Putting on the Dog

by Cynthia Baxter

  “You got it, Doc.”

  I watched him drive it away toward the section of the football field-sized lawn that had been converted into a parking area. The area was already filling up with cars that probably cost at least as much as my mobile veterinary unit—and they didn’t even come with their own autoclave.

  I felt a pang of fondness as I watched my beloved vehicle bounce along the grass. I still experienced a little thrill every time I was hit with the fact that I really had my own veterinary business. Not only did my mobile services unit give me complete autonomy; it kept me from having to spend my days cooped up inside in order to live out my lifelong goal of helping animals.

  Of course, tonight my beloved van didn’t exactly blend in with the other vehicles crammed together on the grass. It really was the size of a small school bus. But instead of bright yellow, it was painted white with blue letters on the door:

  REIGNING CATS AND DOGS

  MOBILE VETERINARY SERVICES

  LARGE AND SMALL ANIMAL

  631-555-PETS

  A nice contrast to the gleaming DeLoreans, the dignified Rolls Royces, and the low-slung Lamborghinis, I decided with pride. Definitely lends a little character to the place.

  As I neared the tent, I switched gears, suddenly obsessing over my choice of outfit for the evening. Since my fashion statement runs along the lines of chukka boots and my customized “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.” polo shirts, I felt a little strange decked out in a flowered sundress and a pair of sandals with ridiculously impractical two-inch heels.

  I was hoping that I wouldn’t stick out as much as my van, when out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of someone lurking in the shadows. Someone much taller than either a bulldog with an eye for the ladies or a half-starved black cat.

  Adrenaline pumped through my body as I checked around. But there was no one else nearby. I was alone.

  Paranoia, I scolded myself. After all, this is the Bromptons. Not exactly a high crime area.

  Almost immediately, someone leaped out from behind a tree, and I was blinded by a flash of light.

  For a few horrifying seconds, I couldn’t see. Then I realized what had just happened—and who was responsible.

  “You again!” I yelped. “How dare you?”

  The man I recognized as Devon Barnett scowled. “I thought you might be somebody.” Shaking his head disapprovingly, he disappeared back into the shadows.

  I just stood there, shaking with anger. I didn’t know which made me more furious: having been subjected to my second assault with a deadly camera of the day...or being written off as a nobody.

  Take deep breaths, I instructed myself. Don’t let some professional stalker ruin your evening.

  My heart was still pounding with jackhammer speed as I stepped into the tent. As if that wasn’t bad enough, bursts of light kept flashing before my eyes.

  But I forced myself to focus on what was going on around me. I realized I’d finally gotten to the “Glamour with a capital G” part.

  The giant white tent was just the beginning. Beneath it, on the grass, was the setting for an elegant dinner party, complete with huge bouquets of flowers, glowing candles, and strings of tiny white lights glimmering in the branches of trees that spurted out of huge terra-cotta pots. Dozens of round tables, each outfitted with place settings for eight, fanned out from a podium. An enormous banner printed with “Support the SPCA!” served as a backdrop for the stage set up in one corner. I took it all in, aware that my eyes were as big as the dinner plates adorning the tables.

  Thank you, Marcus Scruggs, I thought, for giving me an opportunity to see how the other half—or at least the other one-tenth of a percent—lives.

  The downside was that I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. Few of the other guests had shown up on time, and the catering staff was still working at a frantic pace, hurrying to get things ready. Young men and women in black pants and white shirts embroidered with “Foodies, Inc.” rushed around, putting the final touches on the preparations.

  I wandered around the estate, trying not to appear too awed by its grandeur. The vast lawn that stretched back beyond the party tent overlooked a tremendous crescent-shaped bay. While a few other estates bordered the inlet, most of the shoreline was land I knew was part of a wildlife preserve, hundreds of acres of protected wet-lands and woodlands that served as a habitat for migratory birds and other endangered species. Aside from an occasional storage shed, the entire area remained undeveloped, providing whoever had the good fortune to live in this mansion with a spectacular, unspoiled view.

  Which was probably one reason the owner had dotted the property with wooden lawn chairs, hammocks, and even a charming gazebo. The white structure was set high atop a pedestal. Between its unusual height and its intricate latticework, it looked like a giant wedding cake.

  I sauntered over and climbed the steps. For tonight’s event, the gazebo had been converted into a temple for worshipping the hors d’oeuvre. A long table draped in white linen ran along the back, covered with platters of exotic-looking cheeses, raw vegetables cut into flower shapes, and enough shrimp to keep an entire flock of seagulls happy for a week.

  But the spread of glorious food paled beside the grouping of magnificent ice sculptures towering above it. Famous dogs from television and film had been carved from huge blocks of ice, each one easily three or four feet high. In the center, Snoopy lay across the roof of his doghouse. To his left, Lady and the Tramp eyed each other longingly as they shared a strand of crystal-clear spaghetti. They were straddled by Lassie and Rin Tin Tin, both poised to save someone’s life. Benji was curled up in front, managing to look cute and furry even though he was really one giant ice cube.

  I stood in front of the display for a long time, admiring the sculptor’s handiwork and the attention to detail that had gone into these disposable decorations. I would have stayed longer, but suddenly my nostrils started to burn. I wrinkled my nose and sniffled, my usual reaction to the unpleasant smell of cigarette smoke.

  It seemed to be wafting up from below. I peered over the railing and saw a man standing in the shadows, lighting up. I wouldn’t have recognized him if it hadn’t been for the large camera lying on the grass beside him.

  Devon Barnett.

  I was considering dropping a handful of raw cauliflower on his head just for the heck of it, when I was distracted by angry voices behind me. I turned and saw two people coming up the steps of the gazebo.

  “You don’t understand!” a young man cried, gesticulating wildly. “Each dog was carved from a three-hundred-pound block of ice! If one of them fell backwards from this height, it could kill somebody!”

  “No way,” insisted the woman beside him. She was wearing a pale pink suit and far too much makeup. “You’ve got to keep the display unobstructed. I want people admiring the ice sculptures, not staring at some ugly pieces of metal holding them in place!”

  “Look, Phyllis, if anything ever happened, it’d be my ass on the line, not yours!”

  The woman narrowed her eyes. “You listen to me, Gary. If you ever want to work on the East End again, you’ll do exactly as I say!”

  She turned on one ridiculously high heel, clunked back down the steps, and stalked away from the gazebo. I watched her teetering across the grass, making her way back to the tent.

  “Witch!” the man muttered, turning to notice me for the first time.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  He shook his head angrily. “Just because she’s considered one of the hottest caterers in the Bromptons, she thinks she’s the new Martha Stewart.”

  I wasn’t sure she’d picked the right role model, but I kept silent.

  “I mean, first she wants me to set up the sculptures here in this ridiculous gazebo,” the man sputtered angrily. “Do you have any idea what it’s like getting six humungous ice sculptures up eight stairs? Then she insists that they be placed right next to the railing. Hasn’t she ever heard of gravity? Doesn’t she know wha
t would happen if one of these fell over?

  “Besides, it’s not as if I work for her!” he continued. “I’m working for Russell Bolger.”

  “Who’s Russell Bolger?”

  “The guy who owns this estate—and the guy who hired me.”

  “He’s got quite a place here,” I observed. “Who is he, anyway?”

  “Only one of the most high-powered executives in the film industry. And I have a feeling that if he knew what Phyllis wanted me to do...” His voice trailed off. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not your problem.” He turned to the ice sculptures and studied them in silence.

  “Are you the artist?” I finally asked.

  He nodded.

  “Your work is fabulous,” I said sincerely. “You’ve carved the dogs so accurately! Look at the flat skull and the almond-shaped eyes on Lassie. You’ve captured collies perfectly. And over here on Rin Tin Tin, you’ve got the slightly curved tail that’s typical of German Shepherds—”

  “What are you, some kind of dog expert?”

  “In a way,” I said, suddenly sheepish. “I’m a veterinarian. In fact, I’m here for the dog show. I’m running the ‘Ask The Vet’ booth.”

  His expression softened. “Well, thanks. In that case, maybe I should bring my cat by. I keep meaning to take her to the vet, but I never have the time. Lulu’s eyes have been so red lately. Almost like conjunctivitis, even though I know that’s a people thing.”

  “It’s a cat thing, too. How long has she had it?”

  “Almost a week. I know I should have taken care of it by now. But June is the busiest month of the year for us. The summer season’s starting up and everybody on the East End is having a party. I just haven’t had time to bring her in.”

  “If it is just a superficial eye infection, a broad-spectrum antibiotic would take care of it. But it might be chlamydia. It’s not serious, but it could become chronic, something that’s brought out by stress. Tell you what: how about if I come over to your studio the first chance I get? I’ve got a mobile services unit, and I make house calls for a living. I’d be happy to take a look at her.”

  “Would you? That would be so great! Here, let me give you my card. It’s got the address of my studio on it. I’m so loaded up that I’m pretty much there from dawn ’til midnight, seven days a week. Unless I’m at an event, setting up.”

  I glanced at the business card he’d handed me. It was glossy black card stock, printed in silver.

  Gary Frye

  Ice Sculptor Extraordinaire

  Ice Castles

  Underneath was the address and phone number of his studio, which was located right in East Brompton.

  “I’ll try to come by tomorrow,” I told him. “It depends on how busy this dog-show thing keeps me.”

  “Great.” Mumbling, he added, “At least something good came out of this evening. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to figure out how to make these things safe.”

  As I headed back into the tent, I saw that the guests had started arriving in droves. I wasn’t at all surprised that Devon Barnett had relocated once again. Now that he’d satisfied his nicotine craving, he’d positioned himself directly outside the tent’s main entrance, where no one could sneak by without having their arrival recorded on film.

  I plopped down at one of the round tables, noticing that the brightly colored tablecloths were printed with cartoonish images of cats and dogs. The napkins, made of the same fabric, were encircled with silver napkin rings, each one in the shape of a different dog. I checked out the different place settings, recognizing a dachshund, a poodle, and a beagle.

  I was puzzling over mine, trying to figure out if it was a Corgi or a werewolf, when I heard someone say, “Mind if I sit here?”

  I glanced up at a tall, muscular man in his late twenties, his hair bleached a startling shade of white and painstakingly gelled so that it pointed upward like Bart Simpson’s. He wore a tight T-shirt, even tighter jeans, and a gold eyebrow ring.

  “Please do.”

  As he sat down, he, too, noticed the tablecloth.

  “Just look at all these cute little doggies and kitties,” he cooed. “Aren’t they too precious? The effect is so wonderfully kitsch!” He leaned toward me. “I just hope they’re not serving Purina Dog Chow. Especially at five hundred dollars a plate.”

  “At least they’re not making us eat out of plastic food bowls.” I gestured toward the fine white china.

  He held up his plate and examined it. “Now that you mention it, this does look suspiciously like bone china.”

  I laughed. “Thank goodness I’ve found somebody with a sense of humor! Otherwise, I don’t know how I’d get through this evening.”

  “Honey, come to enough of these and you’ll start bringing along your knitting.” He put down the plate and held out his hand. “I’m Chess LaMont.”

  “I’m Jessie Popper.” As I shook his hand, I said, “ ‘Chess’?”

  “Don’t tell anybody, but I started out in life as a ‘Chester,’ if you can believe that. But when I left my hometown of Crabapple, Iowa, I left behind the ‘T-E-R.’ I picked up the extra ‘S’ when I crossed the Mississippi, and believe me, honey, I never looked back.”

  He sighed. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re probably like every other New Yorker. You don’t believe that anybody comes from Iowa. You might not even believe there is such a place.”

  “I’ve been to Iowa,” I said. “I liked it.”

  He shook his head dismissively. “Sweetie, you can have it. That’s one place that looks best from the window of an airplane—growing smaller and smaller every second.”

  I smiled. “I guess you’re not one of those people who romanticizes the good old days.”

  He pretended to shudder. “I’m sure there are people in my hometown who think I’ve died because they’ve seen so little of me since I graduated from high school.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Would you believe ten years?” He grimaced. “I’m already getting wrinkles.”

  “I don’t see any.”

  “That’s because you’re too polite. I can tell just by looking at you that you’re one of those kind, sincere types. Which probably explains why I’ve never run into you out here in the Bromptons before.”

  “This is the first time I’ve ever come to one of these,” I admitted. “I’m just here for the dog show.”

  “You’re so lucky! I hope your little darling wins.”

  I didn’t even stop to contemplate the irony of either Max or Lou being referred to as a “little darling.”

  “I’m not showing a dog,” I said. “I’m actually a veterinarian, and I’m going to be standing at a booth, answering questions. It’s called ‘Ask The Vet.’ ”

  “Then you’re doubly lucky! You get to be part of the fun without all that pressure. The shampooing, the brushing, the fluffing...then there’s all the work that goes into getting the dog ready.” Chess’s expression tightened. “You know, I wanted to enter Zsa Zsa. She’s a Havanese, the sweetest little angel this side of heaven.”

  “Havanese?” I repeated. “They’re part of the Bichon family, aren’t they?

  “You’re familiar with them?” he asked excitedly. “They’re so fascinating. Did you know they’re originally from the Mediterranean? Spanish traders used to bring them to Cuban women as gifts. I just love that.” He sighed. “But Zsa Zsa is special. She has the sweetest expression. Really, she doesn’t look like any other dog you’ve ever seen. Of course, we don’t use that word around her. ‘Dog,’ I mean. We always refer to her as a princess, because that’s exactly what she is.”

  “Why didn’t you enter her in the dog show? She might have won.”

  Pouting, he replied, “My significant other wouldn’t let me. Nettie insists he doesn’t want me getting mixed up in the celebrity scene. He seems to think it would taint me or something.”

  “That sounds kind of extreme.”

  “That
’s what I’m always telling him! But he’s one of those macho types who thinks I should wait at home, playing June to his Ward Cleaver. At least June was on Ward’s pension plan!” Chess sighed. “He even acted like he was doing me the favor of a lifetime by getting me a ticket for this dinner tonight. But so far, the only celebrities I’ve seen have been a bunch of washed-up has-beens who haven’t made a movie practically since the talkies were invented.”

  As he spoke, my attention was diverted by a small commotion behind him.

  “Oh, my God!” I gasped. “Isn’t that Hugo Fontana?”

  “Muscles, ten. Acting talent, one.” Chess rolled his eyes. “Did you see him in Pulverizer 3: The Annihilation? I swear, they should have annihilated his Screen Actors Guild card after that one!”

  As I glanced around at the increasingly crowded tent, I realized that Hugo Fontana’s face wasn’t the only one I recognized. I’ve never thought of myself as starstruck, but it was fun to spot one celebrity after another. Then there were the people I couldn’t place, but who certainly looked famous. The tiny woman dressed entirely in orange leather, for example, a jolting contrast to her cherry-red hair and glittery eye shadow.

  I actually gasped when I noticed a slender blond at the edge of the tent, surrounded by a sea of admirers. Every one of them was male. Her delicate coloring was set off by the simple black dress she wore, cut low enough to intrigue without giving too much away. She threw back her head and laughed, a fluttering sound that reminded me of a bird.

  “That’s Kara Liebling!” I exclaimed.

  “She’s absolutely gorgeous, isn’t she?” Chess gushed.

  I was astonished to see the famous actress survey the room, zero in on our table, and head in our direction. I was even more surprised when she came right over to our table and threw her arms around Chess.

  “There you are!” she cried. “I heard you were coming tonight!”

  No air kisses for these two. The affection between Chess and Kara Liebling seemed completely sincere.

  “Kara, love, you must meet my newest friend, Jessie Popper. She’s a living, breathing veterinarian. Can you imagine—a person with a real job? Jessie, this is Kara, the brightest star in the Hollywood sky.”