by Ian Harding
Lucy is number one on the call sheet, and I’m number seven—told you it was my lucky number. Lucy’s higher placement means she has some say in how we shoot the scenes.
After we’ve filmed the wide-angle “master”—the shot where you can see both actors at once—we move on to individual coverage, which is basically the same thing as a close-up on one actor. Traditionally, whoever is higher on the call sheet gets to decide if they’d like to go first or second, so they get to either prepare during the other actor’s takes, or go first while everything is still fresh. Lucy never seems to care about going first or second, unless it’s for a highly dramatic scene that she’s the main focus of.
On some productions, after the actor with the higher number on the call sheet finishes their coverage, they’ll leave set. This means that their scene partner is left to act opposite a PA with a script in their hand.
This bit of set politics has never been an issue on our show. Lucy has only left set during my coverage once before, and it was because we were running late and she had to hop on a plane for a family emergency. Her focus has always been on whatever makes the day run smoothly.
After we finish a scene and are excused from set, Lucy will always find a place to curl up and take a nap. The girl naps everywhere. She could sleep on a bed made of barbed wire if she wanted to.
If I’ve got a bit of a break between scenes and need some rest, I’ll usually head back to my dressing room.
Shortly after we started work on season four, Marlene King—the showrunner and executive producer of PLL—was walking by my dressing room and poked her head in. She took a look around and I think assumed that I was horribly depressed based on the room’s general lack of style and cleanliness. I’d never thought about decorating the place, and I’d let it get pretty messy. Marlene was worried, so she had the room redecorated with bright colors, put some art on the walls, and even got me a new mini fridge.
The new décor was actually pretty nice, but the fridge didn’t last long. One day I walked in to find Shay Mitchell—who plays Emily on the show—stealing it. When I caught her red-handed, she began to laugh maniacally.
“Don’t just stand there, Ian. Help me get this over to my dressing room,” she said. I proceeded to help her steal my own fridge.
Shay also regularly takes food that I’m eating right out of my hands and eats it in front of me. She’s basically the little sister I never had—the little sister who expresses love through torment.
If I see Ashley Benson, who plays Hanna, I’ll pretend to hide. Not a day has gone by when she hasn’t tried to punch me in the balls. It’s a game we’ve been playing since season one. Ashley’s a good friend, and she’ll periodically steal my dogs and take them on adventures.
After we’ve been on set for six hours, we are released for “lunch.” I put lunch in quotation marks because it’s not a time-of-day-sensitive meal. When we have night shoots, we’ll have a lunch break at two in the morning.
We had one of those nighttime lunch breaks when we were shooting the noir episode at the end of season four. Keegan and I were excused a little early for our lunch break, around 8:30 P.M., and we decided to leave the lot for dinner.
Across the street from where we film is a place called the Smoke House, an old Hollywood watering hole that’s been serving actors from the Warner Bros. lot since the forties. We rolled up in costumes that would’ve fit right in back when the restaurant was founded—Keegan looked like a young Dick Tracy.
The waiter seated us at George Clooney’s table—he was a regular at the Smoke House back in his ER days—and we sat there, sipping dirty martinis, eating heaping bowls of pasta. I don’t usually go in much for Hollywood nostalgia, but it was a memorable lunch.
Similar to how “lunch” is a multiuse term, whenever I finish shooting all of my coverage, no matter what time of day it is, the AD will shout, “That’s a goodnight to Ian!” and then everyone on set will call out goodnight. I’ve been wished a sincere goodnight at both three in the morning and three in the afternoon.
Before leaving set, we hang up our clothes—you don’t want any enemies, especially in the costume department—then grab our bags and head out.
Sometimes I’ll grab a small to-go box of bacon for the road.
NO MORE DUCK FOR BAILEY
A few years ago, Sophia and I were driving to meet up with a friend for lunch on Wilshire Boulevard. We were running pretty early.
Driving past the La Brea Tar Pits, I noticed that No-Kill Los Angeles, a group that promotes adoption of dogs and cats, was having its annual pet adoption weekend on the park grounds.
When I first moved to Los Angeles, I’d lived practically across the street from the tar pits, and I’d visited the event then. I hadn’t seriously considered adopting at the time because my apartment didn’t allow dogs—and I didn’t have the space.
We had a half hour to spare before lunch, and we decided to stop and look at some of the animals.
Walking up and down the rows of white tents that had been set up to shade the kennels, I found myself thinking about how all these animals ended up here. Families who got evicted and couldn’t afford to keep their beloved pets. Nine-year-old ex-fighting dogs. Puppies who proved too energetic for their owners’ patience.
The cages were filled with beautiful animals—some friendly, others clearly frightened. It all started to get to me—so many cats and dogs find new, loving homes at these adoption fairs, but then you also know not every animal will be so lucky.
Around the corner of one of the rows of tents, there was a small crowd gathered around a kennel. Suddenly, Sophia let out a yelp and sprinted ahead. She disappeared into the crowd. I squeezed apologetically through several rows of shoulders and elbows to get to the front and catch up with her. When I finally got to where she was standing, Sophia was grinning from ear to ear. She pointed at a kennel. Inside were two labradoodles: Mochi, a girl, and Bailey, her brother.
Mochi was the smaller of the two, with slate gray fur and a chubby face. Bailey was lean and lighter in color, and he had a thin mustache that curled over his upper lip.
Mochi peered from face to face, like she was looking for someone. Her brother was skittishly cowering in a corner, looking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t about to be surprised from behind.
A girl put her hand up to the metal bars of the kennel to say hi. Bailey, tail between his legs, sidestepped to the opposite corner of the enclosure.
I squatted down next to the kennel and put my hand out. Sophia did the same. Bailey looked over. He cautiously walked over and sat down next to me. He looked up, and we made eye contact. He lowered his head and nuzzled my hand. Mochi wagged her way over to her brother’s side and began to lick Sophia’s hand through the cage.
At that moment I realized two things: (1) we were getting these dogs, and (2) we were definitely going to be late for lunch.
Sophia agreed to stay with the dogs while I went to find someone who could help us. The adoption counter was in the tent next door, and as I walked over, I heard a man arguing with one of the volunteers. He was trying to adopt Mochi but didn’t want to take her brother. The volunteer explained that the dogs were littermates—they hadn’t been separated since birth. Ideally, they were looking to find them a home together.
The man took out his wallet and offered to pay extra for Mochi. The volunteer explained that the adoption fee was a set rate, and that they weren’t trying to make a profit on the dogs.
Adrenaline took over: “I’ll take them both!” I found myself calling out.
The man turned to me.
“I’m adopting the girl now,” he said.
“You’re offering to buy one, but I’d take them both,” I said. I’d only just met them two minutes ago but already I felt protective of these pups.
The volunteer smiled at me—and I knew that we were going to be taking them home.
This was all very unexpected. We’d been on our way to lunch, debating what to do with th
e rest of our afternoon—and now we had dogs. Plural.
After filling out the paperwork, the volunteer and I walked back to the kennel. She opened the gate and put the dogs on leashes so we could take them to the car. Mochi and Bailey bolted from the enclosure and jumped at Sophia and me. I was wearing a baseball hat, and as I bent down to pet them, Mochi nabbed it off my head, wagging and smiling as she held it in her mouth.
That night the dogs slept in bed with us. I think we may have even shared a pillow.
The next morning they ate a pair of my dress shoes and Bailey threw up in the kitchen.
It’s been four years now, and the pups still haven’t slept a night apart.
* * *
Last year Sophia was spending the holidays with her folks in Florida, so I had the days between Christmas and New Year’s all to myself. Los Angeles is especially quiet then—people get together with family, or run from them, fleeing to the mountains or the beach.
The whole town seems to draw its curtains.
The day after Christmas, I was wandering around the house in my boxers trying to find something to do. I’d realphabetized the books on my bookshelf and researched a scuba-diving certification course but didn’t sign up for it. I was too restless to commit to anything.
Mochi and Bailey were following me from room to room, clearly frustrated that they hadn’t been taken outside yet. I was too lazy to walk them but too lazy to sit still, and they stared at me like I was a sort of inept Judas: the look on their faces less of betrayal than disappointment.
I realized that I couldn’t do much more loafing around at home. I needed to get outside—to get some sunlight and fresh air before the short winter day ran out. I had cabin fever. We all had cabin fever.
I asked the dogs if they wanted to go for a hike. At the sound of the word, Mochi began to sneeze with excitement. She started doing laps around the kitchen island. Bailey ran over to the front door, crying to be let outside.
I loaded them in the car. They ride shotgun—I never said they weren’t total divas.
One of the set designers on Pretty Little Liars had told me about a hike over in Franklin Canyon that I’d been meaning to explore, so I plugged the location into my phone for directions and set off.
I made my way over to Beverly Hills, and drove up through block after block of almost comically palatial mansions, many of them hidden from the street by towering, multistory hedgerows and security gates. I made a right turn into the park, and suddenly the houses were all behind us.
As I followed a narrow, winding canyon road up into the park, an elderly couple passed by going the opposite direction on a tandem mountain bike—apparently that’s a thing people do.
The temperature was dropping outside—it was a whole different microclimate up here. Like a national park had unexpectedly sprung up in the middle of super-fancy suburban Los Angeles.
I passed a sign: COMPLIANCE WITH UPCOMING STOP SIGN SUBJECT TO VIDEO MONITORING AND ENFORCEMENT. And just in case I didn’t understand the implications of that sign, another immediately after it stated: PHOTO ENFORCED. Then, a few yards after that, a pedestrian crossing sign.
Franklin Canyon takes its signs very seriously.
I finally got to the stop sign, and after coming to a complete stop and counting to five in my head, I drove around to the right of a small reservoir. It’s an idyllic spot, and you may have even seen it before without knowing it: this is where a very young Ron Howard—who at the time went by Ronny—threw a stone into the water in the opening credits of The Andy Griffith Show.
The parking lot is at the top of the reservoir. I parked and let the dogs out to do some preliminary sniffing and marking of territory. In the trees above us, a pair of yellow-rumped warblers chased each other in circles.
After poking around a bit, I found a trail that ran along the side of the lake. I took the counterclockwise route, letting the dogs pull me, waiting on them when they found a good scent to work on.
The dogs pulled me over to a small pond filled with mallards and wood ducks. Turtles basked on mossy logs, warming themselves in the oblique winter sunlight. A family with twin girls in matching pink parkas was feeding bread to the ducks—next to a sign forbidding it.
On the far side of the reservoir from the parking lot the trees and reeds along the shore opened up, and I got a great view back over the water. As I walked along, a bird flew in and landed clumsily on the water, skidding to a halt. A wigeon, or maybe a coot.
I thought I’d get a closer look, but juggling my binoculars with one hand while the dogs pulled against the leashes in my other proved impossible. I finally got the dogs to sit.
I scanned the lake again. The duck was still there: a male hooded merganser! It swam in little loops, the extravagant white crest on its black head fully extended. Beady yellow eyes unblinking. I guessed there was a female around nearby—probably somewhere just out of sight.
And there she was, coming out of the brush hanging over the edge of the lake.
Mergansers have a special place in my heart. It was that hooded merganser at Big Bear that brought me back into birding as an adult. Seeing the pair of them now, I felt my mind begin to relax. The postholiday stress and tension started to melt away.
And then something weird happened. Watching the two little ducks on the reservoir, Mochi and Bailey patiently tolerating my love of birds, a strange feeling crept up on me. It was a feeling I hadn’t experienced while birding before, and also one that I haven’t since. I was very hungry—starving, in fact.
And what I craved at that moment, more than anything in the world, was duck.
We didn’t dawdle on the way back to the car. Hike finished, dogs loaded up, my hat in Mochi’s mouth, I pulled out my phone and typed “duck” into Google Maps. The first result was a craft beer spot in Koreatown that specialized in duck and deep-fried Oreos. And to complete the trifecta, it was dog-friendly.
Driving to the restaurant, I thought about my feelings. I thought about how I was going to be eating them soon. As a birder, craving duck while viewing one of the prettiest species of the family is a convoluted and guilt-ridden experience. Here was this animal that I admired—that I had pored over in books—and it also happened to be mouthwateringly delicious. It was a conundrum.
I got to the restaurant, snagged a table, and ordered a duck French dip sandwich and some fries cooked in duck fat. There was a dish on the menu called “Death by Duck,” but I couldn’t bring myself to order it. The image of a pair of mergansers sitting down to eat me for lunch came to mind.
The waiter brought over a bowl of water for Mochi and Bailey, who were hanging out under the table.
It really had turned out to be a great day after all. And I could see how the rest of the afternoon was going to unfold: I would stuff myself with food. Then I was going to need a nap.
The food arrived, and I sank into duck bliss.
Once I had regained my senses, I noticed that the pups were peering out from under the edge of the table, watching me eat. I was feeling generous—so I handed Mochi my hat. She politely took it and set it on the ground, rejecting my offer—and she and her brother continued to look up at me expectantly.
When it comes to my dogs, I’m a weak man. I slipped them each a piece of duck from my sandwich. Mochi gulped it down, and then put a paw on my knee, trying to pressure me into giving her more. Bailey practically inhaled the piece I gave him and then sat back down, licking the grease off his whiskers.
Mochi growled for more. She’s always been pushier than her brother—she’s cleverer than he is, too. They love to roughhouse together, and I once saw Mochi feign injury to trick him. Bailey had given her a nip on the leg, and she gave a strange yelp and pretended to limp away. When Bailey turned around, she pounced on him.
I told her to lie down and then gave her another piece of duck. I gave one to Bailey, too. I didn’t want him to think I was playing favorites.
The waiter came over, and I put in an order of deep-fried Oreos.
“You know, your one dog isn’t looking so hot,” he said.
I looked under the table. Mochi looked chipper enough, but Bailey was wheezing, his eyes closed. He took a long, rattling breath. He exhaled, and you could see he was struggling. I rubbed his back.
“What’s going on, buddy?” I asked.
Bailey began to dry heave. Then he threw up.
* * *
The waiting room at the animal hospital was playing Christmas music. Obscure animal-themed Christmas music. I don’t know how many of you know the song “Dominick the Donkey,” but, trust me, it’s not what you want to be listening to while you’re waiting to find out if you poisoned your dog.
After what felt like an hour, the vet stepped into the waiting room and called me back to see Bailey. He was sitting on a stainless-steel table, looking like his normal self. He lifted his head and wagged his tail when he saw me.
“Bailey is going to be fine,” the vet said. “He had a strong intolerance to something he ate—my guess would be the duck. If I were you, I’d consider getting him allergy tested. In the meantime, no more duck for Bailey.”
* * *
In front of me, as I write this, I have a list of all the foods that Bailey can’t eat per the allergy testing results. He is allergic to duck (of course), chicken, potatoes (both sweet and regular), eggs, fish (all kinds), wheat, venison, lamb, peanuts, soy, and chocolate (duh).
At my feet, Bailey is smiling up at me while his sister is gnawing at his ears. I’ve noticed that since I’ve changed his diet, he’s stopped licking his paws as much, or scratching the top of his lip. Some hair has grown in around his nose that I didn’t realize was missing. He used to paw at his face and get runny eyes, but no longer.
