Pet in Peril

by Marie Celine

  Kitty shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’ The holidays were just around the corner and she was trying to lose weight. ‘How’s my hair?’

  Fran fluffed a few strands of Kitty’s fine, long brown hair. ‘Depressed, like your pets.’

  Kitty groaned. Apparently Fran wasn’t done badgering her about the pets. ‘I am not taking them to a psychologist.’ Kitty scowled, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She had her mother’s fine features and fair complexion and her father’s strong nose and blue eyes, though the bags under them this morning were all hers.

  ‘Trust me,’ Fran was saying, ‘I know such things. I’m a bit psychic, you know.’

  Kitty mumbled under her breath, ‘Psycho, more likely.’

  ‘I heard that,’ harrumphed Fran, grabbing a hairbrush and running it through Kitty’s hair a little too viciously for Kitty’s taste and pain receptors.

  ‘Scoff all you like but it’s true.’ She patted the top of Fred’s head. ‘And I know what a neglected dog looks like, too. Don’t I, you cute thing? After all, I’ve been neglected more than once myself.’ Fran had recently broken up with her latest boyfriend – one who had some neglect issues himself – like having neglected to tell Fran that he was still married.

  ‘Can we focus on hair and makeup for a minute? We’ve got two shows to tape and I’ve still got my food deliveries to make.’

  ‘If you don’t believe me, go see a shrink.’

  ‘I do not need a shrink,’ Kitty said, putting her coffee cup down carefully on the wobbly tray table by her side.

  ‘Not you. I’m talking about your pets.’ She motioned toward Kitty’s Fred, who’d collapsed in a heap in the corner with his head resting on his paws.

  ‘Tell me you’re kidding. Tell me you’re just trying to give me a hard time this morning. Tell me – please tell me, Fran – that you are simply taking some sadistic pleasure in yanking my chain this morning.’

  ‘Not at all.’ She deftly pulled Kitty’s hair into a ponytail and twisted a black tie around the clump. ‘I can’t believe you of all people are saying that. You were the one who told me about that guy—’ Fran snapped her fingers several times while staring at the ceiling. ‘What did you say his name was again?’

  Kitty frowned. ‘Doctor Newhart.’

  What a mistake it had been to tell Fran about the Beverly Hills psychologist whose practice specialized in treating the so-called psychological issues and ailments of pets. Pets whose owners were rich beyond belief and often indulged – over-indulged in Kitty’s opinion – their cute little four-legged members of the family. Some even scheduled regular visits for their ‘children’ with pet masseuses, life coaches, trainers and psychics.

  Not that Kitty was complaining. After all, it was those same owners who were her key clientele. Without them she’d be working in her parents’ restaurant or slogging hash somewhere on Sunset Strip instead of doing what she loved. She definitely would never have had her own TV show.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Kitty. She shot a concerned look toward Fred and nagged at her lower lip with her front teeth. She had been really busy, and her next-door neighbor, Sylvester, seemed to be spending more time with Fred and Barney than she was lately. Luckily she could always count on Sylvester to check in on her pets when she was overwhelmed with work, which seemed to be happening more and more frequently. As a struggling young musician he had more time on his hands than he would have liked and was always happy to pitch in. Kitty suspected he might have a little crush on her.

  Between the day job and the show Kitty was suddenly being pulled in a hundred directions at once – not to mention that Jack, her adorable fiancé, was always complaining that she never had time for him. Was that a look of depression on Fred’s face? Was Barney feeling neglected and unloved?

  Should she make an appointment with Dr Newhart at his Beverly Hills office?

  As if reading her mind, Fran announced, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll call the doc’s office and set up an appointment for the three of you. Maybe he’ll give you a group rate.’

  Kitty laughed nervously. ‘Maybe we should invite Jack to come then, too. Make it a foursome.’

  ‘Hey, couldn’t hurt, could it? What man couldn’t use a shrink?’ They both laughed. Fran grabbed a can of hairspray. ‘Hold your breath.’ Fran hit her with a cloud of citrus-scented spray.

  ‘I agree,’ said a voice from behind.

  Kitty’s head spun. ‘How long have you been standing there?’ It was Steve Barnhard, looking as sourpussed as ever. Steve had been an assistant producer at Santa Monica Film Studios when she’d first had the misfortune of meeting him. He was a slim fellow with wavy ginger hair, a light trail of freckles running from cheek to cheek, boyish features and a man-sized irritable disposition. Only in his thirties, he had now been promoted to producer of Kitty’s pet cookery show. Not that his father being head of the network had anything to do with it. No, of course not.

  Kitty got the feeling that Bill Barnhard, Steve’s dad and head of the CuisineTV network that owned the show, had put him in charge of her TV show just to irk her.

  ‘Long enough to concur, for once,’ Steve said, shooting a steely look at Fran, ‘with her that you ought to have your head examined.’

  Fran grumbled, ‘Tell me about it.’

  Kitty jumped out of her seat. ‘Hey whose side are you on? I took you in.’ Albeit reluctantly, all had worked out pretty well so far.

  ‘I’m just saying.’ Fran put a hand on each of Kitty’s slender shoulders and eased her back down. ‘Actually, I was telling Kitty how she should take her dog and cat to a shrink.’

  Steve beamed. ‘Oh my God. That’s a wonderful idea. Just splendid.’

  Kitty’s eyes grew to the size of tea saucers. ‘You have got to be kidding?’

  Steve folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’m not kidding at all.’ He snapped his fingers. Fred’s ears perked up. ‘Who is this man or woman and where can I find them?’

  ‘Some pet psychologist with an office in Beverly Hills. His name’s Newhart—’

  Kitty cut Fran off. ‘Hey!’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Steve. ‘I’ll have my assistant phone his office straight away.’ He stopped in the doorway. ‘Now, we’re very, very late. I suggest you slap a final coat of paint on Kitty and hustle her out to the set. The crew is waiting. And I don’t have to tell you how much their lollygagging around is costing us.’

  Kitty punched Fran in the arm.

  ‘Ouch.’ She rubbed her arm. ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘For not keeping your big mouth shut,’ Kitty said, leaping from the makeup chair and stomping out the door. ‘I am not talking to a psychologist. And, if you think I’d even consider it, then you’re the one who ought to have her head examined.’ She turned. ‘Come on, Fred,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘We’ve got a show to do.’

  Kitty stopped dramatically in the doorway, hands gripping the doorframe. ‘No psychologists. Get it out of your head.’

  Fran raised her arms in surrender. ‘Your mommy’s crazy, you know that, Fred?’ She was looking at the Lab and rolling the hairbrush around in circles orbiting her left ear like a lunar lander looking for a good spot to touch down. ‘Maybe we should get a psychiatrist for you.’ She twitched an eyebrow in Kitty’s direction.

  Kitty opened her mouth then shut it again. Fran was simply being Fran. What was the point in arguing?

  Fran waved her brush. ‘Have a good show. Break a veggie chicken leg!’

  THREE

  ‘Hello, Doctor Newhart,’ Kitty mumbled with a forced smile and a barely stifled sigh of defeat. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’ She’d been ambushed by that smarmy, sneaky, irritating, ugsome and condescending Steve Barnhard. Realizing she was grinding her teeth, Kitty forced herself to stop before something snapped. Probably a molar. Worse yet, a canine. She might not eat meat but that didn’t mean she didn’t like to sink her teeth into something satisfying now and then. Like right now, for instance, she could u
se a fresh, flaky pastry.

  She glared across the room at Steve. There just weren’t enough adjectives to describe her producer. Had she mentioned short-tempered and evil?

  ‘Hello, Ms Karlyle.’ The doctor bowed ever so slightly. In a navy-blue pinstripe suit, brilliant white shirt and matching blue-and-violet paisley silk tie, the petite doctor barely came up to Kitty’s chin – even with those lace-up shoes with the one-inch heels. A dapper man in his early sixties, the doctor possessed a square jaw and inky blue pools where his irises should have been. Kitty imagined those were just the sort of puppy dog eyes that real puppy dogs liked to get lost in and tell their doggy troubles to. Maybe that’s what had made him such a great pet psychologist with one of the leading practices in the area all these years.

  And no, he wasn’t the only pet psychologist in the LA phone book – Kitty had checked.

  Of course, having a bunch of folks with too much money and too little sense, as the saying goes, within a twenty-mile radius of his luxury-appointed Beverly Hills office hadn’t hurt. He and Kitty both catered to the pets of the deep-pocketed in their own way. Kitty catered to their stomachs and Newhart their psyches. The doctor, at least, was making a pretty good living from it. She had a feeling he had gained some pretty deep pockets of his own in the process of helping his troubled clients’ troubled pets.

  They’d finished taping the first show and Kitty was thanking the audience out in the bleachers when Steve had come prancing onto the kitchen set that provided the backdrop to The Pampered Pet show. The guy might have been one of Santa’s lead reindeer in another life. He had Dr Newhart in tow.

  ‘Congratulations on your television show.’ The doctor extended a pale, liver-spotted hand.

  She was about to reach for it when, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed what her producer was holding. ‘What is Barney doing here?’

  ‘He’s a handful, isn’t he?’ grunted Steve. The producer was clutching Barney while desperately attempting to keep her cat from tearing a paw-wide swath through his lavender polo shirt. Barney’s sharp claws struck the producer’s stomach as the cat lashed out in what looked like a life or death struggle with Steve. He yelped and held the cat out as far as possible.

  Kitty couldn’t blame the poor cat for putting up a fight. She’d struggle if Steve was trying to hug her, too. The only man with those privileges was her future husband, discounting relatives and close friends, of course. ‘What are you doing with my cat?’

  ‘I brought him for Doctor Newhart. You know, so he could examine him as well. After all, your dog is already here.’ Barney reached back and nipped Steve’s fingers. ‘Ouch.’ He extended the squirming cat toward Kitty. ‘You didn’t want this guy to feel left out, did you?’

  Kitty snatched Barney away. ‘But how did you get him?’ She had left Barney safely locked up in her apartment. She petted his head and whispered sweet nothings, like what a jerk Steve was.

  Steve shrugged. ‘I found your purse in makeup and gave your address and keys to one of my assistants. She fetched him for me.’ Steve frowned. ‘She’s still cowering in the ladies’ room. I think she’s been traumatized by that beast.’ He was pointing at Barney.

  ‘You went in my purse?’

  Steve shrugged once more. ‘I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this, Kitty. I did it for you.’

  ‘For me? You broke into my purse,’ she huffed, ‘and my apartment? And it was for me?’

  ‘And for your pets. You should be thanking me,’ Steve sniffed.

  Doctor Newhart looked about uncomfortably. ‘I fear you’re upsetting the animals, dear.’ He pulled at his silk tie.

  Kitty wondered if the good doctor would mind if she borrowed his tie for a moment – just long enough to strangle Steve. Kitty opened her mouth to respond and spotted Fred cowering under the kitchen table, looking at her with those big brown eyes of his, tail drooping. Was Fran right? Did every wag or lack thereof tell a story?

  And Barney …

  Well, Barney was struggling to be put down. So he could no doubt run away – far, far away. Like Kitty felt like doing.

  Perhaps the little tuxedo cat knew a nice feline getaway where all three of them could go hang out, have some drinks and tapas under a striped beach umbrella thrust foot deep in the golden sands of some exotic island.

  From the corner of her eye, she spied Fran hiding behind one of the cameramen. The big chicken. ‘Sorry, Doctor Newhart. You’re right, of course.’ To show them all what a good mommy she was, she stroked Barney vigorously. He struggled to free himself from her tight grip but she wasn’t about to let him loose. The studio was a maze of hot lights and live wires. No place for a cat to be running around on the loose. Who knew what mischief he might cause to the equipment or injury he might do himself?

  Besides, she was trying to prove a point here. Why couldn’t Barney cooperate? Take it like a man? Or at least a cat. Kitty grabbed Steve’s sleeve, pulling him aside. ‘When am I going to get my own dressing room?’ Kitty said. ‘With a lock on the door.’

  ‘I told you that you could have Gretchen’s old office but you said you didn’t want it.’

  Kitty shivered visibly. No, she most definitely did not want Gretchen Corbett’s old office. Too much bad juju there.

  ‘So,’ said Steve, glibly, ‘you’ll simply have to wait until another office opens up.’ He made a show of straightening his sleeve. ‘Sonny did offer to share his office with you.’

  Ewww, thought Kitty. Double bad juju there. And potential cooties.

  The two of them were still arguing when Greg Clifton butted in. ‘OK, are we done here?’

  Kitty jumped. ‘Sorry, you startled me.’ It wasn’t just Gretchen Corbett’s old office that spooked her. Despite all the workers scooting about and all the bright lights, the soundstage gave her the jitters, too. Some nasty things had gone down here. And she hadn’t been able to forget them yet.

  ‘Excuse me, Kitty, but we need to get moving. Let’s save the drama for in front of the camera.’ He cupped his hands together and brought them to his lips. ‘Come on, people. One down, one to go. Let’s get ready to roll cameras!’

  He hollered for the AD – that meant his assistant director. Greg was a normally affable, trim fellow in his fifties with long, graying black hair that he kept in a ponytail most of the time. He got loud when he was in director mode. His style in clothes reflected his casual, laidback attitude. Today he was wearing a spotless black T-shirt and jeans. He was in a relationship with the AD, Julie McConnell, a thin young woman with light brown hair and soft chestnut-brown eyes. Julie preferred pantsuits to jeans and today’s outfit was no exception: a charcoal two-piece, tailored to show off her girlish physique.

  ‘What’s up?’ Julie said, clipboard in hand and a sharpened pencil stuck behind her ear.

  ‘This is Doctor Newhart – our special guest.’ Greg waved toward the psychologist.

  ‘Hello, Doctor.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Kitty asked warily.

  Steve grabbed Kitty by the elbow and dragged her over to the kitchen table on the set. ‘Doctor Newhart has agreed to be our special guest this morning. Did I forget to tell you?’ He turned to the psychologist and waved him over. ‘Have a seat, Doctor.’

  ‘Let’s clear the set!’ commanded Greg. He clapped twice and people and equipment began moving and whirring.

  Kitty’s head started spinning. Steve immediately stopped talking and hustled off to the side of the stage. Kitty only wished she could get him to listen to her on cue like that.

  Show time, Kitty told herself.

  She put on her game face and waved to the audience brought in for the filming. Kitty had prepared a family-style salmon-and-veggie dish for this next show. She had designed the meal for a family with multiple cats. Quite a clever idea, if she did say so herself.

  Midway into the program they cut for an interview with Dr Newhart where Kitty asked some questions that had been prepared for her by Steve and his s
taff. All very softball in nature, but then CuisineTV was all about good food, good friends and good times – this wasn’t the place for hard-hitting news or investigative journalism, and that was OK by her.

  She and Dr Newhart then fielded questions from the audience. She always enjoyed speaking with members of her audience and answering their questions. Still, she was relieved to bid the pet psychologist farewell and get back to the cooking. That was what she knew and did best, after all. Being a talk-show host had most definitely not been in the job description.

  ‘Kitty,’ said Steve, running over and tucking his cell phone in his front pocket. ‘Great, great show.’

  ‘Uh, thank you, Steve.’ Wow, that was so out of character. Usually he came armed with a litany of notes on his tablet for things she should do better next time.

  ‘And I’ve got great news.’

  Kitty eyed him with suspicion. He was throwing a lot of greats around. Too many for her taste. This was never a good sign. ‘Yes?’ she asked reluctantly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve got you booked into the Little Switzerland Resort and Spa. You leave in the morning.’

  ‘A resort? Tomorrow?’ Kitty made a face like she’d just chomped down on a lemon and shook her head no simultaneously. ‘No way, Steve.’ She waved her hands in front of her. ‘I’ve got a business to run and pets to feed.’

  Not to mention her fiancé, Jack, who could also use some TLC. He wouldn’t be happy about her suddenly leaving town. He’d been complaining that they hadn’t been getting much quality time together these days. Kitty thought part of that was due to the fact that his father had passed away in the last year and his mother was still having a difficult time coming to terms with his death. Jack’s father had died in his sleep. His mother had never had a chance to say goodbye. She’d also regretted all the things the two of them had never had the time to do together but had always planned on doing one day.