The bell over the door chimes and a young woman walks in with a freshly groomed silver standard poodle, full-on with painted nails and a diamond collar that probably isn’t fake. I look from the dog to her owner, relieved that I don’t know either of them. My gut reaction is to despise her. Anyone who paints their dog’s nails is on my not happening list, even if she is really pretty—which she is. She’s totally got that trophy wife air about her, except there’s no giant rock on her finger, so she must be a wannabe trophy wife. Her dark blonde hair is up in a ponytail. She’s dressed in yoga pants and a fitted long-sleeved T-shirt for that cute girl-next-door look. She probably paid an extra hundred for that tiny hole near the bottom of her shirt, you know, to make it look like she’s not trying.
Aldo points to the door and yells, “NO DOGS!”
The chances that a woman like her will take no for an answer are about as good as me painting my own nails. In other words, it’s not happening.
She gives him a pathetic look, complete with puppy dog eyes. “I’m just here to pick up my order and I’m worried about leaving her outside.”
There it is. She’s clearly not used to hearing no and she’s about to put up a big fuss. I bet she’ll threaten to skewer them on Yelp before she leaves.
“No dogs. OUT!” Aldo shouts.
“Can you bring me the pizza then? It’s under the name Autumn.”
Autumn. That figures. These Upper East Side women always have chichi froufrou names.
The man in line turns to glare at her. “Would you mind waiting your turn?”
“Sorry, yeah,” she says, looking more flustered than I’m used to seeing in this neighborhood full of privilege.
Also, she just apologized and is now leaving without yelling, threatening, or telling him he just made the biggest mistake of his life. She must be very new at being filthy rich, but she’ll learn.
Autumn turns around to open the door, only to get caught up in the leash. I watch as she loses her balance, then flails her arms which, unfortunately for her, is the universal sign for “let’s wrestle” in the dog world. The poodle leaps up, wags her tail, and bounces as though agreeing to the terms of play. The owner’s weak words of “Celine, no!” mean nothing. In fact, the volume and panicked tone only excite the poodle more. Before I can get up to help her, the woman tips sideways and lands in a huge potted plant with the dog pinning her to the dirt and licking her face. “Celine Dion Josephine Bonaparte, get down girl,” she says, uselessly.
“That’s it, now you’ve upset my plant.” Aldo hollers. “Go!”
“I’m trying!” she calls back.
Oh, for … I get up and firmly take Celine Dion Josephine Bonaparte (what kind of name is that?) by the collar, lift her off Autumn, and firmly tell the canine, “Stay.”