There are VIPs, and then there are VIP 8s. If you worked at the Westin Seattle long enough, you learned the difference. VIP didn't mean important. VIP 8 meant: Proceed carefully. High maintenance. This could go either way.
Mrs. Love was a VIP 8.
Before she ever arrived, we had a packet. Not a note. Not a profile. A multi-page document. Meetings were held. Departments aligned. We went through it line by line like we were preparing for a state visit.
The Rules
Temperature settings. Pillow configurations. Laundry expectations. Room layout. Timing. Tone. We covered all of it. And then we got to the dog.
There were at least ten rules about the dog. Do not pet the dog. Do not touch the dog. Do not acknowledge the dog. Do not make eye contact with the dog. Do not refer to the dog.
And finally, underlined like it mattered more than anything else:
We didn't know who Mrs. Love was. But we knew she had history. High-level Starwood Platinum. Stays at flagship Westins in Paris, Tokyo — everywhere. Call logs that went on for pages. She had credentials. Which meant she could be a problem. Or she could be very profitable.
The Arrival
The day she arrived, the whole place was on edge.
And then she walked in.
With the dog.
It wasn't subtle. Big. Fluffy. Calm. Something like a malamute. The kind of dog that doesn't sneak into a hotel lobby. We all saw it — bell desk, front desk, concierge. Nobody said a word. Just quick glances. Side-eyes. Silent communication.
I took her bags up. The dog came with us. Walked into the room. Sat there. Real as anything. I didn't look at it. Not really. Because you couldn't. Because — well. You know.
We got her settled. She tipped well. A clean twenty. That helped. We thought maybe we were through the hard part.
We were not.
The Calls
Service Express lit up like a switchboard from another era. Pillows — ten of them. Swap them. Then swap them again. Iron not right, replace it. Laundry out, laundry back, dry cleaning, timing matters. Temperature adjustments. Re-adjustments. She knew the system. She knew how to use the system. And she used all of it.
Meanwhile she'd walk through the lobby with her dog.
That did not exist.
This went on for days. And then she checked out. We all exhaled. And immediately knew she'd be back.
Every time — same packet, same meeting, same rules.
The Shift
But something shifted. Over time, she got easier. Or maybe we got better. At some point, someone acknowledged the dog. Nothing happened. The world didn't end. So eventually we pet the dog.
Turns out, great dog. Calm. Friendly. Honestly? Exactly what that place needed. Because if any building ever needed a therapy dog, it was the Westin Seattle.
She started trusting a few of us. Me. A guy on another shift. We were in. Which meant we got the good assignments. We'd take the dog out for walks. Around the block. Through downtown. Sometimes over to Top Pot Doughnuts — pick up coffee and donuts for her. And for us too. She insisted. So there we were, walking a very real dog in very fake circumstances through Seattle like it was completely normal.
The Room
We never really figured out what she did. But her room — that was something. Post-it notes everywhere. Walls covered. Ideas. Fragments. Structure. Looked like a novel. Or ten novels. We guessed she was a writer. But like everything else with Mrs. Love, we never confirmed it.
She stayed that way for a long time. High maintenance. Generous. Strange. Kind, in her own way.
Gone
And then one day she was gone. Maybe she was 86'd. Maybe she moved on. No one ever gave a clear answer. She just stopped coming back.
After a while, even the stories faded. The meetings stopped. The packet disappeared. The rules didn't get read anymore.
But every once in a while, someone would bring it up: "Remember Mrs. Love?"
And someone else would say — "Yeah… the dog."
And then someone would correct them: