Monkey See, Monkey Die

by Cynthia Baxter

  Finding an appropriate dog had been more of a challenge. Max was an obvious choice, but he possessed a little too much star quality. The last time I’d had my feisty little terrier on Pet People, he’d stolen the show, largely because he’d picked a fight with the camera. As for Lou, he tended to get stage fright.

  The only other obvious possibility was Frederick. Unfortunately, Betty and Winston were going to miss their beloved dachshund’s first television appearance, since at the moment they were en route to the airport. But I promised to get them a tape of what I was certain would be a stellar debut. Why wouldn’t it, when so far he’d behaved like the ideal companion? He was trotting alongside me at the other end of a leash, curious about his new surroundings but not overwhelmed by them.

  “Who have we got here?” Patti asked when she poked her head into the green room a few minutes before showtime. As always, Pet People’s producer was dressed in a crisp, businesslike suit, and her layered light brown hair was styled as meticulously as if she and Katie Couric shared the same hairdresser. Yet to me, she always looked like a high school senior on Bring Your Daughter to Work Day.

  “This is Frederick,” I replied, proudly pointing to my furry fawn-colored companion. At the moment, he was watching the TV in the corner, mesmerized by a commercial for a wart remover. “He’s a wire-haired—”

  “Excellent,” Patti interrupted. “Love the visuals. I see you have a cat too. That’s great, since we’ll be hitting both demographics.”

  “Demographics?” I asked. Even though I’d been doing this show for a good nine months, I still wasn’t fluent in televisionese.

  “Demographic categories,” she explained impatiently. “We’ll be hitting both the dog people and the cat people.”

  I’d barely had a chance to think about my natural abilities as a marketing mogul before Marlene Fitzgerald, who doubled as the production assistant on the show and Patti’s personal assistant, appeared.

  “All set?” she asked, as cheerfully if we were going to Disneyland instead of putting on a TV show.

  Before I had a chance to answer, she shepherded me and my two sidekicks to Studio A, the station’s one and only studio. Marlene was as perky as Patti, with long blond hair and an effervescent smile that made her look as if she was eternally running for class president.

  While at first I’d found the idea of being on television frightening, I’d quickly learned that doing a television show was far from intimidating, even when it was live. In fact, it was so low-key that I sometimes felt as if I was making a home movie. The process pretty much consisted of just four of us—Patti, Marlene, the cameraman, and me—putting on the entire show in a small room with black walls and lots of cables. At times, it was difficult to comprehend that what seemed like such an intimate experience was actually being broadcast into thousands of people’s homes.

  Still, I knew there was a danger in getting too comfortable. I had to keep in mind that just because I couldn’t see the people who tuned in didn’t mean they couldn’t see me. Which is why I did my best to act poised and professional as the red light on the camera began to glow and Patti gave the five-second countdown, saying, “Five, four, three . . .” and then using two fingers to finish.

  “Welcome to Pet People,” I began confidently, “the program for people who are passionate about their pets.” Believe me, I’d already gotten past the humiliation of pronouncing a sentence as awkward as the one about Peter Piper and his pickled peppers.

  I’d also gotten used to the set, which basically consisted of a stool behind a high counter. Behind me was a riotously colorful display of stuffed animals. What a zebra with rainbow stripes and a fuzzy fish covered in fake fur had to do with a veterinary practice was beyond me. Still, I had to admit that the bright colors and different textures did create an interesting background.

  “Today I’d like to talk about your pets’ teeth,” I said, looking directly at the camera. “Most of us don’t particularly enjoy going to the dentist, but we do it anyway because we know how important it is to take good care of our teeth. The same is true for your pets. Yet a recent study indicated that roughly two-thirds of pet owners don’t make sure their dogs and cats get the level of dental care that the American Animal Hospital Association recommends.

  “As a result, signs of oral disease appear in eighty percent of dogs and seventy percent of cats by the time they’re three years old. And dental problems don’t just affect your animal’s teeth. They can lead to heart disease, lung disease, and other serious health problems.

  “For all those reasons, it’s a good idea to brush your pets’ teeth every day. It’s also wise to get them used to it while they’re still young.” I held up Frederick, who up until that point had been snuggling in my lap. “I’ll demonstrate on Frederick, a wirehaired dachshund who’s agreed to help me out today. Right, Frederick?”

  I noticed almost instantly that my assistant had gone from laid-back to fidgety. I didn’t know if it was the bright lights or the microphones, but he’d finally figured out that something unusual was happening.

  I stroked the silky fur on his head, hoping he would remain calm. “With a dog,” I chirped into the camera, “start by dipping your finger into beef bouillon. I have a small bowl right here that I prepared ahead of time. Then rub it on his teeth and gums like this.” Cradling Frederick with my left arm, I dipped my right index finger into the bowl and inserted it into his mouth. “Once he’s gotten used to the process, you’ll be able to wrap gauze over your finger and—ouch!”

  I cast my co-star a look of disbelief. “Frederick, what do you think you’re—” Suddenly remembering that we were both on camera, I laughed as if having a dog sink his teeth into my flesh was the most amusing thing that had happened to me all day. “My little friend isn’t used to being on TV, so no doubt he’s a little nervous.”

  I dipped my finger into the broth again. “Okay, Frederick,” I said, continuing my happy-go-lucky approach. “This isn’t going to hurt. In fact, you’ll like the taste of the—”

  “Gr-r-r-r . . .”

  Sweet little Frederick clearly wanted no part of teaching viewers about oral hygiene. I checked the monitor and saw that the cameraman had chosen this particular moment to zoom in for a close-up. All I could see on the screen was Frederick’s mouth, magnified about a hundred times. His teeth were bared and his lips twitched threateningly.

  What is it about television that brings out the worst in everybody? I thought with dismay. No wonder TV stars’ antics are all over the tabloids!

  “Okay, it looks as if Frederick is a little camera shy,” I said, trying to sound as if I was in control. “But what you can do with your pet”—the implication being that unlike Frederick, the dogs belonging to the concerned pet owners watching at home knew how to behave—“is rub the teeth and gums with a circular movement, paying special attention to the gum line. You can eventually move on to a toothbrush that’s specially designed for pets, along with cat or dog toothpaste. But don’t use toothpaste that’s made for humans, since it can cause stomach problems.”

  During my short monologue, Frederick had gone from fidgety to squirmy. When he found he couldn’t break free of my grasp, he started to howl.

  Actually, it was more like he was baying at the moon. In fact, from the way he was carrying on, I wondered if Frederick was part werewolf. There had to be something supernatural going on here, since never before had I heard this even-tempered little dog emit more than a friendly “woof, woof.”

  I noticed that Patti was making a slit-my-throat motion with one hand. Even I knew that was televisionese for Let’s move on, shall we?

  “Perhaps Tinkerbell will let me demonstrate,” I said to the camera.

  I deposited Frederick back in my lap and pulled over the cat carrier positioned nearby on the counter. When I let my tiger cat out, she just stood there, blinking. I actually felt relieved that she was temporarily disoriented, since I hoped it would make her a bit calmer than usual.


  Instead, the minute she laid eyes on Frederick, she arched her back and began to hiss.

  “Tinkerbell!” I cried. “You know Frederick! He’s a friend! For heaven’s sake, he’s your next door neighbor!”

  My pussycat didn’t seem to have heard me. Neither did Frederick. Before I knew what was happening, he leaped off my lap, she jumped off the counter, and the two of them began streaking around the tiny studio.

  I glanced at the television monitor and saw that the expression on my face was identical to the one generally worn by the victim in a horror movie. In the background, I could hear the sound of hissing and snarling. As I opened my mouth to speak, I was interrupted by a loud crash as one of my guest stars collided with some unknown object that undoubtedly cost an insane amount of money.

  “Goodness, it looks as if Frederick and Tinkerbell are fighting like cats and dogs!” I said feebly.

  I glanced at Patti, hoping she would be chuckling. Instead, her expression made it clear that she was anything but amused.

  She was also rolling her hands in the air, another bit of televisionese I’d mastered.

  “Let’s go to the phones!” I cried, desperately grabbing the telephone in front of me on the counter. “Surely one of our viewers has a question. Please feel free to call in. Please!”

  Never before had I been so relieved to talk to someone about mange. I was equally glad that a large burly man appeared from out of nowhere, captured Frederick, and carried him off, leaving Tinkerbell with no one to fight with.

  Still, the fifteen-minute segment seemed to stretch on for hours.

  When I finally burst out of the studio with Tinkerbell in my arms, I encountered Patti standing in the hallway.

  “I thought that went rather well, don’t you?” I joked.

  She just glared.

  That’s the trouble with TV people, I thought as I slunk away. They have absolutely no sense of humor.

  By late Friday afternoon, I’m always pretty wiped out—and today was no exception. It had been a long week. Even Sunny was looking a little ragged around the edges. Her crisp Brooks Brothers blouse was starting to look wilted, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a scuff on her shoe.

  But even though the workday was over, we still had work to do.

  This was the day of the move. Nick and I were relocating to the Big House and Sunny was moving into the cottage.

  Kind of like a game of musical chairs, I decided as I pulled into my driveway. Even though Betty’s chair happens to be on a 747 which at the moment is three thousand feet in the air, en route to Italy.

  “Is it okay if I start unpacking some of the stuff from my car?” Sunny asked eagerly as soon as we’d greeted every member of my menagerie and I’d done my usual water bowl check. “I didn’t bring much. Just some clothes and a few books and CDs.”

  “In that case, why don’t you bring in your things while I start lugging mine over to Betty’s?”

  I grabbed my laptop and a shopping bag stuffed with jeans, shorts, and T-shirts and started out the door. Sunny had already opened the trunk of her sporty green Elantra and was lifting out a huge cardboard carton of books packed so full the seams threatened to rip open.

  I wondered if somehow she’d confused the definitions of the words house-sitter and roommate.

  “Sunny,” I said nervously, “I hope you understand that you’re only going to be here for a week and a half.”

  “I know.” Glancing down at the box, she apologetically added, “I’m a fast reader.”

  I was about to point out as diplomatically as I could that the only free shelf space in the entire cottage was the gaps between the spice jars she’d arranged so methodically when I heard the distinctive sound of tires crunching against gravel. I turned and saw Suzanne Fox’s car careening up the driveway, shaving a few leaves off the trees she narrowly escaped colliding with.

  Her shiny red BMW, a vehicle so sporty she looked as if she’d taken a wrong turn on the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and ended up on the LIE, jerked to a halt, its front fender mere inches away from Sunny and me. Interestingly, she wasn’t any better at parking than Marcus Scruggs was.

  Perhaps that explained why the two of them had been an item for a while. I certainly couldn’t see any other reasons that made even a lick of sense. In fact, I’d been more relieved than anyone when she finally saw him for what he was, although that wasn’t until the going got tough and he got going—by running in the opposite direction.

  “Hey, Jessie!” Suzanne cried happily as she sprang from the car that had always reminded me of a giant M&M. “Skipping town?”

  She flicked back her stylishly layered hair, as bright as her BMW, albeit a different shade of red. In honor of the warm June day, she was wearing white shorts that gave new meaning to the term short and a hot-pink tank top that gave new meaning to the word hot. The fact that my pal has more curves than a mountain road made her outfit all the more startling.

  Suzanne had certainly come a long way in revamping her image since our days as bio majors at Bryn Mawr College. Back then, she’d worn her thick red hair in a long braid that hung down her back, a style that screamed “farm girl.” Her fashion statement had been similarly low-key. Like me, she’d favored jeans and T-shirts, the more faded the better. And while she could already have been described as pleasingly plump back then, she’d rounded out even more during her twenties and early thirties.

  She and I had pretty much lost touch when she went off to veterinary college at Purdue University in her home state of Indiana at the same time I went to Cornell. But we reconnected after she moved to Long Island to start a practice in Poxabogue, a tiny community on eastern Long Island. Her clinic happened to be smack in the middle of the chichi Bromptons, the summer playground of the rich, the famous, and the frequently rude. That meant her client list included a few celebrities and their dogs. In some cases, both had appeared on the cover of People magazine.

  I wasn’t sure if it was her new location that was responsible for her magical transformation into a femme fatale or her recent return to the dating scene following her divorce. But whatever it was, she’d pulled it off with amazing speed and skill.

  “I’m not going far,” I replied. “I’m just doing some house-sitting and dog-sitting while Betty and Winston are on their honeymoon. And Sunny, my new assistant, is going to be staying in the cottage, taking care of Prometheus and Leilani.”

  After I’d introduced her to Sunny, Suzanne turned to me and placed her hands on her hips. “Okay, Jessie, I’m not going to beat around the bush, even though I’ve been told in no uncertain terms to keep this a secret from you.” She paused to take a deep breath. “I’m planning a wedding shower for you.”

  “A wedding shower?” I was as pleased as I was surprised. “For moi?”

  “I know, I know. I just broke one of the major rules of wedding shower planning by spilling the beans.”

  “That’s really sweet, Suzanne,” I told her sincerely.

  “Actually, I can’t take full credit,” she continued. “Okay, I can’t take any credit. Dorothy put me up to it.”

  “Dorothy?” For a moment, I was delighted that my soon-to-be mother-in-law had done something so thoughtful. But then I realized that her motivation was more likely something along the lines like Doing the Proper Thing, rather than Doing Something Nice for Jessica.

  “Apparently she originally railroaded Betty into doing it,” Suzanne explained. “But when she and Winston decided to go on their honeymoon and were going to be away next Saturday night—that’s the date Betty picked—Dorothy put me in charge. Which means I need you to give me a list of people you want me to invite and their phone numbers. I also need a list of the foods you’d like served. Oh, and the name of the stores where I can get them. Also, any decorations you think might be appropriate and the presents you’d like to receive.”

  Suzanne is quite the party planner, I thought wryly. Rachael Ray must be quaking in her boots.

  “You might as we
ll tell me what time you’d like it to start,” she continued. “And where you’d like to have it. Hey, maybe we could do it right here in the cottage. Since you won’t be staying here, I can really surprise you.”

  I was about to thank her for all the thought and hard work she was putting into this when I heard more gravel-crunching. Surprised, I glanced up and saw that a pickup truck was pulling into the driveway.

  What did I do to deserve such popularity? I wondered.

  The fact that I didn’t recognize either the truck or the German shepherd sitting shotgun in the cabin confused me even further. As for the driver, I couldn’t see his face. That was because of the strange angle at which he was forced to wedge his car into the driveway, thanks to Suzanne’s creative, origami-like approach to parking.

  “Who’s that?” Suzanne demanded, putting her hand above her cornflower-blue eyes as if she was an Apache scout. I had a feeling that what had caught her attention was the fact that the driver was of the male variety.

  “Ya got me,” I replied with a shrug.

  And then, for the next few seconds, we were both silent. No doubt it was because we were both rendered speechless by the awe-inspiring sight before our eyes.

  Climbing out of the pickup truck was what looked like a god from mythological times. The man, who stood at least six feet tall and had a lean build with shoulders as broad as a football player’s, could only be described as a hunk. His tight, dark blue T-shirt showed off his sculpted muscles. His tight, dark-blue jeans showed off some of his other assets. His short hair was blond, streaked even blonder in spots from the sun. His features were so perfect that you had to wonder if somewhere Brad Pitt was sobbing over the fact that he was no longer the handsomest man in the world.

  “Why, hello there!” Suzanne cooed, immediately arranging her Mae West frame into a Mae West stance.