Dog Drama

by Leslie O'Kane

  “No,” Karen replied, “but things certainly haven’t been going his way.”

  “She means that he took the role under false expectations,” Sally said. “He wanted to rekindle our relationship. Which, I have to admit, has happened before. We’ve broken up and gotten back together twice already, thanks to our romantic roles on stage.” She got a wistful smile on her face. “This time, though, I fell for a young, dashing playwright instead.”

  Personally, I didn’t consider John Morris “dashing,” whatsoever. He wasn’t even all that young, but rather in his late-thirties or early forties. Nevertheless, I smiled at her. Heaven knows we are all better off loving rather than hating.

  “I think John believes his play is being sabotaged,” Sally continued. “He seems obsessed now with who put the chocolate in the container of kibble.”

  “Maybe it was one of the interns,” Felicity said, “who dropped it on the floor and figured they’d give it to the dog for a treat. Not everyone knows how badly dogs react to chocolate.”

  “I wish I’d minded my own business and hadn’t tried to feed Pavlov,” Karen said.

  “Oh, it’s all right,” Felicity said. “Allie noticed in plenty of time to save the day.” She gave me a small smile and headed for the door. “Time for me to get back to work. ‘A stitch in time’ and all that.”

  Karen rose and also left the dressing room, calling out that she was heading to the green room to get her lemon water before curtain time.

  Alone together, Sally took a seat at the vanity counter and met my gaze. “This must seem like quite the rag-tag operation we’ve got here. Dark chocolate in the doggie bowl, falling lights, poisonous bouquets. We’re a regular dog-and-pony show, minus the pony.”

  I chuckled. “As long as you avoid being stricken by locusts and/or the plague, I’m happy. I’m a huge fan of live theater. My mom and I have season tickets to the Denver Center of Performing Arts. This is pretty much my first time seeing a production behind the scenes, though.”

  “Ah. Well, frankly, this is pretty much the way life in the theater always goes.”

  “Really? Are you being facetious?”

  She flashed me a truly winning smile. I could certainly see why she was so appealing to men. “Oh, half and half, I suppose. The more time I spend in this business, the more jaded I become. It’s systemic in the very nature of this profession. We endure such intense competition for jobs every time we try to do what we believe we were born to do. Over time, it gets easier and easier to lose sight of your moral compass.”

  I studied her pretty features. With her black hair and light blue eyes, she was truly striking, yet get off a “girl-next-door” vibe. “So...you don’t necessarily trust Felicity’s or Karen’s stories about mistaking chocolate for kibble?”

  “To be honest with you, Allie, you probably shouldn’t put anybody past doing something underhanded to get closer to whatever spotlight they’re seeking.”

  “You’re dating the writer/director of the play. Doesn’t that make you something of a target?”

  She gave me a sad smile. “Bingo.”

  I waited for her to continue, but she held her tongue.

  “Are you suggesting someone has already double-crossed you?”

  “That’s the feeling I’ve had ever since I got the part.” She searched my features. “Didn’t John describe Flint’s first scene on opening night?”

  “Not specifically. He sent me some recorded outtakes, but the recordings didn’t start until the second act.”

  “That surprises me. The opening scene was quite striking, actually. Flint started barking every time I opened my mouth. I couldn’t get a single line spoken without having to shout over his barks.”

  “That must have been awful.”

  “Awfully annoying, for sure.” She grimaced. “I suspect this whole mess with Flint’s performance was intended as a way to ruin my performance, not the entire production.”

  “And if that’s the case, Felicity had a second reason to throw a monkey wrench into the works. She might be jealous of your relationship with her ex, plus want to see her Pug in a permanent starring position.”

  Sally fidgeted with the tissue in her hand. “Right. And yet, when I hear you say those words aloud, they sound so petty. I could easily be mistaken about Felicity. She’s been truly sweet to me. It isn’t her fault that I’ve become so jaded. If I force myself to be honest, at one time or another, I’ve suspected all three cast members of having deliberately messed with Flint’s behavior on stage in order to upstage me. For all know, they feel exactly the same way about me.”

  I gave her a sympathetic nod to show I was listening. But her words were causing my stomach to clench. This theater company was chockfull of raw feelings and prickly relationships, any one of which could potentially wreak havoc on Flint’s performance.

  “I keep thinking Hammie has been tampering with Flint’s performance. I know for certain that he’s seething with jealousy over my choosing John over him. I also know Greg had left the theater world many years ago and is trying to make a comeback. He accused me of upstaging him just this afternoon in our matinee. On the other hand, Karen’s so nice, it rubs against my jadedness. And yet she was originally supposed to be cast in my role, which is the showier and bigger part. But, again, maybe I’ve just got a raging ego and have invented all of this unseen Sturm und Drang so that it’s all about me.

  She paused and stared into her own eyes in the mirror as if trying to discover a hidden truth there. “Still, I adore Flint. We’ve had a wonderful relationship on and off the stage, since the moment we met. And it all fell apart on opening night. Why would a dog decide on his own suddenly to bark at my every line?”

  Maybe it was Flint’s reaction to a particularly piercing whistle that only he could hear. She’d spoken as if it was a rhetorical question, however, so I kept that thought to myself.

  She glanced over at Karen’s flowers. “Did Karen mention if she’s learned who gave her the flowers?”

  “No, why?”

  She flicked her wrist. “I’m suspicious about everything now. It worries me that Karen received them from a ‘secret admirer.’ Especially now that I know these flowers are poisonous to dogs.”

  Chapter 6

  I was disconcerted as I left the dressing room. I’d already been on edge by the falling lights and finding chocolate in a bowl of kibble. Sally’s words made me wonder if everyone on the cast and crew was out to stab one another in the back.

  Pavlov was making little whining noises, picking up on my nerves. This was the last thing I should be doing some fifteen minutes before the curtain opened. Backstage, I sat on the floor beside her, playing a tame game of fetch—rolling her favorite ball to the opposite wing of the stage. The lighting assembly had gouged one of the floorboards, but otherwise there was no sign that the incident had ever occurred. The supports had been dented but had been reattached using new nuts and bolts. The lights themselves had all been replaced.

  Baxter rounded the flats—the large canvases built to form the backdrop of the scene. In this case they were walls of the room in which a party would be staged He grinned when he spotted me.

  “Hi, Allie. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “I was in the dressing room chatting with the actresses. Trying to calm my nerves. Let’s just say it was less than successful.”

  “That’s doesn’t sound good.”

  Pavlov had risen, her tail wagging as Baxter gave her an ear rub. “How’s our future star doing?” he asked as she wagged her tail even harder. I was so blessed to have such a wonderful man and wonderful dog in my life.

  I looked over and saw John watching us from the wing. He approached. “The seats are filling. I should have taken a doggie tranquilizer myself. I haven’t been on stage in a couple of years.”

  “You’ll be great,” Baxter said, giving him a fist bump. “I’ll bet you know the lines better than anybody.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he
grumbled. He eyed me. “Are you ready? Do you know all of Blue’s commands? Whatever else happens, you don’t want to lose your place in the script.” His words came at me in rapid fire. It was somewhat endearing that John was so nervous.

  “I’m pretty confident I can follow along and cue Pavlov at all the right times,” I said.

  “Good. Good. Let’s just get you to your station, then.”

  “I have an actual station?”

  He started ushering me toward the stage-left wing, so I patted my thigh, and Pavlov fell into step in heel position. “I’ve positioned the director’s chair over here.” He gestured at a metal folding chair positioned behind the curtain line, stage left. He switched on the floor lamp next to the chair. “You can see the entire stage and all of Blue’s marks from here. Let me just angle the overhead light for you.”

  I sat down dutifully while he adjusted the lamp’s flexible arm so that the light shone directly over my shoulder and onto the first page of the script. Pavlov, meanwhile, lay down beside me.

  “If, God forbid, an actor forgets his lines, you can cue them, but just know that’s a last resort. All the actors are experienced enough to stall and/or cue one another effectively.” He put his hands on his hips and gave me a long, studious look. “Do you need a pillow, or anything?”

  “Nope. I’m all set.”

  He rocked on his heels. “All right, then. I’ll just—” he broke off and started to look at his watch. “Crap! I forgot to take this off.” He unfastened his watch. “Hammond’s got freakishly long limbs. Felicity had to baste new hems in my cuffs. The sleeve catches on my watch.”

  A red light flashed above us. “That means ‘noises off,’” he whispered.

  He pivoted, and I whispered, “Break a leg.” He didn’t acknowledge my remark and might not have heard.

  I patted Pavlov and crossed my fingers briefly, silently wishing her a good performance. I found it curious that John had given Pavlov no notice whatsoever. It seemed odd that a dog owner wouldn’t notice the dog he was about to share the stage with—where he’d be pretending to be that dog’s devoted owner.

  I donned my headset and tested it by quietly giving Pavlov a few commands: sit, shake, lie down, and roll over. All was working well, yet my pulse was still racing, and I had butterflies in my stomach.

  The opening scene began with John and Sally chatting about tonight’s dinner party. Their dialogue informed the audience that Sally’s character had recently moved in with John’s character, and that his ex-wife and her new love interest were coming for dinner, much to Sally’s chagrin. The conversation then turned to her dicey relationship with Blue, and how she wished John’s character would agree to have his ex-wife keep Blue, as opposed to their current arrangement of sharing ownership between their two houses.

  I followed along with the dialogue until John said, “Come here, Blue,” and I said into the mouthpiece, “First target, Blue.” Pavlov promptly trotted up to John. I breathed a sigh of relief. One thing, at least, had gone perfectly. Now she just needed to obey my commands for another twenty minutes, then there was a short intermission before Act Two.

  As the scene progressed, Pavlov misbehaved in perfect accordance with the script. She herded Sally and Greg toward each other and away from Karen and John. Pavlov was following my every command, although she looked precisely like a dog that was following a command, as opposed to moving on her own accord. Still, the audience seemed to be enjoying themselves, laughing in all the right places.

  Suddenly, Pavlov’s ears perked up, and she looked at the front-left corner of the theater audience. I jumped to my feet and followed her gaze, and caught sight of an elderly man lowering his fist from his lips. He could have been stifling a cough, but he also could have been gripping a dog whistle.

  I waved at Baxter on his high perch above the diagonal corner of the stage. I caught his eye and indicated the suspicious man. I tried to pantomime that the audience member was wearing a plaid shirt. Baxter held his hands over his eyes to indicate that he couldn’t make out who I’d tried to point out to him.

  I struggled to keep up with the actors and missed a cue. I winced at my gaffe and gave Pavlov a better-late-than-never command, “Blue, target three.” Meanwhile, Baxter made his way to my side. I held up a hand so he wouldn’t distract me until Pavlov was able to lie down for a couple of minutes.

  “Did you see someone blow a whistle?” Baxter asked in a whisper.

  I nodded and yanked off my microphone headset. “Maybe. White-haired man. Third row, aisle seat, wearing a plaid shirt.”

  “The one who’s been coughing?” he asked.

  “Or pretending to.”

  “I’ll go talk to him as soon as the performance ends.”

  “Be subtle about it,” I whispered. “If he’s deliberately distracting Pavlov, he won’t admit to it. Just start a conversation with him, and get his name and address for a free ticket or something.”

  Baxter started to reply, but I held up my hand.

  “Blue, target one,” I said into the microphone.

  “Will do,” Baxter said.

  I refocused, and the scene progressed as written.

  With a little over a page of dialogue remaining before the first intermission, something went wrong on stage. Sally’s character had grabbed John’s wrist and pulled him aside, where they were supposed to have a private conversation. But John had all but screamed, “Let go! You’re hurting my wrist!”

  Sally followed his adlib with one of her own—an off-color remark that she’d forgotten about his repetitive-motion injury after his ex-wife had forced him to sleep on the couch.

  The audience roared at their banter, but they weren’t on script. All I could think to tell Pavlov to do was to cue her early to perform a “separate-them” command. It worked well-enough. Sally then returned to her scripted lines, and I gave Pavlov the “jump-up” command. The timing was perfect this time; Blue danced with Sally just as John had turned on romantic music, intending to dance with her himself. The look on John’s face was reminiscent of Johnny Carson’s, as he kept trying in vain to cut in, only to find himself dancing with Blue. Oddly, however, John continued to keep a grip on his wrist. Apparently she truly had injured his wrist.

  The stage lights were switched off as the first act ended. The actors left the stage. John stormed off stage brushing past me. He ripped off his shirt. Blood was running down his right arm.

  Alarmed, I rose. “John. Are you okay?” I asked.

  He continued past me and toward the door.

  Grimacing, John gestured emphatically for everyone to follow him as he marched out the door, wadding his shirt in the process. I put Pavlov into a “lie down” and “stay” next to my pseudo director’s chair and complied, along with the three actors. Felicity headed toward us through the passageway behind the stage. Pippa was trotting after her, making curious little grunts. She was now wearing a purple satin gown with purple feathers on a boa around her neck. The little dog sat down near the wall, watching John expectantly as if she knew to expect a dramatic scene.

  John flung the bloodied shirt on the floor and was pacing, squeezing his right wrist with the fingers of his left hand. Suddenly, he stopped pacing and growled, “Somebody did this to me deliberately!”

  Baxter was approaching. He undoubtedly wanted to report on whether or not he’d seen anything suspicious in the audience, but his brow was furrowed as he looked at John.

  “Oh, come on, John,” Greg scoffed. “Someone accidentally left a pin in your shirt. Stuff like that happens all the time.”

  “That’s not possible,” Felicity declared, snatching up his shirt. “I altered this shirt myself less than an hour ago.” She proceeded to examine the cuff. Her eyes widened. “It’s a tack,” she exclaimed. “The point has been pushed through the fabric.”

  “Did you put it there?” John asked, positively seething. “Did you use tacks to shorten the sleeves of Hammie’s shirt?”

  “No, I didn’t, John.
Obviously. I basted a fold into it. I guarantee on Pippa’s life that the tack was not in the sleeve when I altered it.”

  At the sound of her name, Pippa stood up and barked at John.

  “You’re lying!” John stomped his foot. “You wanted to sabotage my play!”

  “John, I’m telling you the truth! And you know me well enough to realize I would never sink so low!” She refocused her energies on examining the sleeve. “My stitching is still here...but it’s been partially undone. There’s an inch gap in the basting right where the tack is.” She inserted her finger between the layers and fabric and pushed at the tack. “The head was glued into place.”

  John grabbed the shirt away from her. “That’s precisely where Sally grabs my wrist in this scene.” He mangled the fabric as he picked at the alteration, ignoring that his actions were once again causing his puncture wound to bleed. He removed the tack, then once again chucked his shirt against the wall. “Why didn’t you check my costume before you dressed me?” John shouted at Felicity.

  “I’m supposed to know to check for a tack?” Felicity fired back.

  “Maybe the tack was meant for Hammond,” Karen suggested.

  “No, it wasn’t,” John retorted. “The fold wouldn’t have been there in the first place if Hammond had been on stage. He has arms like a monkey.”

  “Nice, John,” Greg scoffed. “Maybe it’s you who has alligator arms.”

  Pressing against his wound once again, John gestured with his elbow at Greg. “Need I remind you that I’m your director?!”

  Valerie was rushing toward us from a connecting hallway. “What is happening? The set’s been changed, and none of you are even in costume!”

  “Hammond was injured,” Karen explained. “Someone planted a tack in his sleeve.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Valerie said under her breath as she marched to a cupboard in the corner. “What the hell is happening to my theater?” She grabbed a first-aid kit. “Felicity! Light a fire under any and all minions to bring us the act-two costumes. You dress John yourself.”