddy, no time to play. Possible important doings tonight and mama needs to look her best. Bring me my towel.”

  Just the words he had been waiting for. Before she could call him back he was out the door in a flash, returning a moment later with another toy. This one was softer and didn’t squeak. While exasperated at the sight of the stuffed owl, Jen didn’t let it show. She sensed the dog’s eagerness and regretted having to deny it.

  “Towel, not owl. You’re too cute. I wish I had more time to play with you like we used to. I wish I had more time to….” She shrugged. “Adulthood has its downsides for humans, Stuart. Not so much for dogs.”

  Putting his front paws up on the side of the tub, what is of a tail flailing, he eyed her empathetically. This lasted for a minute or so before he began to whine. There were no words, but Jen knew immediately what he was saying, and it had nothing to do with toy frogs or owls. It was more important than that. Also more urgent.

  “Oh yeah? Pee-pee? Hold on. Hold it.”

  The whining grew louder as she rose from the bubbles and wrapped herself in the towel, looking like a rippling tower of deli ambrosia. “Hold on, buddy!”

  No time to dress. Given the urgency in his whining it was likely there wasn’t even enough time to don a robe and make it downstairs to the front door. She looked around a little wildly. The toilet, he might miss. The bubble bath, she might want to rejoin. In the absence of any remaining time that left only….

  Sliding open the bathroom window, she picked him up and held him out just in time. At such moments she almost wished she’d taken on a cat instead of a terrier. Almost. Imagine asking a cat to fetch you your scrub brush and towel. Not that a cat couldn’t do it, or understand such a command. It was just that a cat was more likely to ask you to bring it a brush and towel.

  The golden shower arrived in the vicinity of the front door at nearly the same time as Sylvia Jensen. Given her age and more than a tad startled, she dodged the brief downpour with alacrity. Either someone was watering with a polluted hose or….

  A glance upward revealed her daughter gripping a Boston sprinkler. She recognized Jen immediately and Stuart despite the unflattering angle.

  “That’s illegal! Also disgusting!” Looking around, she was relieved to see no one was observing. As for Stuart, he was just relieved. “Take him inside!”

  “So he can do what, mom?” For good measure, she gave Stuart a gentle shake and was pleased to see he appeared to be empty. “Pee on the carpet? In his bed? He’s a dog mom! The world’s his toilet.”

  “I was almost a part of that toilet. Remember that lead I told you about?”

  From within the bathroom now, Jen called down. “Remember that I told you to set it up for tomorrow?”

  “What do you think I’m here for? You need some paperwork because I arranged an appointment time for you to follow up on it. Tomorrow,” she added sarcastically, “since my daughter’s every wish is my command. Buzz me in.”

  The door responded sooner than she expected. Also louder than she expected. More like a steady roar akin to that of a Falcon rocket lifting off. She took an involuntary step backward, regained her composure, and moved to grab the handle. She was mumbling as she let herself inside.

  “You better fix that damn thing! I almost had a heart attack!” Although she knew her daughter likely could not hear her, Sylvia felt the rebuke needed to be said. Stepping inside, she closed the door behind her as Jen shouted down from upstairs.

  “I’m up here! C’mon up, mom!”

  Work all day, put together paperwork for your daughter who can’t even be bothered to come downstairs to open the door for you in person because she’s holding her urinating dog out the window, wonder why you bother…Sylvia knew why. She was just feeling a tad irritable at the moment. Maybe it was the near miss of Stuart’s sprinkle. Who hangs their dog out the window to pee? She smiled to herself. Her daughter, that’s who. The act had been almost as gawk-worthy as the perpetrator.

  There is something many men simply do not understand. Preparing for a fancy night out is not a matter of “getting dressed”. It is a ritual. The laying out of dresses, shoes, accessories. A ritual to which most men are not privy. It is a mysterious ceremony that is passed on from mother to daughter. Blouses, pants, shoes, socks, dresses, necklaces, rings, earrings—all shifted positions like electrons in orbit around a nucleus. One had to feel for any men drafted into observing and worse, into commenting. To a primate with both an X and Y chromosome, it was akin to trying to see into the ultraviolet. There was no way to make sense of it. The best a male could hope for was not to be asked the Dread Question of Death, to which there is no satisfactory answer.

  “Does this make me look fat?”

  In this instance the one male present was saved by his lack of perception as well as his indifference. Holding up two nearly identical black dresses in front of her, Jen postured, pivoted, and turned to Stuart.

  “Which one do you think, Stuart?” Holding one out slightly in front of the other, she said, “Does this make me look fat?”

  There are times when it is safer to be a dog than a man.

  To Stuart’s credit, he listened to the words and struggled to make sense of them, as he did with everything Jen said. What he heard was, basically, “Wooga wooga, tak tak, Stuart”. This preserved him.

  “Well?”

  “Well hell.” Sylvia had entered the bedroom and was watching her daughter. She nodded in the direction of the bemused terrier. “You proposing to Stuart? That would make more sense than Arthur Daly.”

  If the comment was intended to unsettle Jen, it failed. Turning to the dog she clasped her hands together, batted her eyes at him, and spoke in her best girlish Disney princess voice.

  “I’d marry him in a minute. He’s so handsome.” Turning back to her mother, she simpered a second time. “Don’t you think so, mom? Wouldn’t he make a good husband? I don’t have anything against short men.”

  “How about those with protruding eyeballs?” At this, and for no particular reason, Stuart let out a couple of excited barks, delighted to suddenly be the center of attention even if he had no idea why. Sylvia made a face at him.

  “Hi, Stuart.” Serious now, she turned away from dog and back to daughter. “Jen, don’t stay out too late tonight, okay? Your appointment with Derek Jones on the Alta Vista property is at nine. I told him you couldn’t see him today because you were busy with Stuart. You need to be in business mode. Not in post—well, whatever ‘post’ mode you end up in.”

  Jen sighed and nodded. She had been down this road before. The U.S. had Route 66 for a mother road and she had Sylvia. “Right, mom. Business mode. What other modes are there?”

  Her mother wasn’t having any of it. She was going to build her daughter’s success despite the snark, despite indifference, despite any and all objections. Jen could waffle when she reached Sylvia’s age. Secure, comfortable, able to do what she wished and go where she wanted. She would and could achieve all of that.

  With her mother’s help, of course.

  “There’s also eating mode and sleeping mode. That’s it. No other modes. Not until your banker smiles every time you walk into their office. Then you can play around with other modes. And then I won’t have to worry about you.

  Jen’s exasperation monitor went from a five to an eight. “Mom, this ‘pet friendly realtor’ was all your idea, not mine. This isn’t Manhattan and I’m not selling ten thousand square foot penthouses off Central Park. Go easy.”

  Her mother put up a hand, thereby contradicting her own recent assertion. Apparently, there was business mode, sleeping mode, eating mode, and shut-up-because-your-mother-has-something-to-say mode.

  “Let me ask you a question. Does the pet friendly realtor like the money she’s making?”

  Jen had no retort for that. “She’s not complaining.”

  Sensing an opening, Sylvia pressed her advantage. “Would she rather go back to working in college cafes and singing pet friendly songs with Stuart for two dollar tips?”

  It didn’t matter that Stuart understood not a word of what was being said. The mention of his name always elicited a bark regardless of the context. Jen eyed him fondly.

  “He would.”

  “Great! He can study to be the human friendly realtor’s assistant. Business mode it is!”

  Jen shook her head. “You watch way too much Tony Robbins”.

  Having won the argument and made her point, Sylvia was prepared to offer a slight (albeit meaningless) concession. “Maybe I do, a bit. I’m also thinking maybe you should slow down with the Arthur thing. Especially if it’s going to complicate your professional life.”

  Jen made a face. “The Arthur thing? You mean the ‘Arthur thing’ I’ve been involved with for much of my adult life? We’ve been going together for seven years. I think that qualifies as more than a ‘thing’.” She smiled, a young woman’s thoughts turning to flights not of fancy but of fancy-colored stones. “In fact, tonight we’re having dinner at Pompeo’s. Where I expect he will pop the question.” She met her mother’s gaze. “I believe it will involve yet another mode you didn’t list.”

  Sylvia was not impressed. “Really? How many times did you think the question was being popped before? You want me to jog your memory? I can’t remember all of them, but I have a few choice ones stored away.” Her smile twisted. “It’s one of the things mothers do.”