Chapter 3
Mad laughter greets me as a housekeeper in a maid’s uniform ushers me into the mansion. “Mr. Kruger is right over there,” she says, leading the way towards the commotion. And I already wished I hadn’t taken this job. My recent string of celebrity clients has been bizarre, and I fear their craziness might rub off on me some day. The last thing I want is to lose my sanity over my job.
As we walk down the long hall, I brace myself, hoping this won’t be as bad as my last client. That one had me work for weeks with their dog using positive reinforcement, only to discover they’d been abusing the poor Sheltie.
And when a video clip of her doing so leaked to the public, she posted on social media that her dog trainer, a.k.a. me, had not only consented, but actually insisted she use force. Thank goodness for my lawyer brother and his wife with years of high-class public relations experience. Today, Brittney is a SAHM, but has a few clients with whom she works with out of her home, and me. She does all my booking and accounting. She insists that celebrity clients not only pay the best but are the fastest way to build a reputation in my field.
It’s a long hallway—seriously, why do people need homes this big?—and I take the chance to review the details of this gig one last time. Mr. Kruger, owner of a real estate empire that spans all over the country, has recently bought a puppy. And as it’s a Rhodesian ridgeback, people are intimidated by it. Ridgebacks are big and strong. They have been bred for hunting lions, after all. They can be intimidating but take well to training and make for great companion dogs. Mr. Kruger is far-sighted enough to want his dog trained early and well to make sure not only does it pose no harm but charms strangers with its personality. This is the kind of job that I love the most. Who wouldn’t like to work with a puppy?
In the file Brittney had put together for me, the dog’s sex had not been indicated. Men who went for the big breeds often wanted male dogs. Some masculinity thing. So maybe Mr. Kruger is one of those men wanting to project virility. That was a reassuring thought because that meant the crazy laughter didn’t come from him.
We round a corner, and there, sprawled on the floor, laughing and howling uncontrollably, I find my client. Shoot, it actually is him.
Seeing me, he struggles to control himself. It takes a few tries, but finally he settles down. In the silence, the door we’re in front of shakes when someone bangs at it loudly. “Let me out!” someone screams. The voice is high-pitched with terror.
Mr. Kruger laughs again, not as madly though. He scrambles up and wipes his face with the balls of his hands. He wheezes once more and finally turns to me. “Hey,” he says and extends his wet hand. But before I can even think of how I could avoid touching that wet hand, the person inside the room screams again. “Let me out!”
I point at the door. Mr. Kruger makes a face, clearly reluctant to end this game. But he turns the key and opens the door. A young man topples out and falls to the floor. He is pale as death and covered in a sheen of sweat.
Scrambling over him was not one ridgeback, but three, no—four of them! They wiggle their butts and jump all over Mr. Kruger, who lavishes them with affection.
I bend down to the man on the floor, whose breathing is shallow and irregular. He struggles to hold eye contact as his eyes dart around.
Minutes later, after the ambulance I called arrives, I am on my way home, seething. This man keeps his dogs for show-off only and engages in dangerous shenanigans with no respect for other people, or his dogs, for that matter. You just don’t let a visitor into the room with four ridgebacks and close the door on them, especially if you know they are scared of dogs. Luckily, the puppies were mostly bewildered and didn’t bother the newcomer much.
No matter what—no more celebrities. They act like they have no care in the world and are entitled beyond all measure. There might be nice ones out there, but I will not try my luck to find them. From now on, there will be no celebrities among my clients.
???
A Santa? Why does Gramma have a Santa on her porch? I wonder as I approach her home a few days after the disastrous encounter with the sadist celebrity. Gramma is known to display carefully chosen seasonal decorations at her front door, but this is overly out of season. It can’t even be a prank for April Fools, as that was last week.
“Some delivery driver threw a parcel into my flower arrangement and smashed it,” Gramma tells me before I even ask. “So I put up Santa to remind them that they’re on the naughty list now.”
“That’ll show them!” Brittney sits at the kitchen table and winks at me.
“You think so?” I eye Gramma cautiously.
“Hunter, you can’t just let people get away with everything.” She pours me a coffee. “You have to stand up for yourself.”
“Hear! Hear!” Brittney raises her cup and salutes Gramma, who in turn drops a cute curtsy.
“Don’t encourage her,” I mouth to Brittney, but she just sticks her tongue out at me. On a shelf, the muted TV shows the news. There had been a minor tornado somewhere in Texas.
Gramma hands me the coffee. “Brittney told me you gave up working for that real estate prince.”
“Don’t get me started on that. He was the worst prick ever. And he cured me from working with celebrities for good.”
Brittney gulps and mutters something under her breath.
“What’s that?”
“Heartburn. See, I already set up a new gig.”
“Is the client a celebrity?”
“He’s a lumberjack.” Brittney looks at me innocuously. I’m never sure whether I can trust her when she has that expression.
“So no celebrity?”
“Lum-ber-jack.”
An image of the lumberjack-built guitarist crosses my mind. Down, girl. Down. You’re not in the market for anyone, especially not a client. Besides, he might be an old, cranky, ugly lumberjack.
A couple of weeks in the Blue Ridge Mountains would be nice. Maybe I’d even have time to reassess my career choice. Being a dog trainer who lives with clients might not have been the smartest choice. I would love to have my own place, but to do it right, it would cost an insane amount of dollars. So until I’ve saved up enough to warrant for a business loan, my training grounds will be at the clients’ homes. There are many advantages to this setup. The only downside is the mostly rich clients, especially the celebrities. I’ve had enough of people who live like there are no consequences.
“Maybe he’s a nice one.” Gramma winks at me.
“No, Gramma. I don’t want a man.”
“You could have a girlfriend then. No need to have a ‘baby daddy’ in your life.”
I focus on the news program on TV, pretending it’s captivating all my attention. They rehash how Rory from Tawpie Tantrum got arrested a couple of days after we had seen them in concert. Christ, that was two weeks ago. Can’t they give the man a break?