Just how I like it

Wondering what could possibly be going on behind the closed doors of the former Uni Cafe, Bwog Detective Henry Litwhiler takes a stab at uncovering a secret dog grooming scheme in the abandoned store.

I’d been waiting for three months to see one of those miserable establishments fade into memory. When the Uni Cafe finally breathed its last, I sharpened my scissors and steeled my resolve—what happens to a dream deferred? It waits for its opening, of course. It sits on soiled streets under the promise of opportunity. It stalks Riverside for inspiration, for the wretched motivation of a job poorly done.

Ours is a city of hacks, quacks, frauds, and delusional messiahs. They meet the canine form in its divinity but can see only a slab of clay in its place. Are they truly so blind as to see no suggestion in its sensual curves? Or are they so maddened by pride as to place their designs over those of God himself?

And it isn’t just the unholy trimming! The shampoo, the bows, the dyes, the brushing—nearly every trick in the modern canine cosmetologist’s toolbox seems bent on perversion. But not mine. No, I’m no modern furdresser. I belong to an older tradition, one built on a kind of humble grit that the modern professional so often lacks. The sight of a hound spurs me to enhance, never to profane.

As I saw the last gravel-caked van drive off with the last piece of detachable furniture from that ill-fated cafe, I made my way from my post at the bus stop to m2m. My gaze was steady and professional as I approached the counter.

“Health department,” I said, flashing my HamDel loyalty card.

The cashier’s face went pale.

“You were just here last week,” he said, weakly.

“I need to see your basement,” I said.

Ten minutes later, I had all the photographs I needed and a person-sized hole carved into the wall separating m2m’s basement from its neighbor’s.

I returned the next night shortly after 2 AM, tools of the trade in hand. Before the cashier could say anything, I slid a manila envelope across the counter. She looked confused, then terrified.

“I’ll be coming every night from now on,” I said, motioning to the basement door. “Others, too—they’ll have dogs.” The cashier grimaced but quickly nodded in resignation.

It used to be an honorable trade. You didn’t need dirty tactics like that to be a pooch pruner in this city. A man could be wrist-deep in hound bush without having to explain anything to anyone. Then came Giuliani, Broken Windows, Stop and Frisk—next thing I knew, I was slapped with three months in County for dog-grooming without a license. A few months later came the court order to keep 500 feet between me and all city dog parks.

I’m not proud of where the next twenty years took me. I grew a beard, dyed my hair, and started moving from animal shelter to animal shelter, grooming as many of the little waggers as I could before anyone was the wiser. I slept in a cage with the dogs most nights, staring at the fluorescent bulbs and dreaming of new ways to honor the noble beasts around me. (Other nights, I worked as a landscaper; I was briefly put in charge of hedge-trimming, but some clients weren’t smitten by my “sensual and provocative” creations.)

My enemies, meanwhile, hounded me day and night, taking out ads in trade journals and organic pet food magazines for the sole purpose of slandering my name. As the years went on, my once-loyal clients left me one by one. They’d see me in the street now and again—some would offer me a platitude about how they wished they’d never left me, but I knew the truth. They were happy with the safety they found elsewhere, with the kind of dog grooming you could show off to your brunch friends. They didn’t care about beauty anymore. Maybe they never had.

But enough about those days. I had new digs, a new set of black market dog perfumes, and a new leash on life.

I spent the next hour meticulously taping black garbage bags over the cafe windows, testing the electricity, and establishing a waiting area. Furniture was no concern—my kind of client would stomach any discomfort for the beauty of my art. An empty refrigerator box would suffice for a trimming bench; the rest would come down to my skill, to my courage, to my vision.

By 3:30 AM, the stage was set. I’d called on my few remaining professional contacts to quietly spread the word that I was planning a comeback. To my old enemies, my new storefront would bring fear; to my old clients, inspiration. But more important than any of those petty issues was the revolution my return could bring to the industry. Guerrilla grooming could pave the way to a brighter future. Regulation, commodification, corporatization—every miserable trend in the biz could meet its end by my scissors.

I laid out my implements and gazed expectantly at the basement door. Any moment could bring a flash of past glory; I scarcely blinked, lest I miss the moment of my renaissance. Just as I was readying myself to accept bitter defeat, I heard footsteps approaching. I perked my ears, desperately hoping to hear the signature tak tak tak tak of canine paws. As the visitor drew closer to the door, however, I could make out only a steady thud, thud. Surely no customer of mine would stoop to carrying a dog, no matter its size! Did my ears deceive me?

The latch turned, the door swung open, and from the darkness emerged the figure of a man. His face was dour and wrinkled, his once-comely suit soiled and ill-fitting. Most bizarre of all was the great white dog perched on his head, flaccid with rain. Doubting my senses, I squinted and thrust my head forward—could this man be so cruel as to exploit his dog for protection from the elements?

“Is this your dog, sir?” I asked, gesturing to the beast atop his head.

He stood expressionless for a moment before finally responding in the guarded voice of a bureaucrat. “I have no dog.”

Incredulous, I peered still closer. There were no eyes, to be sure, and the nose of the beast seemed covered entirely by its dirty fur. But surely that was a snout I saw! And its ears—what else could those tufts of white suggest? Suddenly, the stranger took another step into the light, and all was clear.

“Mother of God,” I exclaimed, stumbling backwards. “That’s your—”

“Don’t say it. Please.”

“Surely it isn’t real.”

“Would I be here if it weren’t?”

“I can do nothing for you.”

His eyes suddenly turned pleading. “Fix me,” he said, falling to his knees. “Please.”

Pity overwhelmed me. Could it be done? Could a pawsmetologist like me hope to tackle such a case? Was it my place to tinker with the work of a demon? Perhaps this was merely the man’s albatross—who was I to shrieve him?

Mercy won out in the end, and I conducted him to my makeshift trimming table. From there, the minutes passed like hours, my mind too filled with passion to see beyond the monstrosity before me. Neither of us uttered a word for the duration of the procedure, so it felt perfectly natural when he stood up, collected his sweat-soaked clothes from the corner, and made his way to the door, free at last of the beast atop his skull.

“Will I see you again?” I asked, panting slightly.

“Tomorrow, I think.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“You can call me Lee,” he replied, smiling slightly. He tossed a stack of bills on the floor, brought his index finger to his lips, and slipped into the darkness.

Cute little pup via Shutterstock