Items required for the care and maintenance of one energetic Labrador retriever:
- A large crate with a comfy cushion inside.
- Soft treats for training and manipulation purposes.
- Hard treats to get rid of the urge to chew on shoes (but not so hard to hurt sensitive puppy teeth).
- Poop bags. No other explanation necessary.
- A cozy dog bed.
- A sturdy water bowl and a food bowl.
- Doggie shampoo.
- A brush.
- A pooper scooper.
- A toy reminding me of Mr. Darcy.
Perhaps the Mr. Darcy toy, a little stuffed man in a black top hat and tails, was unnecessary, but I saw it and had to have it. Jackson called me a rude name when I chose it, but Miss Josie seemed charmed as well. She didn’t even argue when I pulled it off the shelf and trotted around the store with it in my mouth.
Mr. Nate insisted she get more dog food, a wise idea, and he carried our purchases back in his First Impressions Café truck. A man with a truck is a handy thing, and I certainly enjoyed riding in it. I sat on the seat between them, grinning ear to ear. Jackson flopped down next to me, and I felt a certain amount of camaraderie between us, in spite of the events of this morning,
“What did you think of the mocha?” asked Mr. Nate.
“Almost as good as hot chocolate.”
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as we waited at a red light. “Hmmm. Not a mocha girl. We’ll have to try something else tomorrow.”
“I’m a tea person, Nate,” she said. “I’m not going to change.”
“We’ll see,” he said, and it suddenly occurred to me this might be a ploy for Mr. Nate to spend more time with Miss Josie. If so, his genius extended far beyond the magic of hot beverage preparation. I gave him a steady look, trying to assess if his intentions were honorable or not. He caught me staring at him and patted my head. “So, what made you name this little gangster Capone?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “He came with the name, but it doesn’t suit him.”
“Are you going to change it?”
“Oh, definitely.”
I held up my Mr. Darcy toy hopefully. This could be my big chance. “Please call me Mr. Darcy. Please call me Mr. Darcy.”
Jackson looked at me out of the corner of his eye. Or at least I thought it was the corner. It’s kind of hard to tell with a pug. “Are you kidding me?”
“No,” I said, although it came out muffled with Mr. Darcy in my mouth. “He’s the epitome of a multi-dimensional literary character and a fine example of a gentleman. Why wouldn’t I want to be named after him?”
Jackson laughed, and the sound hovered somewhere between a chuckle and a raspy guffaw. “He, he, he, he,” he said. “Because a dog named ‘Mr. Darcy’ would get beat up by the other dogs. It’s a name chicks give to dogs, but no self-respecting pooch would want it. Asking for a name like Mr. Darcy is like asking to be humped, frankly speaking.”
“Humped?” I asked, confused.
Jackson rolled his googly eyes at me. “I’ll explain later, when you’re older. The point is don’t ask for a stupid name. Stick with what you have. Your name is awesome. It demands respect.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Who was Capone anyway?”
Jackson blinked his buggy puggy eyes in surprise. “You don’t know?”
I shook my head. “No. Was he someone important?”
“Well, in certain circles, I guess,” said Jackson. “He led an interesting life, and even though he died from the pox, he was tough and tough guys are cool.”
“What’s the pox?” I asked, confused by so much of what Jackson said.
“Uh, we’ll discuss that later. When you’re older. But trust me, kid. You have an impressive name. Much better than Darcy.”
Mr. Nate spoke, interrupting our conversation. “He looks like a Capone to me.”
Jackson gave me a knowing nod. “See what I mean? Real men like the name. Trust me.”
I didn’t trust him. I knew Mr. Darcy would be a much better fit for me.
“What names are you thinking about?” asked Mr. Nate. “For Capone.”
“Well, probably something literary,” she said. I nudged her with my Darcy toy, but she ignored me. “If he’d been a girl, it would have been easy. I would have named him Jane.”
“For Jane Austen?”
“Of course. But a boy dog is trickier. Naming him Austen doesn’t feel quite right. Nor does Brontë. I thought about doing something substantial and classical, like Shakespeare or Chaucer, but neither of those fit.” I climbed on her lap and tried to stick the Darcy doll in her face, pleading with her. She shoved it away. “Stop it.”
Mr. Nate considered the options. “I don’t know. Capone seems perfect.”
Miss Josie rolled her eyes. “I cannot have a dog named Capone.”
“When the name is right, you’ll know it, but you’d better decide soon. You don’t want to confuse him.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Your advice is so appreciated.” Even though she sounded a little snooty, he winked at her, a smile tugging at his lips.
“It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a dog in possession of a name like Capone, must be in want of a new one.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re already reading Pride and Prejudice?”
“I read the first two chapters before I brought your coffee over this morning, so I’m ahead of the game. You’re going to have to drink more to catch up.”
She snorted, not a ladylike sound, but still somehow adorable. “Not going to happen.”
He ignored her attitude and kept talking. “So how did you become the owner of Bartleby’s?”
“I worked for the old owner, Benjamin Bartleby, since high school. When he passed away, I’d just finished my master’s degree in library science, and he left the shop to me. It was a huge shock, and upset some of the other employees, but I think he understood how I felt about old books, and knew I’d carry on the tradition.”
“How do you feel about old books?”
She gazed out the window at the passing scenery, a faraway look in her eyes. “Old books aren’t like new books. They have more character. From the bindings to the detailed artwork inside, each one is a mystery and a delight. It might look worn and misused on the outside, but then you open it, and you realize it’s magic. When I’m in a place full of books, especially old books, it’s like I’m less…alone. Like I’m with old friends, people I know and love, and it’s the best feeling in the world.”
Mr. Nate seemed fascinated by every word coming out of her mouth. I understood why. I felt the same way. “Are there any books you dream of acquiring?”
“I’d love to have an original, first edition, signed copy of the book I gave you this morning, Pride and Prejudice. It’s a pipe dream, though.”
“Why?”
“Jane Austen barely signed any books,” she said. “Before Mr. Bartleby sold the shop to me, he had a lead on one. Unfortunately, it fell apart. According to his records, he purchased the book, but he never listed it in his inventory. It’s like it disappeared.”
“Books can’t disappear, but inventory certainly can. I once thought I’d lost an entire shipment of Brazilian coffee only to find someone had mislabeled it. Maybe something similar happened to you,” he said as we pulled into the alley on the side of the shop.
She gave him a sad little smile. “I’m not so lucky.”
“Well, perhaps your luck is about to change,” he said, and when I barked in agreement, he laughed. “See? Even Capone thinks I’m right.”
We got out of the truck, and Mr. Nate helped carry Miss Josie’s purchases inside. “I’ll bring your coffee over first thing in the morning. Do you need any help with Capone?”
“No. I can manage.”
He raised an eyebrow at her words. “When dogs misbehave, it’s the owner who’s to blame.”
“Is that so?” she asked.
Mr. Nate, oblivious to the brewing storm, plowed ahead. “Yes. A puppy needs a safe environment, and this place is a dog disaster zone. There is far too much temptation. Do you want him to eat your books?”
“Of course not.”
“Then be proactive. Study things from Capone’s perspective. See the world the way he sees it. Get down on your hands and knees if you have to.”
Jackson fell over on the floor laughing. “Get down on your hands and knees. Hilarious.”
I decided Jackson was a complex and confusing creature. Better to ignore him.
Miss Josie opened her mouth, likely to respond to Mr. Nate’s unsolicited advice, but she got distracted by something, and her gaze went to the front window of the shop. She let out a frustrated huff and marched outside, cell phone in hand. Cars occupied two of the spots directly in front of the bookstore. Miss Josie muttered to herself as she took note of the license plate numbers on each of the cars.
“What are you doing?” asked Mr. Nate, watching Miss Josie punch in numbers on her cell phone.
“Calling a tow truck,” she said, enunciating each word. “This parking is for my customers only.”
He frowned at her. “But your shop isn’t even open yet. What’s the harm?”
She glanced at her watch. “It opens in twenty minutes, but that’s beside the point. These are my spots for my customers. Your customers can park anywhere else on the block but not right here.”
“I get it, but do you have to have them towed? I’ll run over to First Impressions and let them know…”
She shook her head, holding up one finger to silence him. “Hello, is this Gilarno’s Towing? I’m Josephine St. Clair of Bartleby’s Books, and I have two cars parked in front of my shop illegally. Will you please come and remove them? Thank you.”
She shut off her phone. Mr. Nate made a noise of disgust. “You are a real piece of work. I can’t believe you called a tow truck.”
“And I can’t believe you don’t provide adequate parking for your customers.”
He didn’t answer. He gave Miss Josie another dark look and stomped away. Jackson waddled off behind him. We went back into the shop, and a few minutes later, a rather harried-looking woman with a toddler in tow rushed toward one of the parked cars. She shot Miss Josie a dirty look before climbing into her minivan. Following her was a middle-aged, balding man who hobbled over with a brace on his foot and jumped into his car. He shot Miss Josie a dirty look, too.
Miss Josie went inside and inhaled a deep, shaky breath as she slumped against the door, her shoulders drooping. “I’m right, you know,” she said.
I’m not an expert on women or humans in general, but I think we both knew one thing. A person could be right and wrong at the same time.