Free Must Love Dogs by Claire Cook, Carrington Macduffie Page B

anyway. And the girls are a piece of cake compared to Her Holiness here.” Mother Teresa looked up at Phoebe adoringly, then leaned her body into Phoebe’s thigh. Phoebe took a few quick steps backward and braced herself against the wall.
    I buckled Mother Teresa into the front seat of my Honda Civic. She seemed to like it and, keeping her eyes on the road, began to gum the seat belt contentedly. It was kind of nice to have company. The twenty- minute ride to the puppy playground was over before I knew it.
    We entered a chain-linked gate with a sign that said welcome to puppy paradise. I sat on a green park bench. Mother Teresa jumped up beside me. I unbuckled her leash. “Go play with the other puppies, honey.” I elbowed her. “Come on, don’t be shy.” She put her head in my lap and looked around cautiously.
    I looked around, too, for someone who resembled Harrison Ford. Maybe even wearing his Indiana Jones hat. Probably from the second episode,
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
. Daredevil archaeologist hot on the trail of the legendary Ankara Stone. And a ruthless cult that has enslaved hundreds of children. I would have been a less whiny costar than Kate Capshaw. I could have kept up with all the action, wouldn’t even have considered a stunt double.
    A man leaning against a concrete tunnel was glancing my way. Actually, he seemed to be glancing surreptitiously at my breasts. I looked down, thinking Mother Teresa might have left a conspicuous deposit of drool. Nothing. I looked back up. Harrison Ford he was not.
    It couldn’t be him. This guy was actually kind of cute, but he definitely wasn’t over six feet tall, more like five-nine or five-ten. Although maybe he just looked shorter from a distance. I tried to remember what else his message had said. Let’s see, he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses, though the effect was more Michael J. Fox than Harrison Ford. He was a little pale, too, and had shiny hair it would be a stretch to call
blondish
, though maybe
tannish
would fit. I searched for some hint of Harrison — his wry grin, the confident sway of his shoulders, the way his whole body smoldered with intensity. Nothing.
    I scanned the playground for more desirable possibilities. Two exceptionally gorgeous guys who had eyes only for each other. Their Jack Russell terrier frolicked nearby. A couple of mother-child-lab combos. A sweet old guy and his beagle. Jeesh.
    Mother Teresa jumped down from the bench. “Good girl,” I said encouragingly. She waited while I scratched behind her ears; then she lumbered off toward the concrete tunnel, stopping to sniff every couple of feet. When she was a few yards from the tunnel, a Yorkshire terrier exploded from within, a tiny yelping whirlwind of tricolored fur. Mother Teresa froze, except for her tail, which continued to wag hopefully.
    The Yorkie was almost under Mother Teresa’s nose when she stopped. Her barking got louder, the pitch higher. I didn’t know about Mother Teresa, but the little yapper was certainly getting on my nerves.
    “Clementine, sit!” the man who was not Harrison Ford ordered. Mother Teresa sat. The Yorkie kept barking. She was jumping up and down on her hind legs. Mother Teresa slid to the ground and buried her head between her front paws. The Yorkie backed off a couple of hops but kept barking.
    “Nice bitch,” said the man.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Your dog. She’s a bitch, right? Show-quality, looks like.”
    “Oh, I thought you meant your dog.” Now there’s a bitch, I was thinking.
    He didn’t get it. “Yup, Clementine’s a bitch, too. Best of breed, twice. The Eukanuba Classic, two years ago and Newport, last summer. How ’bout yours?”
    I was starting to get a headache. “Is there any way you can make her stop?”
    “Sure.” He turned to the dog and said sternly, “Clementine, sit.” Clementine kept barking. He took a step forward. She barked louder. He reached out a hand. She bit it. “Jesus! What is your fucking