Fig's First Haircut

Fig has been your dog for four months, and he's scared of almost everything: the vacuum cleaner, the mailman, the sound of ice in a glass. So you're not sure about today. The little grooming place on Grand Street is warm and smells like soap.

At the door, Fig stops. All thirty pounds of him. You pull the leash. He doesn't move.

“Don't pull,” the groomer says. She sits down on the floor, looks away from him, and puts one hand flat on the tiles. “He'll come.”

You wait. Fig hides behind your legs. Then he takes one step. Then another. He smells her hand and sits down next to her knee, and you feel a little better.

“Come back in an hour,” she says. “First haircut's free.”

You hope he'll be okay. You drink a coffee across the street and look at your phone about forty times.

When you come back, Fig is white. You forgot he was white under all that hair. He has a fancy blue thing around his neck, and he runs to you. Then he runs back to the groomer and sits down on her foot.

“Same time next month?” she asks.

“I think he just said yes,” you say.