The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service (7 page)

“Pick up,” Kerry urged. “It’s probably Oprah, offering to give you your own talk show now that your cuticles are under control.”

Lara was laughing when she answered the call. “This is Lara Madigan.”

“Hel-lo,” trilled a melodic, cultured female voice. “This is Cherie Chadwick. I watched your news interview yesterday, and I’d like to hire you.”

Lara took a sip of water and tried to sound professional.

“Hi, Cherie. I’m so glad you’ve decided to adopt a rescue dog, and I’ll do everything I can to find a great match for you. But you don’t really ‘hire’ me. The only fee you’ll have to pay is a donation to the rescue group once you’ve completed the adoption application and home interview.”

“You misunderstand; I already have a dog. A purebred Bernese mountain dog.”

Lara shot Kerry a puzzled glance. “Oh.”

“I’d like to start showing her,” Cherie continued, “and I want you to be my handler.”

“What you’re describing is conformation competitions, and I don’t have any experience with that sort of thing.” Lara tried to explain the difference between conformation shows, which were the canine equivalent of a beauty pageant, and competitive obedience trials. “I do basic training and behavior modification, not dog shows.”

“That’s immaterial to me.” Cherie sounded relentlessly upbeat. “I want someone who understands dogs and has stage presence. That’s you. I live in Mayfair Estates. Are you familiar with the neighborhood?”

Mayfair Estates was a posh gated community in North Scottsdale, tucked away in the hills and bordered by a vast nature preserve. Home values started at two million dollars and shot up exponentially from there; country club membership fees alone were more than Lara’s take-home salary. Lots of pro athletes lived there, along with CEOs, trust fund babies . . . and Justine.

“Oh yes,” Lara said. “My mother lives there.”

“Your mother?” There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Are you Justine Madigan’s daughter?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Really.” Cherie’s cheeriness gave way to incredulity. “I never would have guessed.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Fascinating.” Cherie shook off her surprise and barreled straight on to her point. “Well, I’d love to have you over for coffee tomorrow and introduce you to Eskie.”

Lara slipped in a tiny, fortifying bite of pie, then tried to regain control of the conversation. “I’d help you if I could, but really, I wouldn’t even know where to start with conformation work. If you’d like, I can ask around and get you the names of some experienced show handlers.”

It was as though she’d never even spoken. Cherie countered with, “I have an unlimited budget, and I’m willing to pay you accordingly.”

Lara thought about the mountain of vet bills that Lucky Dog rescue had incurred over the last few months and replied, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Is nine too early?”

“Nine o’clock is perfect.”

“Great. And, um, Ms. Chadwick?”

“Call me Cherie.”

“Did the TV station give out my cell phone number?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how . . . ?”

There was that soft musical laugh again. “Oh, I always get what I want. You’ll see.”

Chapter 8

“We have problems,” Evan informed Lara as soon as she walked in the door. “Dog problems.”

“Is this about paying for Linus’s surgery? Because all his blood work came back negative and Jason said—”

Evan shook his head. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook with people asking about ‘the dog matchmaker.’ When I got home from work, we had six voice mails.”

“What the hell?” Lara really started to get annoyed. “The TV station gave out the Web site for the rescue group. How is everyone tracking down my personal contact information?”

“There’s no such thing as privacy in the digital age.”

Lara kicked off her flip-flops and tried to look on the bright side. “Well, it’s pretty pushy to call me at home, but I’m glad people are interested in adopting the dogs.”

Evan’s laugh was hollow. “No, no, they don’t want to adopt—they want to dump the dogs they already have. I got home half an hour ago, and I’ve already fielded requests from random strangers wanting to unload a neurotic Anatolian shepherd, a dog-aggressive Pembroke Welsh corgi, and a litter of pit bull puppies. They want you to use your matchmaking magic to re-home everyone.”

“Did you tell them we can’t take any more in right now?”

“Yeah, and then they started with the guilt trips: ‘Well, if you can’t take them, then I’ll have no choice but to take them to the shelter.’”

“So what did you say to that?”

Evan shrugged. “I said that there was a good chance their dogs would get euthanized at the pound, but they have to do what they have to do.”

“Evan!”

“What?” He crossed his arms. “
They
called
me
. I’m under no obligation to make them feel good about their crappy choices. Someone has to be the hard-ass.”

Lara sighed. “Better you than me.”

“Exactly. That’s why you’re not allowed to answer the phone for the next few days.”

“Probably for the best.” She put down her work bag and opened the refrigerator to forage for dinner ideas.

The phone rang.

Evan and Lara exchanged a look of mock horror, clutching each other’s forearms as the dogs ran in figure eights around their knees.

“It’s
them
,” Evan whispered. “We’re under siege.”

Lara laughed, but as the phone rang a second time, and a third, her resolve wavered.

He sensed her uncertainty and gave her a squeeze. “Don’t do it.” He reached over and switched off the ringer.

She knew he was right—there was no way they could take in every owner surrender in Phoenix, and in a few days the publicity would blow over—but she still felt bad about it. The dogs didn’t have the luxury of turning off a phone and ignoring everything. The dogs would end up . . . where?

“Don’t think about it,” Evan commanded. “We’re going to go get pizza at the place you love on Greenway. And when we get home, we’ll take everyone for a nice long walk by the lake.”

“You’ll come, too?” Lara pressed. Evan usually preferred to stay home and sack out on the sofa while she exercised the dogs.

“I’ll come, too,” he promised. “And tomorrow morning I’ll call the phone company and change our number.”

* * *

Early the next morning, Lara awoke to the sound of Raggs and Zsa Zsa whining as they ran laps between the bedroom door and the window next to the bed. They usually did this when the garbage truck rumbled down the alley, but today wasn’t trash day.

She raised her head, squinted at the clock, and gave Raggs a reassuring pat on the head. “What’s up, buddy?”

The little spotted spaniel whined louder, placed his front paws up on the windowsill, and rattled the white wooden blinds with his nose.

“This better be good.” Lara rolled out of bed, opened the blinds, and peered out into the backyard. A little squeak of dismay escaped her lips. “Oh no.”

Evan sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a litter of pit bull puppies in our backyard.”

* * *

“They look like they’re about eight weeks old.” Lara inspected the trio of wriggly black-and-white puppies on the kitchen floor while Evan scarfed down frozen waffles and skimmed the
Wall Street Journal
headlines. She lifted one of the pups up to check for evidence of worms or other parasites, and Maverick nosed her elbow aside so he could get a good look at the new arrivals. “And reasonably healthy. I’ll pick up some vaccines on the way home and get them started on their shot schedules.”

“Mmm,” was Evan’s response as he pored over a market analysis.

“The good news is they’re tiny and adorable, so we should be able to re-home them quickly.” Lara winced as the puppy sank his razor-sharp baby teeth into her knuckle. In the fifteen minutes they’d been inside, the roly-poly hellions had already managed to pee on the tile twice and start gnawing a chair leg. “But you know how much work new puppies are.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“I can run home between appointments to check on them and let them out,” Lara said. “But then I’ve got a client dinner at six. So if you come home right after work to feed them—”

“No can do,” Evan said.

“Why not?”

“It’s Thursday.” He finally looked up from the newspaper and took another bite of his multigrain waffle. “Soccer.”

“Oh.” Lara closed her eyes, put her head next to the rowdy little black guy, and inhaled that sweet, calming new-puppy smell.
Infinitely better than any bong hit,
she thought to herself and smiled. “Is there any way you could skip soccer tonight? Please?”

“Nope.” He washed his waffle down with a glass of orange juice.

She paused, taken aback by his curtness. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.” Evan seemed impervious to the puppy tractor beam. “I told the guys I’d be there tonight, and I’ll be there.”

“Okay, well, is there any way you could run home, feed them, and then go to soccer? No one will care if you’re twenty minutes late.”

Evan finished off his OJ and set the glass next to the sink with a clink. “I care.”

Lara stared at him, taking in his sullen tone and mulish expression. “Why are you being like this?”

He focused on methodically refolding his newspaper.

She jabbed her finger toward the cocktail napkin contract stuck to the fridge. “You know, according to the terms of our agreement, these are your puppies, too.”

He squinted at the napkin for a moment, then shook his head. “I see
slobber
and
shedding
on there. I see nothing about skipping soccer for a bunch of mongrels that are systematically destroying my kitchen furniture.”

Lara put the puppies down and slowly got to her feet. “So what are you saying here?”

“I’m saying no.” He’d gone from heated defiance to a chilly monotone. “You dog people, you’re like a cult. The Cult of Dog. And you pour all your time and money into the cult, but it’s never enough, because there’s always one more dog. Or three more dogs.”

Lara almost laughed. “The Cult of Dog?”

He folded his arms. “I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid.”

“Evan, come on! I didn’t go looking for these puppies. Someone tossed them over the fence in the dead of night. What am I supposed to do?”

He shrugged and checked his snowy white shirt cuffs for stains. “I’m not telling you what to do. What I am telling you is that I’m going to soccer tonight. On time.” His eyes narrowed as he pulled a strand of brown fur off his sleeve. “Enough is enough, Lara. I’m drawing the line.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “‘Enough is enough’?”

He nodded. “I’m done with dogs.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He clenched his jaw for a moment, obviously struggling to censor his thoughts. “It means that I lied. I’m not a dog person and I never will be.” He snatched the cocktail napkin contract and threw it into the trash.

Lara gasped.

Zsa Zsa stuck her head into the trash bin and started chewing up the contract.

Evan marched into the master bedroom and returned moments later with a tiny black velvet box clenched in his hand. “I’ve been hanging on to this thing since you moved in, waiting for the right time to give it to you. Planning the perfect proposal.”

Lara swallowed hard and then asked, “Why are there tooth marks on that box?”

“Because one of your dogs was using it for a chew toy.”

“Why on earth did you leave it where the dogs could reach it? Honestly, Evan, I’ve told you a thousand times you need to crate them when you leave the house.”

“Here we go again. Blame the victim!”

“You don’t love me,” Lara accused.

“Don’t do that. You know I love you.”

“No, you love the person you want me to be,” she shot back. “I told you right up front I was a crazy dog lady. Remember our first date? You brought me home from dinner and Maverick had eaten a whole pack of paper towels and gotten an intestinal blockage and you drove us to the emergency vet and stayed there with me for five hours. And still you begged me to move in with you, you bought this ring, and now you come out as . . . what? A cat person?”

Evan shuddered at the very thought. “Cats are even worse than dogs.”

“So you’re just an all-around animal hater?”

“Not everyone has to be a dog person or a cat person. Maybe I’m a
people
person. Have you ever considered that?”

Lara recoiled as if he had slapped her. “That’s just sick.”

“You know what kills me? I bought this house for
us
—so we could live here and get married and raise a family.” He shook his head in disgust and slapped the ring box down on the kitchen counter. “But I can’t take it anymore. I’m sick of the constant shedding and the slobber—God, the slobber is the worst.”

Lara’s shock vanished in a flare of rage. “No wonder Mullet hates you. Dogs can sense your true intentions.”

Evan snorted. “Mullet hates everybody!”

“My dogs are my family.” Lara opened her arms to encompass Maverick, Rufus, Raggs, Zsa Zsa, and the pack of pint-size pit bulls dunking one another in the water bowl. “If you love them, a little fur and saliva don’t matter!”

“But I don’t love them.” Evan picked up his briefcase and suit jacket and charged into the family room. “I love
you
, so I thought that meant I had to love them by association.” He pointed to the couch like a courtroom prosecutor introducing Exhibit A. “I can’t remember the last time I sat down without something squeaking.” He shoved one hand between the cushions and yanked out the limp, fuzzy gray corpse that had been a stuffed squirrel before Maverick had ripped open the seams and strewn tufts of white filling all over the house. “Someday I’d like to come home after work, kick back, watch the play-offs, and not have to deal with a drooly, disemboweled squirrel ruining my best work pants.”

At the sight of his beloved squirrel, Maverick raced across the room, skidded to a halt, and waited for Evan to start a game of fetch.

“Maverick loves Mr. Squirrel. It’s the only thing he brought with him from his previous owner’s house. It’s like his security blanket.” Lara stepped up to the dog’s side in a show of solidarity. The barrel-chested Rottweiler didn’t even acknowledge her. His gaze was locked on the squirrel.

“This thing is disgusting, and I don’t want it in my house.”

“It’s
our
house!” Lara yelled. The spaniels ran for cover.

Evan raised the sodden, smelly pelt and waved it like a battle flag. “No more Mr. Squirrel!”

The Rottie lunged, planting his hind feet on the ground and his front paws on Evan’s chest. Evan toppled back onto the couch. The stack of books on the coffee table went flying.

“Maverick, down,” Lara commanded.

The puppies raced in from the kitchen, pounced on the paperbacks, and started shredding the pages in a rousing game of tug-of-war.

“What are you doing?” Lara asked as Evan struggled to his feet and stalked past her.

“I’m putting this festering, bacteria-ridden piece of filth where it belongs.” He went into the guest bathroom and threw Mr. Squirrel into the toilet.

“Don’t you dare! You’re mad at me, not Maverick.”

“I’m mad at both of you.”

“No!” Lara cried, but it was too late.

Evan flushed. Maverick whined.

And then . . . an ominous gurgling noise bubbled up from the depths of the plumbing.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Lara said. “I’ll never marry you now.”

He shrugged, but she could see a flicker of shame and doubt in his eyes. Then he drew himself up and said, “Well, if a disemboweled dog toy means more to you than I do, you might as well flush the ring down, too.”

Lara dashed back to the kitchen, snatched up the jewelry box, and returned to the bathroom.

Evan blanched. “Hang on. Let’s just calm down here.”

For a second, Lara hesitated. She plucked the ring out of the little velvet cushion and dangled it with shaking fingers over the toilet bowl. The diamond’s facets caught the light and sparkled with promise and possibility.

Maverick skidded up to the porcelain bowl, peered over the rim, and let out a howl of pure anguish.

Lara dropped the ring and flushed.