Not too long ago I listed a beautiful estate in the fabulous enclave of Tuxedo Park, NY. Tuxedo Park is home to fabulously wealthy and fabulously famous New Yorkers who enjoy a secure and secluded lifestyle just 40 minutes from Manhattan. Within this gated and guarded enclave are thousands of acres of forest, three lakes, all guarded by a private police force. Residents enjoy a private school, a quaint stone church and a very private (read “outrageously expensive”) country club, offering fine dining, swimming, tennis, golf and sailing to its exclusive membership.
My listing was a splendid old mansion, a perfect symbol of luxurious living. You know, 24 bedrooms and 15 bathrooms, plus third floor staff quarters as required by its original 19th century owners. The current owners (and I) were delighted one day when we received an enquiry by potential buyers from Europe. They were in New York, and wanted an immediate viewing of the property.
When I contacted the owners to schedule the impromptu visit, I was told they had suffered a family emergency and were leaving immediately. They asked if I could pick up a key and provided me with their security firm’s details should other showings happen while they were away. “No problem,” I told them and set off to the property post haste.
When I arrived about 45 minutes later I let myself into the huge and imposing center hall. The massive stone fireplace was 
guarded by two knights in shining armor. The house was dark and eerily quiet as I set off down the long hallway, flanked on either side by large oil paintings of austere relatives whose eyes seemed to follow my every move in a very Harry Potter sort of way.
Suddenly I heard a sound that terrified me. “S*@t!,” I swore to the austere relatives, “The dogs are out.” The owner’s two attack Dobermans live in a glorified indoor kennel with electronic doors connecting it to an outdoor run. The owner’s security company insisted on the dogs to protect the owners and the contents of the home (Faberge eggs et al.), as the many windows and doors are difficult to keep secure with electronics. I had been introduced to the dogs when I signed contracts, and as an animal person I didn’t get a scary vibe from them. I allowed them to pick up my scent through the bars of their kennel.
But now I was really scared and in seconds they charged down the hall toward me. Conjuring up an enormous amount of adrenaline-powered courage, I turned to greet them and brightly and confidently enough to win an Oscar said, ”Hi Doggies, what are you doing out of your kennel? Remember me? I’m the Realtor!” In reality, I was thinking, “OMG I’m going to die!” The dogs skidded (cartoon style) to a halt. They were alert, sniffing my feet, and very interested. From the back of my mind came the sage words of a dog trainer friend of mine. “Never show fear to a dog.”
Not in my wildest dreams would I ever imagine that I could do what I did next…
“Come doggies” I cooed to them, “let’s find some biscuits. Biscuits! Come on, let’s find some Biscuits in the Kit-Chen.” I excitedly talked to them in my native Brit speak, which apparently comes out when I’m in a panic! I turned my back to them and calmly (yeah right,) walked towards the kitchen door, talking in my best doggie-speak non-stop, all the time wondering how long it would take them to tear me to little bits if they wanted to.
In the kitchen, I started to open cupboards searching for something to distract the now even more inquisitive dogs. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I discovered a cupboard full of breakfast cereals and ripped open a box of cornflakes, scattering the entire contents on the kitchen floor. “Look what I found for you doggies!”, I said. “Cornflakes, you’re really going to like Cornflakes.” I said excitedly, hoping beyond belief that they would indeed, like Cornflakes.
Whew! They loved Cornflakes, and as they started devouring the mess on the floor, I grabbed the key from the counter and backed slowly out the side door. Immediately they pounced, barking madly and jumping up at the door, but fortunately for me, they were too late.
I got back to the car and called the security company. The operator yells at me, “How the hell did you get out alive! You should be dead!”
And when I finally got hold of my clients, their sentiments were much the same…
So much for loving the Realtor.
The moral of this story is: The next time you venture into a home with Dobermans, bring a steak. Or maybe two.
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