Jen’s face brightened. “I will!”
“Great! Here’s my new business card.” He reached into a pocket and handed one to Jen. “And one last thing, given the damage Scout caused in your house tonight with his rowdy behavior, I highly recommend you get him into training right away.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Enroll him in obedience school. There’s a great class that meets in Roxbury Park every Sunday morning. A new session is starting tomorrow.” He wrote down a name and web address on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “Tell Martha I sent you and she’ll give you a discount.”
“Thanks.” Internally, I growled. I hated school and the last thing I wanted to do on a Sunday morning was go to school with the beast. At least, Jen would be there, too, and when the instructor wasn’t looking, I could squeeze her ass or pinch her tits.
“And one final last thing, take Scout for a walk as soon as you get home. If the laxative doesn’t work, try again tomorrow morning. Good luck and keep me posted.”
“Isn’t he the best?” gushed Jen as we took the elevator down to the parking structure. “I’m crazy about him!”
She was back to gushing over the damn dog who’d already cost me close to two thousand smackereroos. Make that twenty-five if I didn’t get the broach back.
“Do you mean Scout?” I asked snarkily.
“No, I mean Dr. Chase.”
I felt my muscles clenching. I was just beginning to like the guy, and now jealousy was pouring back into my veins like hot lava.
“And did you notice he wasn’t wearing a wedding band?”
“I wasn’t paying attention.” All my attention had been on the two of them, exchanging flirtatious smiles.
“I bet he’s single! He’s so cute!”
Seriously!? Mental palm slap. Give me a frigging break!
“He’d be perfect for Libby!”
“Yeah, he’d be perfect for her!” I readily agreed. And they should move to Zimbabwe, take care of endangered animals, and live happily ever after. Libby could even conduct focus groups with monkeys. Under the influence, she could talk to anyone and anything about everything.
As the elevator reached our parking level and the doors slid open, I made a new mental note: Find another vet or find a way to get rid of this dog.
Or both.
Chapter 13
Blake
It was close to midnight when we got home. Jen and I quickly changed into sweats and our running shoes while a thirsty Scout slurped up some water in the kitchen. Five minutes later, we were out the door with Scout on his leash. Jen was carrying a tote filled with plastic bags, bottles of water, and a pair of chopsticks. Scout was filled with boundless energy, eager to take a walk. Over an hour had passed since he’d taken the laxative and fingers crossed its magic would work.
Heading east on still busy, high rise-lined Wilshire, we made a right turn onto a side street, which led us into a neighborhood of well-groomed older, moderate-sized houses with front lawns and tree-lined sidewalks.
‘This is a pretty neighborhood,” commented Jen.
“Yeah, it is.” Surprisingly, for as long as I’d lived on the Wilshire Corridor, I’d never explored the surrounding area.
“Would you want to live here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like buy a house here.”
“I don’t think so.” While the houses had curb appeal, they were too on top of each other for my taste. And too small. While I didn’t want to live in a palatial mansion or a gated community like my parents, I wanted something that was more spacious and with more property . . . and preferably close to the Santa Monica steps and the beach. There was a street called Adelaide that I loved, but in all the years I’d parked along it, I’d rarely seen a For Sale sign.
“I’d love to buy something on Adelaide,” I told Jen. She loved that street, too, as the houses reminded her of the grand houses in Des Moines. Though what sold for five hundred thousand dollars there was probably five million here. Real estate prices in Los Angeles, especially close to the ocean, were astronomical. Even a small two-bedroom cottage close to the beach sold for a million dollars or more.
“Could we afford to?” My wife still hadn’t gotten used to my wealth and still shopped at moderately priced stores, seeking out sales and bargains. Something she had in common with my grandma and bonded them.
“We can afford just about anything.”
A long stretch of silence followed. We continued to walk, with Scout stopping to sniff whatever he fancied. So far, he’d lifted his leg twice to pee, but nothing had inspired him to take a dump. It was getting chilly and I was getting fed up. We’d been outside for over a half hour.
“I don’t think that laxative stuff is working,” I grumbled. All hope of getting back the broach was evaporating like water. And my faith in this quack doctor was waning exponentially.
“You have to be patient, Blake.” My tiger hugged herself to stay warm. “Dr. Chase said it could take several tries.”
Patience was not one of my virtues. I was ready to turn back when Scout began circling a patch of grass.
Jen glommed on to my arm. “Blake, I think he’s going to make a poop!”
My eyes stayed fixed on him as he squatted. C’mon, boy, sock it to me! He squeezed out whatever was inside him, then stood up, vigorously kicking his hind legs behind him, covering the turd with a tuft of dirt and grass.
“Blake, do you see the broach?” my wife asked excitedly.
On the dark, dimly lit street, it was hard to see shit (no pun intended), especially now that it was camouflaged by nature. I carefully circled it, hoping not to step in it. I knew I was close because the stench drifted up my nose. Ugh! It rivaled his flatulence. I squatted down. Nothing that sparkled met my eyes.
“Jen, can you hold his leash while I look?”
“Sure.” She took it from me as I pulled out my cell phone and turned on the flashlight, aiming it at the giant turd. “Give me one of the chopsticks.”
Holding my breath and on to the tiniest glimmer of hope, I poked an end of the wooden stick into the giant pile of shit, then began swirling it around, trying to uncover the missing bauble. Hoping to see the tip of the unicorn’s diamond cone peek through. The stench was overwhelming. “UGH!” I choked, wishing I’d brought along one of the scarves we’d brought in Scotland to wrap around my face and ward off the vomiticious smell. Vomiticious was a word made up by Jennifer, but it had become part of my vocabulary.
I swirled and I swirled and I swirled with what I was now dubbing the Shitstick. Some clever telemarketer could probably package them and turn them into an As Seen on TV product. And make a bloody fortune. I could hear his voice in my head . . . “And that’s not all. They’re washable. Reusable. Recyclable. Use them for anything . . . from dog shit to sushi.”
God, I was genius, but then Jen cut into my mental ramblings. And into my swelling ego. “Do you see anything?”
Squinting, I shook my head. I swirled some more. Nothing. I was losing hope. Nada. Absolutely fucking nada. For all I knew, the broach had dissolved in the beast’s stomach, destroyed by his lethal gastric acids. Rising to my feet, I let out a loud, exasperated breath. It sounded like a deflating balloon. “Let’s go home, baby. Tomorrow’s another day.”