Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Olivia
The One Where I Become a Full-Time Dog Therapist
I’m not saying I regret agreeing to babysit Lucian’s overdramatic dog.
However, I am saying that had I known Sarah was such a manipulative menace, I would have created a formal custody agreement—complete with a therapy fund and a legal out-clause.
Because this?
This is absurd.
She seems so . . . nice.
So peaceful.
But deep down?
She’s a little evil—maybe exactly like her owner.
Now I understand why the pup-sitter was scratching her arms yesterday.
She’s not allergic to Sarah; she has acute anxiety that is affecting her immune system.
I’ve seen this before with owners who can’t handle their dogs because they weren’t a good match.
I glance at Sarah. “Are we a good match, girl?” I mean .
. . it’s only been three hours since I picked her up from Lucian’s place, and I’ve already been subjected to:
A guilt trip so intense I’m reconsidering every life decision that led me here.
A full-scale hunger strike because I didn’t arrange her kibble into a Michelin-star-worthy presentation.
An Oscar-worthy portrayal of devastation when I suggested we go outside while it’s raining.
Sarah is currently sprawled across my lap like a dramatic Victorian heroine—flopped onto her back, one paw draped over her eyes, full-body sighs shaking her frame.
Someone needs to inform this dog that she is not a lap dog.
She’s a fifty-five, perhaps sixty-pound dog, not a ten-pound Maltese—and that won’t be me.
For the past fifteen minutes, she has been whimpering softly—like she’s the most neglected creature on the planet.
I sigh, rub my temples, and snap a picture of her absurd display of despair.
This has to go into some scrapbook: Most intense moments in pet history.
Olivia: Your daughter is unwell.
Lucian: She’s fine.
Olivia: She’s having a crisis.
Lucian: She’s manipulating you.
Olivia: She’s your dog.
Lucian: What does that even mean?
Olivia: It means that she’s just like you.
Lucian: Excuse you, but I don’t manipulate anyone with tantrums and crises.
Olivia: Does she do this to you when you’re around?
Lucian: She’s just an innocent pup, Olivia.
I glare at my phone.
This man.
This cocky, arrogant, smirking-from-hundreds-of-miles-away man.
I shift under Sarah, who groans dramatically and leans into me even more, making herself one with my lap.
I take another photo.
This time, it’s a close-up of her tragic expression—big, glassy Vizsla eyes, head resting on my arm, entire soul radiating grief.
I send it to Lucian so he can witness the pain and agony she’s pretending to go through.
Lucian: . . . okay, that’s a little concerning.
Olivia: SHE IS DYING, LUCHI.
SHE MISSES YOU.
Lucian: Did you just call me Luchi?
Olivia: STAY FOCUSED.
YOUR DOG NEEDS HELP.
Lucian: Or . . . she’s playing you like a damn fiddle.
Sarah lets out the most prolonged, most tragic sigh I have ever heard in my life.
I narrow my eyes at her.
“Are you conning me?” I ask.
She does not respond.
Which is answer enough, because she is a dog.
“I’m going to set you down and start my dinner,” I tell her.
“You have to move.”
Instead, she nuzzles into my stomach, a silent, guilt-inducing ploy that I know is a calculated attack.
I stare down at her.
“You know I’m onto you, right?”
Sarah blinks.
Innocently.
Like she’s never done anything wrong in her life.
I grab my phone again.
Olivia: She won’t go outside.
She won’t eat. I’m pretty sure she’s wasting away in real time.
Lucian: She’s a Vizsla, not a Victorian child with consumption.
Olivia: Then why does she look like she’s about to start coughing into a lace handkerchief?
Lucian: Because she’s dramatic as fuck.
Just ignore her.
I huff.
Ignore her? Lucian clearly does not understand the power of Sarah’s guilt trips.
This dog is a professional-level manipulator.
A mastermind.
A con artist with fur.
I stand up, forcing Sarah off me and onto the rug.
She lets out a wounded gasp.
Like I have betrayed her on a soul-deep level.
I grab her leash. “We’re going outside.”
Sarah flops onto the floor.
Flat.
Unmoving.
Refusing to acknowledge reality.
I cross my arms. “Sarah.”
No response.
I pull out my phone.
Olivia: Your dog is pretending to be paralyzed so she doesn’t have to walk.
Lucian’s response is instant.
Lucian: :laughing: emoji
Lucian: This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Olivia: Glad my suffering amuses you.
Lucian: It really does.
Receipts or it didn’t happen.
I grumble under my breath, but I start recording because I am weak to peer pressure.
I pan the camera from the door to where Sarah is sprawled dramatically on the floor.
“Sarah,” I say. “Outside.”
Sarah lets out a soft, pitiful whine and a dramatic poof of air—like I’m the insufferable one.
“Outside,” I repeat.
Sarah remains a motionless, tragic figure.
I sigh. “Sarah, you have to go to the bathroom.”
She blinks.
She seems to be actively considering whether bladder control is even necessary.
Maybe she can water one of my indoor plants.
I stop recording and send the message to Lucian, who replies within seconds.
Lucian: I’m actually crying, laughing.
She’s ridiculous.
Olivia: Oh, you think this is funny?
YOU try dealing with your dog.
Lucian: I do. And I succeed.
Because she knows I don’t fall for her bullshit.
Olivia: Please explain why she acts like a neglected orphan the second you’re gone.
Lucian: Because she knows you’re weak.
Olivia: I AM NOT WEAK.
Lucian: Weak to guilt.
Be the alpha of the pack.
Show her who’s boss.
Olivia: It’s not that easy.
Lucian: Those puppy eyes are your weakness.
I gape at my phone.
I lower my phone and stare at the sprawled-out, unmoving dog on my rug.
“Sarah,” I try again, more firm this time.
Sarah whimpers.
Not a normal whimper.
No. This one is drawn-out, breathy, like a tragic heroine moments before she faints into a dashing stranger’s arms. If she had a corset, she’d be loosening it.
I rub my temples. “Sarah. You’re embarrassing both of us. I have attended to thousands of dogs, and not one has been this manipulative.”
She flops her head dramatically onto the floor with a groan, then makes direct, soul-piercing eye contact.
I swear to God, she is about to die of my neglect.
I take another photo.
Olivia: Your dog is an actress.
Get her an Oscar.
Lucian: Golden Globe at best.
Olivia: She’s evolving.
I think she’s preparing a lawsuit against me.
Lucian: You should be worried.
Soon, she’ll be speaking in that snooty English accent only she can do and giving you a lecture for not being what she wants you to be.
“That’s it, no more Miss Nice-Neighbor-Lady. Mean Olivia is taking over, you hear me?”
I drag Sarah to the door, finally getting her outside.
But instead of walking, she immediately flops onto my front porch like I just shot her in the leg.
“Sarah, for the love of?—”
“Rough night?” a voice says.
I turn to see my next-door neighbor, an older woman named Martha, watching me over her white picket fence.
I gesture to Sarah. “She refuses to move. She is broken.”
Martha tsks.
“You need to assert dominance.”
I sigh.
“Why does everyone keep telling me that? I’m trying.”
Martha smirks.
“You’re losing.”
Sarah takes this moment to sigh louder.
Martha snorts.
Olivia: Even our neighbor thinks I’ve lost the battle.
Lucian: Because you have.
Just admit it.
Olivia: NEVER.
Lucian: Fine. Put me on FaceTime.
Olivia: What? Why?
Lucian: Let’s see how she acts when she hears my voice.
I frown but hit video call.
Lucian’s ridiculously handsome face fills my screen.
His grin is way too smug.
“Sarah,” he says smoothly.
“Hey, baby girl.”
Sarah’s ears perk up.
He hums. “What’s wrong, huh? You giving Olivia a hard time?”
I swear to God, the dog whimpers, like she’s been abandoned.
Lucian chuckles. “Get up, sweetheart.”
And just like that, Sarah stands.
No drama. No sighs. No theatrics.
She wags her tail.
My mouth falls open.
Lucian smirks. “Told you.”
“You—you—you—” I splutter.
“You witch. You dog whisperer. You liar. You said you don’t fall for her guilt trips.”
He shrugs.
“I don’t. I fell for yours. You’re the one who needed a hand. Just admit it so I can go to dinner.”
“Fine, but how am I supposed to handle this if you’re not here?” I ask because now I’m concerned.
“I’m hiring a trainer or something.”
“If you think that’ll help, do it.”
“I will,” I challenge him.
He winks at me. “Have a good night, Doc, and think of me.”
Like I would think of him . . . no, thank you.