Take a Chance on Me (8 page)

One paw down. Three to go.

"Some Cresteds need to have their nails trimmed each week, Mr. Tobin. The nails are fragile and can break off too close to the artery and cause bleeding. See how this—" She turned her head and found him waiting for her, his face so close, his lips slightly parted, his right eye closing lazily as if he were ready to pull the trigger.

Then he moved in even closer and he dropped his gaze to her mouth. And for the briefest, wildest, most implausible second of her life, Emma thought for sure this very strange, very sexy man was going to kiss her.

Oh, daddy!

She turned back to the clippers. "Uh … and you really need to bathe Hairy once a week in a medicated soap to keep his skin free of pustules. I'll write down the name of the brand I prefer, if you like."

Her pulse was thumping like the tail of a Labrador Retriever. Was it her imagination, or were there really great arcs of heat lightning shooting from this guy right into her ovaries? Did she really just say the word pustule?

This was bizarre. He was bizarre. And she was a wreck!

"I would like that very much," he said, his voice thick and raspy and still so close. "I think I would appreciate your recommendations on just about anything, really."

Three paws down. Heart still pounding.

"And Cresteds are always cold, Mr. Tobin. Did you notice the shaking?"

"Of course."

"When you, uh, acquired the dog, was he wearing any kind of sweater or coat?" She finished the last paw and stood, sighing in relief.

"A sailor suit, actually." He gazed up at her, one eyebrow arched in what Emma thought might be the beginnings of actual playfulness. "Navy blue with white trim. And a matching cap."

He was on the verge of a real smile, and in that instant, Emma realized that this somewhat slow guy was not only gorgeous, he was downright adorable! Did she see the beginnings of dimples? She felt light-headed!

"A sailor suit?"

"Yes."

But then he stood up, and any humor or warmth drained from his face, which made her inexplicably sad.

"Seems the previous owner was a complete flame … er … a flamboyant type of person. He had lots of different clothes for Hairy. Jogging suits. A leprechaun outfit. Evening wear."

Emma stared at the man in amazement. The things he said were hilarious, but he wasn't even smiling.

How could a normal person not be laughing? And why did she have the strangest feeling that he was pulling her close while pushing her away at the same time? What was going on here?

As a rule, she tried her best not to alienate the owners of her patients, because she had yet to meet a dog that could sign a check. But she couldn't hold it in anymore with Thomas Tobin. She let her mouth fall open and she laughed. Loudly. It was one of her snorting laughs, too, the kind that made people look sideways at her in restaurants.

Mr. Tobin gazed at her blankly.

Emma wiped her eyes. "Okay, the thing is, Hairy needs to wear something because he's got no hair, right?"

"Oh." Thomas rubbed a hand along his jaw. "I didn't know the outfits were for heat retention. I thought they were, well, you know, fashion statements." He didn't bother mentioning that Hairy's owner was wearing an identical sailor suit at the time of his death.

Emma picked up the chart and began scribbling notes to herself, still chuckling. "Let's see what we can do to make Tom and Hairy get along a little better, shall we?"

"Thomas."

She raised her eyes to him.

"My name is Thomas. Not Tom."

"I see. And I'm Emma." She held the pen in mid-air as they stared at each other awkwardly. It soon became apparent that Mr. Personality had nothing to add.

"All righty then, Thomas. Let's go over the specific behavior problems you've encountered. On your form you say that Hairy isn't quite cutting it in the house-training department, is that correct?"

Thomas nodded.

"Unfortunately, that's rather common with male Cresteds. I'll order a urine analysis and an ultrasound to rule out any medical conditions, such as bladder stones. And when was the dog neutered, Mr. Tobin?"

"Neutered?"

"Yes. The dog has been neutered—his testes were surgically removed. Do you know how old he was at the time?"

Thomas stared at the dog in horror. "I have no fu—uh—idea," he mumbled.

She suppressed a smile while glancing at the form. "I've heard some Crested owners find it helpful to secure a maxi pad over the dog's penis while working on house-training. I'm told it cuts down on cleaning projects."

When Mr. Tobin made no comment, she raised her eyes to him. His face had gone white. His eyes were huge.

"Do what?" he whispered.

Emma tried not to laugh. "Tying a sweat sock around the hips with the pad slipped inside seems to do the trick. Be sure to get a brand with adhesive backing so it stays in place."

He continued to stare.

Emma reviewed the rest of the list. "He shakes and howls whenever you run the hair dryer, the vacuum, or the coffee grinder?"

Thomas nodded, his gaze moving absently out the window to the parking lot.

"And he keeps you awake at night with pacing and whining. He chewed the molding around your front door, clawed holes in a wall and a carpet. Your neighbors left you notes that he cries and barks all day when you're gone. Anything else?"

Thomas shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets. "Isn't that enough?"

Emma hugged the chart to her chest and smiled at him, then glanced down at the frightened dog. Clearly, the first order of business was to convince Hairy that he was safe with Thomas—and that was going to be a tough sell.

She'd already observed that the man hadn't managed to form any kind of bond with the animal in ten days. He hardly looked at the dog. The dog shied away from the man. And every time Thomas's voice contained the least bit of agitation or disapproval, Hairy's trembling escalated.

On the bright side, Thomas seemed to have an open mind about all this, which was more than she could say about some of the owners she encountered. Many people waltzed in here with their minds already made up about how to keep their pets in line, already well on their way to a tragedy.

At least Thomas Tobin was listening.

His eyes remained locked on hers, and she thought she noticed the briefest flash of something deeply human in his expression. Then he looked away.

Had it been loneliness? Longing? Whatever it was, it looked so out of place on that he-man face that she'd probably just imagined it.

"Has Hairy exhibited these behaviors in the past, Mr. Tobin?"

"I have no earthly idea."

She nodded. "Okay. First and foremost, the dog is having trouble adjusting to his new home. I believe Hairy is experiencing severe separation anxiety and panic attacks."

Thomas pictured the scene again. He'd found Scott Slick on his kitchen floor, dead for days, the ugly dog keeping guard at his owner's side, shaking, hungry, and scared. It was the most pitiful thing he'd ever seen.

Yeah, separation anxiety and panic attacks sounded right on the mark.

"Dogs always do things for a reason," Emma continued. "In Hairy's mind, these behaviors make perfect sense—they accomplish something for him. Will his former owner be taking him back anytime soon?"

"I sure doubt it."

Emma offered him a reassuring smile. "I realize Hairy is a challenge right now, but with relaxation exercises, a consistent house-training regimen, medicine, and a little time, I think everything's going to be fine."

Thomas looked down on the shivering dog and winced. What had he done? Why had he taken this damn dog home with him? How long would he be stuck with him? Would the dog really have to wear a Kotex?

He started to feel queasy.

"Do you have any questions at this point?"

"No."

"Are you all right?"

"Perfect, thanks."

Emma spent the next forty minutes demonstrating the relaxation exercises and working with Thomas and Hairy until they got it right. She was pleasantly surprised to see that Thomas caught on rather quickly.

After making sure the urine test results were normal, she walked Thomas and Hairy to checkout, where she gave them their discharge instructions, shopping list, follow-up schedule, and prescriptions.

Then she slipped into the back hallway, leaned against the wall, and closed her eyes tight.

She felt like she'd been hit by a truck.

What had just happened in there? A grouchy dullard with some sort of personality disorder had just made her hormones throb, her skin tingle, and her panties smolder. It was as if her body had been on autopilot, responding to pheromones and electrical charges that had nothing to do with polite behavior or even common sense.

Could it be that a man too cool to smile had made her hot, hot, hot for the first time in she didn't know how long?

Could it be that she'd felt a jolt of connection with that man? An instant affection, even? How was that possible?

"Woo, Emma! That was one fine specimen!" Velvet Miki leaned her petite body up against the wall next to Emma and giggled.

"He's a nut job," Emma said, slowly opening her eyes.

"Hon, I wasn't talking about the little d-o-g—I was talking about the big hunk of m-a-n." Her assistant then shoved the next patient's chart toward her, and Emma read that Harpo the self-mutilating parrot was preening himself bloody again.

"So was I, Velvet," Emma said, staring ahead blankly. "So was I."

* * *

Thomas sat in the Wit's End parking lot and thumped his forehead against the car steering wheel, feeling a pair of soulful eyes follow his every move. He glared toward the passenger seat.

"Is there some other way in which I might be of service to you?" he asked the dog. "Speak up, pal. I'm all ears."

Uh-oh.

You don't like me much, do you, Big Alpha? I'd like it better if you took me back in there to the lady with the soft hands.

"You know what I'd like, Hairy? I'd like you to get a grip on yourself. Move on with your life."

Move on? If you'd only heard that bad man's voice, smelled all the anger in him, saw how he banged Slick's head with the blender!

And the noise! The blender kept screeching and whizzing! It hurt my ears! My brain! I hate the blender! I hate the blender! I miss my master! I miss my home!

Uh-oh.

I just peed again.

"Jesus, Hairy!"

I'm such a bad dog.

Thomas swiped the leather seat with the towel he'd learned to provide for car trips, then he rolled his forehead back and forth on the steering wheel and sighed. The horn blared, and Thomas shot up with a start.

He turned toward the dog again.

"Look, ace. I'm sorry Slick's dead and you ended up with me."

Tell me about it.

"But it was either me or the business end of a gas pipe, so how about you take your happy pills so I can convince some idiot to give you a home. Sound like a plan?"

Hairy shook some more, then stared at the door latch.

"I'm not cut out for dog ownership. Nothing personal. I work odd hours. I've got too much stress in my life. And I'm not a very nice man, so I'm only thinking of your welfare. Besides, I don't like animals. Hell, I don't even like human beings."

The car phone rang.

"Tobin. What?"

"Good afternoon, Miss Manners—how'd the lobotomy go?" Rollo laughed uproariously into the phone.

"The dog's or mine?" Thomas pulled out into Columbia traffic and headed toward Baltimore . With luck, he could deposit Hairy at his townhouse and get back to court by two for the rest of the Leo Vasilich suppression hearing.

Poor Leo. Talk about women troubles! That guy was the poster boy for what can happen when a man lets his guard down with a female—he ends up facing three to five of hard time.

"I can't believe you actually took that hairless rat to a psychiatrist, Thomas. How much did it set you back, anyway?"

"Two-fifty."

"No way! The guy should be arrested for extortion."

"Yeah, well, the guy is an actual veterinarian and he's a she with a great set of … a great setup out here.

Anyway, that's just for the office visit and the drugs. It doesn't even count the ultrasound or the supplies I've got to get."

"You mean Hairy's going on doggie downers?"

Thomas riffled through the brochures and workbooks strewn across the seat until be found the little white prescription bag. "Uppers. Downers. Hell if I know." He read the instructions. "Amitriptyline, one-quarter of a ten-milligram tablet twice daily for depression and anxiety. Xanax as needed for panic."

"No freakin' way."

"Better dog living through chemistry, Rollo. Plus, I have to do some kind of retraining program and spring for a crate, a few little sweater outfits, some kind of special food and medicated shampoo and skin lotion shit, plus a pair of clippers, maxi pads, a baby toothbrush, and God knows what else. I better win at poker Friday night, that's all I got to say."

"This is nuts, man! Isn't there some kind of shelter or rescue place you can take him?"

Thomas said nothing, and glanced over at Hairy. The dog had edged toward the passenger door in an effort to get as far away from Thomas as possible, and now stared down at the black tufted seat of the Audi, bony shoulders quivering.

A big lump of guilt lodged in Thomas's throat.

"Hey, Rollo? We had some pretty wild parties at the Theta Chi house, didn't we?"

"Absolutely. But what's that got to do with—"

"Did I ever get drunk and try to eat a baseball?"

The line went silent for a moment before his brother-in-law cleared his throat. "Uh, are you all right, man?"

Thomas knew he was a lot of things—beaten down with guilt over Slick's death, sporting a hard-on for a pet shrink with a fascinating braid, warm smile, and exceptional breasts, and completely baffled by how his life had turned into a never-ending episode of The Jerry Springer Show—but "all right" he was not.

"I'm fabulous," he said. "See you Friday. Don't forget my Cohibas."