The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service

by Beth Kendrick

  “I know he’s overweight. I know.” Kayla stared down at the tile floor. “We call him our yellow flabrador. But he’s such a good dog, and he always seems so hungry.”

  “That’s Labs for you.” Lara crouched down to get a better look at the dog. “How old is he now?”

  “Almost six.”

  “And how long has he been obese?”

  Kayla flinched at the word, but there was no denying it. “About two years now, I guess. He was roly-poly even as a puppy, but really energetic. We used to send him to doggie day care to tire him out. As he got older and mellower, he wanted to lounge around on his bed all day, and we let him. It was such a relief after all the chewing and digging and barking and jumping. And now . . .” Kayla trailed off. “Please don’t yell at me.”

  Lara looked up in surprise. “I’m not here to yell at you. I’m here to help you and Roo make some changes.”

  “I know it’s unhealthy.” Kayla hung her head in disgrace. “And I know it’s my fault. But he just . . . I just . . .”

  “Don’t waste time and energy playing the blame game,” Lara said firmly. “We’re going to make a fresh start. You and I are going to come up with a plan of action together, but in the end, you’re the one who will need to follow through.”

  “Absolutely.” Kayla nodded, but Lara sensed a lack of resolve. She was starting to notice this pattern with wealthy clients: They wanted to call Lara in, write a check, and declare the problem solved. But Roo was going to have to lose weight the same way he’d gained it—slowly and steadily, with constant support from his owner.

  “When’s the last time he had a checkup?” Lara asked.

  “Last week.” Kayla straightened the hem of her tank top. “The vet gave me a stern talking-to. That’s why I called you.”

  “Did your vet run any blood work?”

  “I think they said they were doing a junior blood panel. Why do you ask?”

  “The first thing I need to do is rule out thyroid problems or metabolic disorders.” Lara stood up and got down to business. “Is he on any medication? Steroids like Prednisone?”

  Kayla shook her head. “No, he’s fit as a fiddle.” She reached down to rub Roo’s exposed belly. “My fat little fiddle.”

  “Okay, good.” Lara dug a pen and notepad out of her bag. “Then let’s get to work. How much are you feeding him right now?”

  “Two cups of kibble. One cup in the morning and one cup at dinnertime.” Kayla crossed her heart and hoped to die. “We used to sneak him a lot of treats and table food, but we’ve really cut back on that. At least, I have.”

  Lara glanced at Roo’s monogrammed food bowl, which looked as though it would hold at least five cups. “May I see the food scoop, please?”

  “Sure.” Kayla opened the door to the pantry and pulled out a huge plastic cup. Big Gulp size.

  “Well, here’s your first problem. Your cup is way bigger than a cup.” Lara asked Kayla to find a calibrated measuring cup, and they compared it with the oversize food scoop. “Also, he’s got to start walking, but take it easy; nothing too strenuous. Keep it slow and short. For the first few weeks, every little bit of exercise will help. But weight loss is seventy percent about diet and only thirty percent about exercise.”

  “I’m aware.” Kayla smiled wryly and spread her hands across her taut stomach. “I could probably teach a nutrition seminar at this point.”

  “So here’s what we’re going to do.” Lara jotted everything down on the notepad. “I want you to give him a half a cup of kibble at every meal, mixed with pinto beans and brown rice.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yep. You’re going to feed him that for a month, supplemented with a daily multivitamin. After thirty days, we’ll start adding cooked chicken, green beans, carrots, and peas.”

  Kayla looked hesitant. “So I shouldn’t switch him over to low-cal dog food?”

  “I’m not a big fan of low-cal kibble,” Lara said. “I’d much rather you feed him whole foods. The key, though, is going to be feeding him the proper amount for his size and activity level.”

  “Portion control,” Kayla murmured.

  “Exactly. Labs only need two cups of food per day. Two and a half, max.”

  Kayla glanced at the measuring cup and wrung her hands. “I feel like you want me to starve him.”

  “That’s why we’re going to take this in baby steps,” Lara said soothingly. “We aren’t depriving him; we’re trying to help him.”

  Kayla took a few steps back, crossing her arms.

  “You look upset,” Lara said.

  “I’m sorry. I just . . .” Kayla knelt down next to Roo, and he rolled over. “When my husband and I started dating, I was a model. He likes me to look a certain way, and so do I. I know what I have to do to stay in shape—the stretching, the cardio, the free weights—and I do it. I go to the gym six days a week. I count calories. I eat clean. I’ve always been very disciplined, but I just can’t bring myself to force all that on my poor boy.” She and Roo shared a look of soulful compassion. “I can’t ever indulge, and so I indulge the dog. And yes, I know how insane that sounds.”

  “It’s not insane at all,” Lara assured her. “If you understand how you two got into this pattern of behavior, it’ll be much easier to figure out how you can get out.”

  Kayla laid one hand flat against Roo’s well-padded rib cage. “I get what you’re saying, and I’ll give it a try. But I know how it feels to want one more bite, to be starving for it, and when he looks up at me with that sad, hopeful expression, well, I can’t say no.”

  Lara mulled this over for a moment. “Here’s an idea. Both of you can work on this together. Roo needs more discipline in his diet, and it sounds like you need less. What if you both have a treat every day? A tiny little cheat that no one will ever know about.”

  “I can’t do that.” Kayla’s eyes widened. “If I have one sip of wine, I’ll chug the whole glass. If I eat one bite of brownie, I have to eat the whole thing.”

  Lara was starting to understand the psychological significance of the huge plastic kibble scoop.

  “Okay,” she said in her most calming, reasonable tone. “Then once a week, drink a whole glass of wine. Eat a brownie. Just try it for thirty days. And next month I’ll come back and we’ll see where we are.”

  Kayla’s bravado gave way to visible fear. “I’ll be as fat as Roo.”

  “From one brownie a week? I doubt that. In fact, I’ll bet you that you won’t gain a single pound.”

  Kayla nibbled her lower lip, her eyes worried.

  Lara deliberately relaxed her posture and waited for her client to do the same. “All I can ask is that you try. I’m not telling you to start mainlining sugar and alter your lifestyle forever. I’m just asking you, both of you, to follow the program. If a month sounds overwhelming, let’s start with a week. How about that? I’ll come back next Monday and see how it’s going.”

  “And I’ll take him for a walk every day?”

  “A short walk,” Lara emphasized. “Just around the block once or twice.”

  “I can do that.” Kayla took a deep breath. “Maybe I’ll try to get my husband to come with me.”

  “Great idea. You’re all in this together.”

  Kayla brightened. “He’s not much of a gourmet cook, but he can probably handle pinto beans and potatoes. And then, next weekend, we can all go to McDonald’s and give my baby a Big Mac.”

  Lara laughed. “I was thinking more like plain nonfat yogurt.”

  “I still get a chocolate croissant, though, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Lara felt good about the paycheck she pocketed on her way out the door, but she felt even better about Roo’s prospects. The high of a successful consult was addictive. No one was criticizing her or demanding that she turn her whole personality inside out. She had done her job, she had earned the appreciation, and she was a beacon of hope to flabradors everywhere.

  On her way back to Just
ine’s house, she crossed paths yet again with Ivory. The spunky Maltese gave her a friendly little yip as she trotted past.

  “That’s right.” Lara put a little extra spring into her step. “I’m the Dog Doyenne, and don’t you forget it.”

  Chapter 14

  “Mom?” Late Sunday morning, Lara rapped softly on the massive double doors that closed off the master suite from the rest of the world. “Are you awake?”

  She waited, breath held, ears straining for any sound of life from within. But there was nothing except the steady, murmuring drone from the TV.

  “Mom?” She knocked again, louder this time, and tried the doorknob. Locked.

  This was getting ridiculous, and also kind of creepy. Knowing that Justine was physically present in the house, but never seeing her, was starting to freak Lara out. Even the dogs picked up their pace when they scuttled past Justine’s doorway, as if a scaly, taloned hand might dart out and snatch them.

  Plus, Justine had never been the reclusive type. She thrived on energy and chaos. She loved to charge into a crisis and start giving orders and implementing strategies.

  So Lara grabbed her cell phone and dialed.

  On the fifth ring her mother picked up. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mom. It’s Lara. Remember me? Your daughter? I’m right outside your bedroom door.”

  “What do you want?” Justine’s voice sounded thick and throaty, as if she had just woken up and was still getting her bearings.

  “Just to chat. May I come in?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  Lara rested her fingers on the knob. “Let me in.”

  There was another long pause; then at last the knob twisted and the door swung inward. Her mother stood in the shadows, her arms folded tightly over a pair of wrinkled turquoise silk pajamas. The room was so dark that it took Lara a few moments to determine that Justine’s face was devoid of makeup, and her hair, once so thick she’d had to shape it with thinning shears, now appeared unwashed and sparse, exposing pale flashes of scalp. There were dark circles under her eyes and faint creases around her mouth, eyes, and forehead.

  Lara couldn’t hide her pity and dismay, and Justine bristled in response. She stood up taller and fanned out her fingers to cover the uneven patches of pigment on her face. “See? This is why I can’t leave the house. That’s exactly how I don’t want people to look at me.”

  “It’s not your face,” Lara said, so quickly that she knew she sounded insincere. “It’s just . . . you’re wearing pajamas, and it’s almost noon.”

  “So what?” Justine started back toward her king-size bed, which was heaped with fluffy pillows and a blue silk duvet.

  At times like this, Lara desperately wished she had a sibling. She didn’t know how worried she should be, and it would be so helpful to have someone to check in with. Someone to say, “Oh, you know how she is. She’ll bounce back” or “I’ve never seen her like this before. You’re absolutely right to be concerned.”

  Justine was intensely private about her personal life—or lack thereof—and Lara knew that any attempt to nudge her mother toward therapy or group support would be met with scorn.

  The only person who might have a frame of reference for this kind of situation was Gil, but she could never tell her father about this. Justine would consider that the ultimate betrayal. As far as Gil was concerned, Justine was bulletproof. He still spoke about his ex-wife with a combination of awe and intimidation.

  “How may I help you?” Justine tucked her feet under the covers and reclined against the pillows.

  “I wanted to ask how I may help you, actually.” Lara swept out her arms to indicate the cold, dark, stale-smelling suite. “This is not healthy.”

  “You’re here for a pep talk? Spare me. I’m taking a nap.”

  “You’ve been napping since Friday. I know you’re, um, making some big adjustments right now, but you shouldn’t be holed up here in the dark.”

  “The doctors said UV exposure’s not good for my face.”

  “That means you put on sunscreen and a hat. No one advised to you to spend all day, every day, wasting away watching . . .” Lara squinted at the TV screen. “What are you watching?”

  “Sopranos marathon. I never got to see this series when it originally aired, you know.”

  “No wonder you’re depressed.”

  Justine lifted her chin. “I’m not depressed. I don’t get depressed.”

  Lara shot her a sidelong glance. “I just Googled clinical depression and you’ve got every symptom: constant sleepiness, social withdrawal, loss of appetite, irritability. . . .”

  “Irritability is my natural state.” Justine paused the TV, then dropped the remote control as if the effort of holding it exhausted her. “Did you barge in here just to play armchair psychologist?”

  “I’m trying to help. I’m worried about you.”

  “Worry about yourself. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and I always will be.” Justine’s voice rose at the end of this statement, as if to imply that Lara’s future wasn’t nearly so secure.

  Lara ignored this barb and regarded her mother with compassion. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  Justine narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you talk to me that way. Don’t patronize me. This is my house, I’m a grown woman, and if I feel like sleeping all damn weekend, I will. Mind your own business.”

  Lara flinched at the hostility in her mother’s voice, but she didn’t back down. “Well, I’m making lunch, so you can either tell me what you’d like, or you can have a peanut butter sandwich.”

  “I detest peanut butter, and you know it.”

  Lara did know it. Justine’s taste ran more toward sashimi and scallops.

  “Well, my cooking skills are pretty much limited to PB and J, cereal out of the box, pancakes, and pasta. Take your pick.”

  “Get out and stay out.” Justine pointed imperiously at the door. “I’m not one of your charity cases. Save your Mother Teresa complex for your dogs.”

  “It’s not a Mother Teresa complex. It’s lunch. So pancakes, pasta, or peanut butter—what’ll it be?”

  “I haven’t touched pasta in ages, but it does sound tempting,” Justine admitted. “That’s one thing about The Sopranos—all the characters are constantly gorging on carbohydrates.”

  “Perfect. I have an hour before I have to leave for the adoption fair. Let’s go make spaghetti.”

  “Cooking? On the stove?” Justine seemed baffled by this idea. “Call Nick’s and order takeout.”

  “No, Mom. We can cook. You have a fully stocked kitchen with restaurant-grade appliances.”

  “Purely for aesthetics and resale value. I don’t even know how to turn on the stove.”

  “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can figure it out.”

  “I’m comfortable right here.”

  Lara put her hands on her hips. “You can’t stay in bed all day. You need to get out of those pajamas and put on real clothes. And while I’m out in the kitchen, I want you to take a shower.” She opened up the plantation shutters to let in some sunlight. “Oh, and change the channel. All these mob whackings can’t be good for your mental state.”

  Justine hit PLAY on the remote and jacked up the volume. “You know, last time I looked, you didn’t sign my paychecks. You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “It’s for your own good.” Lara walked into the huge mirrored bathroom and turned on the shower. “Get cracking.”

  When she returned twenty minutes later, carrying two servings of salad and marinara-sauced linguine, she found Justine combing out her wet hair. She had swapped her pajamas for a dark green cowl-neck sweater and black drawstring cotton pants that looked suspiciously like sleepwear.

  Lara leveled her gaze. “I thought we agreed the pajamas had to go.”

  “These aren’t pajamas,” Justine said. “It’s loungewear.”

  “You are so stubborn.�
��

  “You mean I’m a good negotiator.”

  Lara set the tray on the nightstand next to the bed, then handed her mother a white cloth napkin, a fork, and a crystal goblet of ice water.

  Her mother wrinkled her nose at the water. “I’d prefer a lovely glass of Cabernet, please.”

  “Before noon? I don’t think so.”

  Justine took a tiny bite of pasta, then made a face. “Is this jarred tomato sauce?”

  Lara nodded. “I couldn’t find any of Shelly’s homemade sauce in the freezer.”

  “Did you grate the Parmesan yourself, at least?”

  “Yes, your majesty.”

  Justine set aside her lunch and flopped back against the pillows. “I know what you’re thinking. I know that to you I seem vain and superficial.”

  Lara didn’t reply. She sat motionless, hoping that her silence would encourage her mother to keep going.

  “My entire life, people have depended on me. For their salary, of course, but also for direction. I have the answers. I make the hard decisions. And I’m comfortable with that; it’s part of being a business owner. But now . . . My face is who I am. It’s my identity. And now it’s ruined.”

  “It is not who you are,” Lara argued. “What about all those old sayings: ‘Beauty is only skin deep’? ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder’?”

  “All said by people not making their living in the beauty industry. It doesn’t bother me if people hate me. I couldn’t care less how my employees feel about me as long as they respect me. But the pity, the stares, and the whispers, and the way I was being ‘handled’ . . .” She shook her head. “I’d almost rather stay locked up in this empty house. My cardiologist gave me an excuse to be weak, and I took it.”

  “The last word I would ever use to describe you is weak. You’re so strong, it’s scary. And your house isn’t empty,” Lara pointed out. “You’ve got your unmarried, underemployed adult daughter crashing with you.”

  “Yes. That is a comfort.”

  Lara saw her opening and made her move. “And since I’m here—very temporarily, I might add—we should do something together.”