Last week I went to a debutante ball for a dog. Janie, my coworker, adopted a tiny white mutt from the shelter and wanted to give it a formal debut. She took it to the groomers, gave it two weeks of behavioral training, purchased a leather collar with a big fake sapphire. The invitation sat on my desk—a photo of the dog on the kitchen tile, camera flash shimmering in the sapphire. In bold letters, the card read “Ta-Da, Presenting Carla Rose!” The back of the invitation had instructions for the party; dress code (casual gowns, semiformal ball dresses, black tie for the fellas), gift requirements (suggested limit—$80), and ways to greet the dog upon her arrival (neck scratches okay, belly rubs discouraged, and NO BABY TALK!). Old me would’ve declined, waited for pictures on the Internet, made fun of Janie on a smoke break. But I was trying on New Me. I thought, why not. Why shouldn’t Janie have a party for a dog? The world is a bubble on a baby’s tongue.
I arrived to the party on time, which was an act of kindness. Old Me thought only dreadful bores arrived to parties on time, and anyone worth partying with arrived half an hour late. I set my gift on the table beside the door—a toaster oven. I was not sure if the gift was supposed to be for Janie or Carla Rose, and figured a toaster oven might benefit either one of them. Perhaps she could toast the dog’s Milk-Bones. A nervous-looking woman on the couch with her legs crossed, holding a box of water crackers, was the only other early arrival. I sat beside her while Janie brought me a glass of wine and we talked about the federal deficit.
When Janie returned, I asked where the dog was.
“Carla Rose will be appearing at eight o’clock,” she said. “It’s her big day.”
The floor above us thumped. Janie put her glass down, excused herself, and went upstairs. More people arrived and I made polite conversation with each one. Old Me would’ve prodded each guest about how strange a debut party for a dog was, used it as an opportunity to gossip about Janie, let the other guests know I was above it all. Instead, we talked about discount stores. We all named our favorites. Most of the women loved Blink’s Buy-Less, another swore by Miffy’s. We ate water crackers and sipped our wine. The glass Janie had given me had a tiny crystal etching that read life is neat u.
Old Me would’ve hated that cup.
At eight, Janie flicked the lights on and off and called for our attention.
“Listen, listen! It’s Carla Rose’s big day. I want everyone to give her space as she makes her entrance.”
Janie disappeared upstairs, and came back holding Carla Rose. I thought we might applaud, but nobody else did, so I abstained. Janie set Carla Rose down on the floor and she scuttled to the kitchen towards her water bowl.
“Say a kind word to her if you can,” Janie announced in a heavy whisper, the sound of lapping behind her. “She’s still very anxious around crowds.”
The other guests weren’t sure what to do—Carla Rose’s big moment had arrived, but she was in the other room, away from the festivities. We were standing around. We were quiet. We couldn’t even see the dog. I stared at my wine glass. u, it said. Janie was watching from the banister, nervous that Carla Rose’s big day, that her big day, was falling apart.
She was old fashioned in the sense that everything was important and needed to matter.
Finally, water cracker woman spoke up.
“You look very nice, Carla Rose,” she said, more to the room of people than the dog itself. Someone agreed. Another person said “Very well groomed!” and a third announced that she had gotten Carla Rose a new ball. “From Miffy’s!” she added.
Janie called for Carla Rose to come hear what people were saying about her, but there was no response. She went to the kitchen and didn’t come back for some time. I caught a whiff of something foul and tried to hold my breath without others noticing but saw two other women gesture and whisper to one another. I realized what had happened—the dog had pooped on the floor, the smell wafted into the living room, and Janie was in the kitchen, discreetly cleaning the mess.
Finally, Janie came back, clutching Carla Rose to her chest, pretending the blunder never happened. She thanked everyone for coming. Carla Rose’s mouth hung open, wet tongue swinging. Without thinking, I spoke up.
“Your dog blow it up in there?” I joked.
A swirl of red moved across the landscape of Janie’s face, from her cheeks to her forehead. There was a look about her but it wasn’t embarrassment, like I’d presumed. It was regret. I knew it felt strange that she’d invited me.
Old Me was losing everybody.
Janie held the moment—too committed to civility to express her resent—until Carla Rose made a little pawing motion in the air, like a tiny conductor orchestrating the room back into rhythm.
I joined the others in celebrating Carla Rose. We complimented her grin, her new haircut, her floppy ears. I scratched her neck and she did a little leg thump against Janie’s forearm. I wanted to pull Janie aside and apologize, but didn’t know what to say. Instead, I was extra kind to Carla Rose, and I think Janie sensed how I was feeling. She smiled at me.
“I’m glad you were able to make it,” she said, offering Carla Rose to me to hold. I accepted her, took her in my arms. She panted, dribbled bits of drool onto my wrist. She didn’t know the party was for her. She didn’t know what a party was. She panted and her sapphire shimmered in the overhead lighting, like a small ocean, like a place with possibilities we’ve hardly imagined, with a pressure so dense our bodies might burst under its magnitude. Perhaps that place is all around us.