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her in sooner, but they’re only open one week-
    end a month.”
    I hesitated, vacillating between idealism and realism. A true
    friend would offer to pay for an earlier appointment. But I had my own money issues. “I wish I could help but—”
    30
    George responded with an insincere smile. “Don’t you worry,
    ma’am. Bella likes the folks at the free clinic, and they’re good with her. I wouldn’t take her anywhere else.”
    “How are you going to get Bella all the way to Southcenter?” I
    could at least offer him a ride.
    “It’s pretty easy, actually. Bella loves riding the bus. The drivers even keep a stash of cookies for her. We’ll get there, no problem.”
    I guiltily counted the days until that fateful appointment. Bella got alarmingly thinner, and George’s face grew more concerned.
    The angry words outside my door changed from “Control that
    beast!” to “If you can’t afford a dog, you shouldn’t have one!”
    I wanted to throw open the door and tell those obnoxious
    strangers what they could do with their rude opinions. I stopped
    myself only by imagining the headline: “Yoga Teacher Starts Fist
    Fight Outside Studio.” I even tried practicing loving-kindness
    meditation. But instead of feeling waves of love flow from my
    heart, I felt white-hot daggers of indignation shoot from my eye
    sockets. Buddha needn’t fear for his job any time soon.
    Saturday finally arrived. I waved goodbye, sent George posi-
    tive energy, and waited, hoping for good news. I looked for George Saturday evening, to no avail. Saturday turned into Sunday, turned into Monday, turned into Tuesday. Although I searched for him
    every day at eleven, he failed to show up for his route.
    Unaccountably depressed and fearing the worst, I went on with
    my life. What else could I do?
    31
    four
    “You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered. I punched the numbers in again, but the studio’s calculator stubbornly refused
    to change its mind. “This can’t be right. How can we possibly be
    down to $300 in the studio account?
    “No new candles this month, I guess. Maybe I’ll ask students
    to reuse paper cups and bring their own toilet paper.” I tossed the traitorous device to the side. Grumbling felt good, but it didn’t change the bottom line. My bank account gave the phrase going for broke a whole new meaning.
    For the 937th time, I wondered what malfunctioning brain syn-
    apse compelled me, of all people, to open a yoga studio. The day
    I got my foot behind my head would be the day I chopped it off
    at the ankle,and my short, stubby legs hardly merited the cover of Yoga Journal . As for achieving yoga’s supposed blissful state of samadhi? Well, let’s just say that I had yet to discover the path to enlightenment.
    But in life’s toughest times, yoga kept me going.
    32
    So when my father passed away and left me his house and a
    small inheritance, the choice seemed obvious. I quit my stable,
    good-paying, full-benefits job and opened Serenity Yoga.
    I started by designing the studio’s layout and décor, naively ag-
    onizing over every detail. I shopped for hours at New Age stores
    all across Seattle, looking for the perfect selection of door chimes, water fountains, meditation cushions, and Tibetan singing bowls.
    I replaced the carpeting in the studio’s single practice room with solid maple flooring and strategically placed colorful pots filled with tropical plants all around the reception area. I even hung motivational artwork that implored my students to “live well, laugh often, and love much.” At the time, I thought every detail was crucial. At the time, I thought I was creating a sanctuary of physical and emotional healing.
    I can only plead temporary insanity.
    As my accountant had told me several times since, anyone with
    half a brain would have realized that I was constructing a 1500
    square foot money pit. Forget dining on caviar and sipping Dom
    Perignon. At the rate I was going, Top Ramen and tap