Pet Whisperer...er...rrr

by Carolyn McCray; Ben Hopkin

  The assistant’s eyes dilated. Probably because, you know, she appreciated Wyatt’s sense of style and panache. He had that effect on women. The assistant wordlessly nodded and guided him across the room where a woman stood facing away from them, studying the landscape painting on the wall. The goddess incarnate had on a draped scarlet dress that allowed Wyatt to view her perfectly sculpted back. She was tall, with shapely legs that just went up and up and up.

  Wyatt straightened his bolo tie. “Now this is what I am talking about.”

  He waved the assistant away. He could handle this introduction on his own. He was in his element. A colorful and shiny fish in crystal clear waters.

  Making his way up to table thirteen, Wyatt blew into his palm, testing his breath. Maybe this pet-whispering gig wasn’t as bad as he had thought.

  “Why, hello there, beautiful.” Wyatt liked to appear confident.

  Ashley turned around to reveal a long handlebar mustache. “Why hello there, yourself,” he drawled in a deep, thick Texan accent.

  “Oh my …” Wyatt said, backing away. He couldn’t care less about how someone dressed or whether he or she preferred AC or DC current, but he did care that he just called this guy beautiful. That statement was a little hard to walk back from, ya know? Someone could have warned him. Wait. Someone should have warned him.

  Wyatt glanced over at Mrs. Crumpet, who had a more-than-satisfied look upon her face. World-renowned, his booty. Just as he was going to make his apology-slash-exit, Ashley’s rather large Doberman Pinscher ran up to Wyatt and stuck his nose right at the zipper.

  “Oh my!” Wyatt exclaimed as he tried to push the dog’s nose away, but the rather large canine with a snout at exactly the wrong height was determined to get in a good sniff. A good sniff, and to all appearances, as long a sniff as he could get away with.

  Okay, Diablo was a demon child, but at least he couldn’t reach quite all the way up there.

  “Now you know why we call him ‘Scout,’ ” Ashley commented with a smile.

  “Yes, he certainly likes to explore forbidden—” Wyatt’s voice cracked as Scout burrowed in deeper. “Wow. Maybe we could reel him in before he digs down to the family jewels …”

  Finally Ashley, with his rather well-developed arm muscles, pulled Scout away, but as soon as Ashley left any slack, Scout’s nose moved right up against Wyatt’s booty.

  “Okay,” Wyatt said, trying to shoo the dog away. “I have to give Scout credit for persistence.” The way things were going, Wyatt’s next doctor’s appointment wouldn’t need to be quite as thorough as usual.

  Out of the thousand different ways Wyatt thought today could go when he woke up on the sofa, this was definitely not one of them. How did Bodhi put up with this? There were insults too great to be borne. Wyatt would either find a way to ditch the Doberman’s nose, or he was out of here.

  Luckily, the chair seemed the perfect escape. With one good shove, Wyatt extracted himself from Scout and had himself a seat. At first, Scout seemed perplexed. With Wyatt’s legs tightly crossed, the Doberman’s all-access stage pass was denied. Wyatt allowed himself a moment of satisfaction until Scout wrapped his paws around the chair legs and started humping.

  Perfect.

  Ashley sat down across from Wyatt with a cheerful grin.

  Wyatt waited, hoping either Scout would get tired of the incessant back-and-forth motion, or Ashley would feel some sort of embarrassment and call the dog off. Apparently, the two were quite happy with the arrangement.

  “We do realize ...” Wyatt said, trying to keep his tone a notch or two below shrill, “... that this is wildly inappropriate, right?”

  Ashley shrugged. “I guess he likes well-coiffed men as much as I do.”

  Wyatt, once again, cursed his superb ability with hair product.

  * * *

  Martin Forlanker leaned forward in his chair. He needed to give the impression that he was paying rapt attention as Holly rambled on about her little Scottish Terrier, Something about McDuff’s habit of chewing her shoes. Her leather shoes. The ones that matched little McDuff’s. Everything about the two was synchronized.

  Such as their dark hair and fur color, and their red and black tartan sweaters. Although Martin did have to admit that Holly filled hers out a tad better. However, the young woman could talk. And talk. Time to step in.

  Martin reached out and took Holly’s hand. She tried to pull back, but he gave it a tender squeeze. Not enough to alarm her, but enough to keep their skin in contact.

  “Now, Holly,” he asked, “do you feed him from your plate?”

  Martin’s guess must have hit the mark, for the woman’s eyes fell, and she studied the floor. However, for a Scottie owner in matching clothes, his question wasn’t exactly a leap.

  He gave her hand another squeeze. “Tell the truth, Holly. Because you know that McDuff will.”

  She glanced at the Scottie, who did, in fact, look ready to spill the beans. Finally, with a sigh, she shrugged, as only a pretty woman could. “Every once in a while.”

  “Holly …” Martin coaxed.

  “Okay,” she said, biting her lip. “More like every meal.”

  Martin smiled broadly, patting Holly’s hand as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, McDuff wants you to know how much he appreciates it.”

  Her eyes widened when no reproach came. As a matter of fact, she hugged that furry little Scottie tightly to her. “Really?”

  “Really,” Martin replied with every bit of sincerity he could muster.

  This wasn’t about what the pets said. It was all about what the owners wanted to hear. And no one was better at telling them exactly that than Martin.

  * * *

  Wyatt had almost gotten used to the rhythmic rocking. There was something almost hypnotic about the way the chair moved. He wasn’t quite so used to the dog actually humping the leg of it.

  “Nope, sorry. Got nothing,” Wyatt said as he opened his eyes after “communicating” with Scout. He looked at Ashley, hoping against hope that the three-minute timer would go off and save him from this torment.

  “But he likes you so much!” Ashley responded, seeming quite put out that Scout was not communicating with Wyatt … beyond the obvious body-language signs.

  “Yeah. Let me qualify,” Wyatt said with a clenched jaw. “I’ve got a lot to say, but not in mixed company.”

  Of course, Wyatt wasn’t exactly sure about the “mixed” he referred to. He just knew that if he said what was on his mind right now, it might singe the feathers off the cockatiel next to him. And considering the amount of hairspray in its owner’s bouffant, keeping his mouth shut was probably safest for everyone involved.

  For the thousandth time, Wyatt searched the room for an excuse, any excuse, to leave this “appointment” early. But then he stopped. Wait a minute. Why wasn’t anyone else getting humped? Why was he the only one? Why was he so special? Okay, maybe he answered his own question.

  Finally, finally, finally, the jarring sound of the buzzer went off. Before Ashley could ask for his number, or Scout could put his nose somewhere else it didn’t belong, Wyatt flew out of his chair and headed for the next station. Anything was better than this.

  Unfortunately, that meant running straight into another pet psychic.

  “Sorry,” Wyatt mumbled, trying to get around the guy.

  “A whelp, I see,” the man stated.

  “Huh?” Wyatt asked as he looked up to find that the guy was dressed in a three- piece suit. A suit. Around all these animals? How exactly did the guy expect to get the cat hair out of that wool tweed?

  * * *

  “I’m Martin Forlanker.” He introduced himself, as the cur did not bother.

  “Oh sorry,” the man said, “Wyatt Stampley, at your service.” He held out a hand, but then wiped it off on his frayed jeans. “You do not want to know what that was.”

  “And this must be your first time?” Martin was finding it hard to believe that this ragged hipster had any
relationship to the once-great Bodhi Stampley.

  “Yeah.” The shaggy man answered, still looking around, as confused as a kindergartner at orientation.

  “We always go clockwise,” Martin stated, but Wyatt still seemed out of his depth. “To the right,” Martin explained, adding his finger as a visual aid. “We rotate seats by always going to the right.”

  “Well, yeah. Duh,” the man stated, and then promptly turned left, running directly into Martin’s pressed suit.

  “That right,” Martin clarified, pointing to the next station.

  Finally, Wyatt seemed to understand the basic concept of clockwise motion and headed to the empty table. With a quizzical look, he asked Martin, “Is there supposed to be somebody here?”

  Oh, how you had to love a newbie.

  Martin pointed to the signs announcing that Dumbo was waiting outside. “Your next appointment is right through there.”

  “There?” Wyatt asked, pointing out the glass doors leading to the large patio.

  Of course, Martin could have warned him what came next, but truly, what would be the fun in that? “Yes. But you’d best hurry.”

  Wyatt opened the door with great enthusiasm, not knowing that there was an elephant waiting to greet him on the other side. A loud trumpeting shook the glass doors, followed by a thump, thump, thump, and then a loud crash.

  Too late, Wyatt must have realized his error, for Martin heard him scream,

  “Dumbo, no! No!”

  Having been within Dumbo’s clutches without his favorite apples, Martin might have sympathized with Wyatt had it not been for the strange stain the man left on his lapel. Of his freshly dry-cleaned suit.

  “That’s not my trunk!” Wyatt yelled as Martin sat down at table number eight.

  “Dumbo, that’s not how we shake hands.”

  With a satisfied grin, Martin found his next potential client. A prim elderly lady sat with her Himalayan cat stretched out across the faux wood. Impeccably groomed, the cat had far better manners than a certain pet psychic Martin had just run into.

  Ah well, onward and upward. In a clockwise direction. Martin nodded politely to the aged woman as he sat opposite her and her fluffy feline.

  * * *

  Elephants were faster than most people gave them credit for. Well, more credit than Wyatt ever had. Of course, he had never really thought he would have to put that assumption to the test. But now on his fifth lap around the fountain, with Dumbo’s trunk within an inch of his belt, Wyatt was acutely aware of exactly how fast an elephant could run. And, as an added bonus, it turned out that an elephant’s trunk was nimble enough to unbutton shirts and unbuckle belts.

  Who knew?

  Well, the handler running behind the elephant probably had a clue. But they discovered one interesting new fact—an eighty-five pound guy can’t stop an elephant by pulling on his tail. Shocking, but true. Granted, the handler was doing his best, but Wyatt’s legs were tired. Did they not know that he’d gone several rounds with Diablo already today? And Dumbo was doing his best to give Scout a run for his money.

  Water sloshed out of the fountain, almost tripping Wyatt as he rounded the corner. Feeling that ever-so-soft trunk at his back, Wyatt surged forward. The glass doors weren’t far. He slammed into them, jerking on the handle, but they wouldn’t budge.

  Locked.

  Wyatt pounded on the glass. How could no one inside hear Dumbo’s triumphant bugling as his trunk grabbed Wyatt’s belt?

  He clutched the door handle as Dumbo lifted him from his feet.

  “Help!” Wyatt yelled. And lo and behold, that guy turned around. The guy who thought that moving “clockwise” was somehow going to help him remove the stick that was up his booty. But any port in a storm, right? “Help me!”

  * * *

  Martin watched with amusement as the boy who thought he was a pet communicator got pulled off the door and out of view. Life truly was poetic at times.

  “Well?” Mrs. Houseman asked.

  He looked back at the old woman with the laconic cat. This one was going to be so easy that Martin almost felt bad. Almost.

  “Do you really need to ask?” Martin nearly purred himself. “Of course Porsche wants a diamond collar.”

  “Oh, but everyone says it is so silly,” Mrs. Houseman responded, petting Porsche’s long, silky smooth fur.

  No doubt, her heirs were saying such things. Her heirs, who would undoubtedly stroke out if they heard the ideas he was putting into their benefactor’s head. Ah, but he had one weapon that they did not.

  Martin laid his hand over Mrs. Houseman’s. “Porsche didn’t want me to tell you this, but he is reincarnated royalty.”

  The old woman’s eyes dilated to the point where Martin worried that perhaps she would have a stroke with the good news. You wanted to hook the client, but not excite him or her to the point where they needed long-term medical care.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” she exclaimed. “I am always telling people that he must have been a prince of Persia.”

  Some days, this job truly was easier than snatching a lollipop away from a babe. She was already convinced. Now she needed just enough incentive to do as Martin wished.

  “But you see, that isn’t the problem,” he said, his voice low and concerned.

  “Problem?”

  Martin nodded, making certain that his features were sympathetic. The trick was to match the expression with the vocal tone seamlessly. “You see, his crown was usurped. He was stripped of all worldly possessions and banished. He wandered the desert for months before finally succumbing to the heat.”

  “Oh my poor, poor Porsche!” Mrs. Houseman exclaimed as she leaned over, wrapping her arms around the Himalayan. The cat gave a single blink of annoyance.

  Yes, well, luckily Martin was the one able to talk.

  “So you can see why Porsche would want such baubles. He needs to find closure for that terrible, terrible memory.”

  “Of course, of course,” Mrs. Houseman said in between the muted coral kisses she showered upon the cat’s head. She looked up at Martin. “You will come with us, won’t you, Martin? To the jeweler’s? I want to be sure to get him exactly the right collar.”

  Ah, he could taste that stolen lollipop.

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  * * *

  The bell, the sweet, sweet bell, rang. Wyatt heard it. Even over his own screams. He’d lost his belt, and his shirt would never be the same, but somehow he had survived. But how long could his luck hold out?

  Then the most gorgeous sight came before him. The glass doors opened. Wyatt had never been so glad to see an old broad with her glasses on a necklace before this moment. He could even forgive her uncanny and unsettling resemblance to his former librarian right about now.

  He made a dash for the opening, but Dumbo seemed to be a little psychic himself as he wrapped his trunk around Wyatt’s ankle.

  “Dumbo!” Wyatt yelled as he shook his foot. “I know you’ve got separation anxiety, but dang!”

  Finally, though, with a good old-fashioned tug, Wyatt broke free and stumbled into the lobby. Behind him, Dumbo trumpeted his disappointment.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Wyatt said as he dusted himself off. “Quit your belly-aching.”

  The organizer’s eyebrow went up, but then again, she hadn’t exactly been on the “Elephant Chase” exercise regime, now had she?

  “Which way?” Wyatt asked.

  She gave one of those grins that old people gave when they really wanted to smack you upside the head. Or at least that was the grin Grammy always got just before her hand flew. It was strong enough that Wyatt had to stifle his instinct to duck.

  “To the right, Mr. Stampley, to the right.”

  Oh, yeah. That whole right thing.

  He made sure that he turned to his real right, not his other right this time. That seemed to satisfy the organizer, allowing her to rush off to help quiet a cockatiel. Wyatt was glad he wasn’t going to that table. That bird had
a mean look in his eye, and Wyatt was done with mean.

  However, when he arrived at his next “appointment,” he found a large, scaly head staring at him, unblinking. Had he said “large”? The word he was looking for was “gigantic.” Its tongue flickered while its owner dug around in her purse.

  You know what? He was kind of done with this day. He had told Bodhi that he’d come. He did not at any time tell his uncle that he would stay. A frisky dog and an overenthusiastic elephant were one thing. A snake was quite another. As a matter of fact, he’d rather get back on the pachyderm track than deal with this.

  “Sorry, lady, but I draw the line at cold-blooded serpents.”

  Then the woman looked up from her purse. Her long, brown locks danced along the outline of her leather vest. A vest that revealed a chest covered in a cobra tattoo. The light gleamed off of a hoop earring circumnavigating her eyebrow.

  “Unless, of course …” Wyatt said as he sat down, “they have daddy issues.”

  * * *

  This businesswoman was hard to crack. Martin had tried charm. He had tried physical touch. However, this power suit was having none of it. And to top it off, she had a rabbit. Rabbits did not give you much to work with. They ate. They pooped. Well, they did one other thing, but this bunny lived solo.

  Despite her confident demeanor, Martin didn’t give up. After all, she had taken time out of her busy day to come to this event. If she was worried enough to miss a “power” lunch, she was worried enough for him to make a profit.

  “And my veterinarian wanted to try Bunny Prozac.”

  “No, no, no,” Martin exclaimed, thrilled to finally find his hook. “Your veterinarian wants to try mood-altering medication? When will they learn?”