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The impression in the advertisement had been of a dog that probably yapped a lot. So it's maybe a surprise when ringing the doorbell does not result in a flurry of barking from inside the apartment - maybe enough of a surprise to suggest the idea that America has received the wrong unit number, when the ensuing wait for the door to open stretches on towards a minute.

It opens at last, and America finds herself approximately eye level with a face that is visibly flustered even beneath a sheet mask printed with a somewhat-horrifying cartoon rabbit. The face's owner is in a fluffy bathrobe and a fuzzy headband with yellow cat ears on it, which also lends to the idea that maybe she has the wrong number, but the dog is unmistakable. It is cradled in one arm--the other is holding a phone as if to check the time--and gazes at America with watery, nervous eyes, broadcasting a general silent plea for mercy as if it anticipates violence from any unknown person. It is wearing a pink sweater that says DIVA on it in rhinestones. No animal has ever looked less like a diva. It does not yap. Perhaps it is afraid to.

"You're forty five minutes early," says Elaine, flustered.

The dog, trembling, looked at America's outstretched hand and somewhat remarkably did, in fact, extend the tiniest paw in the world in obedient response.

Elaine surveyed her hire. It was all aboveboard, of course, but all the same she was startled to see how damned young she looked. Normally she might have shot back something sardonic about how punctuality runs both ways, but this was essentially a child, and it seems somehow gauche to snub a child. It was cold out. And so, with a sigh, she stepped aside to let her into an apartment that would be almost entirely without personality beyond Landlord Special Beige, were it not for several very expensive looking dog beds, a shelf full of both file boxes and books, and - perhaps of particular interest to a teenage girl - an actual genuine sword hung over the electric fireplace.

"I know your name," she said, unable to resist being a little snippy, although primarily because she was extremely irritated at Pattycakes, which was an incredibly good nickname that Elaine was annoyed at not having thought of for herself first. "I'm--" she paused. Was this a "Miss Carlisle" situation? No, that probably wasn't cool "--Elaine. There is soda in the fridge," she added primly. "I guess you'll have to hang out here while I get ready." She put the dog down on the floor, where it momentarily cowered before tentatively approaching America, cringing the entire way.

Well, at least the behavior towards the dog was appropriate, with Pattycakes - no, Petitcru - responding with a sort of desperately hopeful affection.

"You can pick her up, just be careful" said Elaine with a sniff, turning to disappear into the next room, although she leaves the door open behind her. The bedroom she goes into on the way to the bathroom is similarly devoid of much personality, save for a little cluster of framed prints that America may or may not have seen before through cultural osmosis - dead woman in a boat, guy being knighted, sinister looking woman wearing leopard fur - and she left the doors open behind her as she yanked off the sheet mask and started setting about Putting her Face On, as her mother would call it, marshalling an impressive chaos of makeup and skincare scattered over her vanity.

"There's a list of feeding and walk instructions on the table," she said, lifting her voice so that it would carry over America's chatter. "They're not that much, and your uncle told me that you're real attentive."

"Not that much" seemed to be a matter of subjective opinion, as there were in fact four stapled pages of printed-out directions on the table, with meticulous instruction arranged in bulleted lists. "How old are you, again? Like twelve?"

Given that Petitcru's digestive needs were both important and complex, Elaine allowed for America to read them aloud to her hapless hostage all the way through, commentary and all. By the time she was done Elaine was making incredibly rapid progress - this, also, might call to mind Aunt Bitsy, as Elaine and this fabled aunt probably had a great deal in common in some ways - and was applying winged liner in an expert, swift stroke.

"If you give her three," she said at last, with the strained voice that comes of trying to talk while applying mascara, "she will make you regret it. Take extra poop bags and lay down extra pads, that's all I can say." She paused, glancing at America in the mirror, a skeptical expression on her face. "What is that, like sophomore year? Saving up for a car?"

Somewhat surprisingly, especially for a woman who radiates a low-level sense of superiority that borders on disapproval, Elaine did not question this. She applied a bright red lipstick after a nod of understanding, even though she had just had to sort out what the ******** the girl had meant by Romanov's Corporeal Hangout and was starting to wish she'd broken up the list into smaller bullet points.

Elaine was, in many ways, a realist, with an upbringing that had made her understand intimately that the ability to live one's ideal life was not often linked with being able to pronounce a big word, and had more to do with being able to squirrel away cash and think for oneself, something that the girl already clearly had a grip on.

"That's a good plan," she said, running an immaculate fingernail against the edge of her lip to clean up some imperceptible imperfection. "If you've got the money to do it you should always get out of everyone's yoke but your own as soon as you can manage it. I moved out the day I turned eighteen and I have never looked back," she added. "I'd have done seventeen if I could."

The closet door was hanging open, and it seemed to have a lot of lace and shiny fabric in it and strewn across the bed where she had been packing an overnight bag. Everything had a lingering smell of perfume clinging to it. Petitcru sneezed gently.

"Goes double if you're a girl," she added calmly, pulling off the headband and a hair clip to shake out loose blonde curls. "Everyone is gonna spend your whole life thinking they know better than you do what you need. And almost every one of them is going to be wrong."

Wherever the puppy clothes were, they were well-hidden. Possibly Elaine thoughtfully kept them away from her perfume-riddled closets.Possibly she did not trust her petsitters not to play excessive amounts of dress up.

She snorted with appreciation, running her hands through her hair to shake it into shape, closing the bathroom door all but a crack to get dressed while she kept talking. "You learned that one early. But fear is useful, if you use it. Sometimes it's good to have people afraid of you," she added, her voice meditative. "Especially men."

There was a lengthy pause broken up by the rustling of clothes being put on, and finally ended by Elaine emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of good smells, shaking down her hair again and wearing what was close enough to businesswear - albeit quite bosomy, and with enough bare skin to expose two tattoos in not-strictly-appropriate places - to pass without comment, especially for someone like America, whose primary knowledge of businesswear wasn't exactly coming from a bunch of women picking up phones in an office somewhere.

She slipped a foot into her heels, bending down to pull them up with a noise of irritation.

"Come back in a few years and I can probably answer that better than I can right now," she said drily. "But I can tell you right now that if you're afraid of it getting weird with men you're already playing a losing game. It's always going to get weird. They don't have any other way of operating." She spoke of men as if they were in her eyes some sort of separate, occasionally useful species. "Might as well accept it upfront."

"Her mama always looks hot to trot," said Elaine drily, reaching out to pet Petitcru's trembling little forehead. The dog's tail vibrated as if it was uncertain how to wag it, exactly, but was willing to make a show of effort.

The final step, apparently, was putting up her hair, which she began to do, speaking around a mouthful of bobby pins. "Don't ever date a man for more than a few months," advised Elaine. "Unless he's rich and you think you might marry him, in which case you need that time to figure out if there's any skeletons in that closet. But I wouldn't worry about that for a while if I were you," she added mildly, in what might have been more of a piece of outright advice had she not just essentially told America to disregard advice about how to live her life. "Anything a boyfriend can give you you can get from a good friend and a Tinder date and a--" she caught herself, remembering she was speaking to a teenager. "--and a good bank account," she finished, instead. "And it'll come with less trouble."