Double Dog Dare (11 page)

“He
is
wonderful!” I agreed, just as I saw Shareen Hayhurst come through the waiting area door.

She looked less frumpy and middle-aged here in her work clothes. Designer jeans and a T-shirt similar to Larry’s somehow seemed more appropriate to her mussy blond hair and wrinkly face. Or maybe just being on her home turf suited her.

“Glad you could come, Kendra,” she said, then knelt to greet the canines I’d brought with enthusiastic hugs, which both Lexie and Odin lapped up. “They’re sweet. What are their names?”

I told her, and explained the fortunately minor nature of Odin’s injury.

“Well, Lexie and Odin, you’re in for a treat—or hard work, depending on how you look at it. Come on.” She reached for their leashes, and the pups trotted amiably at her side, as if they’d done so dozens of times.

Larry had brought Dorky in first. The well-trained dog sat calmly in a corner of the large room. Odd, how this place didn’t look like a soundstage from outside but essentially was one, whereas The Clone Arranger’s unique lab environment was disguised to appear similar to a film industry structure.

The floor here was concrete—the better to be able to take on whatever appearance was necessary for the scene a studio was filming, simply by overlaying a compatible covering. Doggy nails clicked on the slick surface, but no canine appeared uncomfortable.

The walls, too, were nondescript. The ceilings were high enough to allow installation of lighting. The aroma was surprisingly dank for L.A., and somewhat musty.

A fair representation of a place an animal might visit, should it be chosen to star in a genuine Hollywood production, I imagined.

“Okay, Larry,” Shareen said. “Run Dorky through his paces.”

That dorky little dog was absolutely adorable. On command, he sat, stayed, stood, rolled over once more to play dead, jumped, crawled, did everything but don bifocals and read Shakespeare.

Shareen had handed me their leashes, so Lexie and Odin were beside me. They stood still, as if stunned.

As Dorky finished, Corbin Hayhurst joined us. He wore khaki slacks and a white, untucked cotton shirt that had started to wrinkle—giving a dorkier impression than Dorky. He greeted my dogs nearly as effusively as his wife had, petting them with his pudgy hands.

“I’ll take Dorky back to his room and give him an extra treat,” Shareen said. “Larry and Corbin can demonstrate a training session for you, and I’ll bring back some stuff we didn’t leave at your office—a more detailed list of which of our students have actually gotten roles, and some notices we’ve sent out when we’ve become aware of auditions. ”

For most of the next half hour, I had charge of Lexie while Larry worked with Odin and Corbin issued instructions. The simple stuff, like sitting and staying, Lexie got right away, since I had trained her that much as a pup. Of course a prolonged stay was out of the question, since she was much too energetic to remain in one location for more than a few seconds at a time.

Odin, on the other hand, listened intently. When he was told to stay, he didn’t move a muscle, except his eyes, until Larry said he could budge. Then Larry issued identical commands to him with sign language, and Odin got that just as fast.

Lying down provided Lexie with a wriggly assumption that she was about to get her tummy rubbed. Odin, on the other hand, lay where he was told. Even rolled over.

Hey, I had a budding canine movie star in my charge— and it wasn’t my own cute but disobedient Cavalier. Nope, a really bright Akita named Odin might someday be given credit on the big screen. Or even moderate-size TV screens. Who knew?

Of course that presupposed I was prepared to do the audition thing with him.

Or Jeff would, when he came back. . . .

Oops. I shouldn’t have allowed my mind to veer in that very dangerous direction. I was suddenly all solemn, fighting as my eyes considered becoming teary.

Fortunately, that was also when Shareen sauntered back into the room, hands filled with file folders, and I used her as a distraction. I approached and asked to look at the contents, ignoring Lexie leaping at my side.

“Did you read the agreement I left with you on Monday? ” she asked.

Fortunately, I had. “The disclaimer seems appropriate,” I said. “You make no guarantees that your students will land film roles.”

“Exactly. That’s on our website, too. But that hasn’t stopped that horrible woman with the pair of Bichons— and they were the hardest dogs of all to get disciplined enough even to audition—from getting a bunch of our students’ owners together to sue us. I’ve got her application and other information in that packet, along with photos of her little white monsters.”

“Good,” I said. “And the class this afternoon really gave me better insight into what those who are casting animals may be looking for. Probably not Lexie, unfortunately, unless someone’s simply after cuteness without obedience.” That pup leaped onto my leg at hearing her name. “Now, Odin on the other hand—”

“He’s a natural,” Larry assured me. “Of course I can’t guarantee anything, but I’d like to take his picture and have our agency represent him. Send him out on auditions, whatever.”

“I’ll need to consider if that’s a kind of conflict of interest, since I’m acting as your company’s attorney in anticipation of litigation. It absolutely would be if I represented the other side, but it’s most likely okay. Especially since I don’t even own Odin.”

“You don’t?” Corbin was the one who appeared upset. “Then why did you bring him?”

I had no intention of getting into a sorrowful explanation, so I simply said, “I’m watching him for a good friend. I suspect it would be okay with his owner if he got into films.”

“Can you sign a contract for your friend?”

“Unfortunately, no,” I said. I’d had Jeff execute one of my official Critter TLC, LLC, animal care contracts, which gave me the authority to get Odin veterinary care if needed, but signing agreements for film roles was above and beyond anything it reasonably anticipated.

“Is your friend somewhere that we could e-mail an agreement to him? Fax it?”

Hell if I knew. “He’s out of touch right now.” I had started to get all antsy. I really didn’t want to delve into details. Instead, I said, “I need to leave now. Thanks for the demo and additional information. If you happen to learn of a role for an Akita, I might have a way of getting consent from a relative.” Jeff’s mom, Irene, might agree, although she probably had no better official authority than I did. “Meantime, I’ll contact plaintiffs’ counsel and see if we can resolve this whole thing amicably.”

“Without paying them anything, Kendra,” Corbin said sternly. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Let me find out what I can about their claims, and then I’ll be in touch,” I told them. I said goodbye to Corbin, Shareen, and Larry, and told them to convey our farewells to adorable Dorky. Then Lexie, Odin, and I got on our way.

TRAFFIC WAS ANYTHING but terrific as we headed home. Not that it was unusual for L.A., but the congestion really soured my state of mind. It was one of those occasions when I kind of comprehended road rage. I mean, the traffic reports on the news radio stations didn’t mention obstructions or accidents on the 5 Freeway or the Hollywood, but both were backed up enough to keep my car crawling nearly the entire way.

As a result, I was in too taut a temper for any kind of nonsense by the time I arrived at my first pet-sitting destination.

Fortunately, Piglet the pug gave me no guff. In fact, he seemed pleased to be visited by Lexie, Odin, and me, and to be taken on a three-dog walk along his residential street. I gave him a huge hug and an extra treat when we departed.

And much to my surprise, Abra and Cadabra, Harold Reddingham’s usually aloof felines, met me at the front door, rubbed their sweet, furry sides against my legs, and even purred. I’d of course left the canines briefly in my car in the shade, since they didn’t play well with cats. I nearly purred back as my mood mellowed and I stroked the kitties’ backs before feeding them and dealing with their litter box.

Then there was Stromboli, the shepherd mix, who yapped and pranced in apparent ecstasy to see my dog companions and me. Next door, Maribelle Openheim came outside her cottagelike house, Meph at her side.

“Any more need to borrow my boy here?” she asked. She smiled fondly down at her little dog, then back up at me. Her well-styled short hair appeared mussed, and her outfit, too—dark slacks and light shirt—seemed to have been donned hurriedly.

“Not today, but soon,” I said. Then, “Is everything okay?”

“Couldn’t be better,” she said. “I’ve got a new guy in my life. I’m making a home-cooked meal for him, so I’m a little frazzled, but I saw you and wanted to say hi.”

“Great!” I responded, meaning it. I’d introduced her to the judge who hadn’t worked out some time ago. I knew widowed Maribelle craved male companionship, so I was delighted she had found someone—hopefully with more staying power than the difficult jurist.

“What about your love life?” Maribelle inquired softly and sympathetically. After all, I’d previously poured out my problems to her. “Any word about Jeff?”

I shrugged sadly. “Not yet.” I attempted to insert optimism into a pseudo-perky tone. “But I haven’t given up on him.”

“Hell, no,” Maribelle agreed. “Hang in there.”

A short while later, after Stromboli was settled for the night in his home, Lexie, Odin, and I headed . . . where? Would we stay at my place or Jeff’s that night? Maybe I’d feel more alive at Jeff’s. Or would I worry even more about whether he was okay?

On the way, I parked to call Rachel for a status report on her pet-sitting availability, in case that made a difference.

“Things are just great, Kendra.”

My young employee sounded extremely gushy, so I had to ask, “Any auditions coming up?”

“Next week. And tomorrow I’m taking Beggar back to Methuselah Manor. Other people will be around with animals to cheer up the residents—and I’m so excited! One is a producer who’s casting for an independent film in a few weeks.”

Methuselah Manor was her nickname for MediCure Manor, a senior citizens’ residence where she’d been bringing her Irish setter for visits. Not long ago, she’d been accused of stealing from the inhabitants, but we’d straightened that out and she’d continued her mission to cheer up the animal-adoring elderly.

“Sounds encouraging,” I said. For her, not necessarily for me. This young lady was so determined to make it as a Hollywood actress that I’d little doubt that she’d succeed someday, out of sheer willpower.

“See you soon,” she said, as if there wasn’t an inkling of indecision about where I was heading. I suddenly realized she was right.

Hey! A car suddenly made a right turn and nearly hit me. I glared at the driver—a guy. A good-looking guy. A good-looking sexy guy with light hair and sharp features and—a nose much too large and chin much too small. Or so I thought in the instant of our eyes meeting.

Not Jeff. What a surprise.

But the experience made me stare more into other autos. Lots of women drivers around. And the men were of many races and ethnicities, as typical in L.A.

I saw some Escalades, including a black one, but of course it wasn’t Jeff’s drowned car.

And was relieved finally to get to my place, push the button to open the gate, and pull into my designated parking space beside my garage-top abode.

I sat for an extra instant to regain my composure. Then I allowed the dogs out for a romp while I returned to the gate. A minivan with a What’s the Scoop sign on the side was parked on the street. Plus, there were flyers for that same company stuck in some neighbors’ fences, and one hung from my mailbox. I pulled it out just as Rachel sashayed down the walk from the main house, beautiful Beggar beside her.

“Hi, Kendra. Glad you got here this soon. I need to go out for a while”—her jeans seemed dressy and had a nice cotton shirt tucked into them—” and I hate to leave with one of our poop scoopers here behind our fence, unsupervised. Dad’s left town again, as usual.” Scouting for a film, I assumed, which was his exciting career. “The guy’s over there.” Rachel pointed toward the far edge of our large yard, in an area with lots of pretty green grass that attracted dogs to squat. Only then did I notice movement in the vicinity of the house.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll keep an eye on him,” I said, feeling sort of sorry for someone who made a living collecting feces.

I stood outside as Odin and Lexie leaped in the guy’s direction.

“He always carries lots of dog treats,” Rachel said. “To make friends with his real customers. He told me so. Beggar got his before. I need to put him in the house and go.”

I stayed in the yard as Rachel put her pup inside and got her nice, used blue sedan—a gift some months back from her successful dad—from the garage. I stood near the lawn to ensure that Lexie and Odin didn’t get near the driveway, and waved to my young assistant as she drove away.

I headed a few steps in the direction of the poop scooper. “Hi,” I called, then stopped. What did I have to say to this older, stooped guy with a big plastic bag and metal collecting tool nearly as tall as he was? Oh, yeah. “Thanks for helping out around here.”

“No problem,” he shot back in a shrill baritone, barely looking at me from beneath the big straw hat that shaded his face. He gave the dogs something from his pocket as they continued to cavort around him. “Is that dog okay?” He pointed to Odin’s bandage.

“Just a slight altercation with another dog,” I said. “He’ll be fine.” But as the guy handed them additional treats, I said, “Thanks, but no more for now. Come on, Lexie and Odin.” They seemed disinclined to obey. “Now. Come.” And then I said the magic word that captured their attention. “Dinnertime.” As anticipated, they hurried my way. I stared at the poop scooper for a long moment before I turned and walked toward my apartment.