Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla (8 page)

The dog began licking my face, having picked up the scent of crab-stuffed mushrooms.

“Of course it is. Look how she adores you.”

“But, Patti. I’ve got a cat.”

“No problem. Mamie hardly ever bites.”

The next thing I knew, she was handing me a Neiman Marcus shopping bag.

“Here are her toys and food. She’s on a special diet.”

“But—”

“Keep her at your place tomorrow morning. I don’t want her underfoot while I’m getting KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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dressed. Just bring her back about a half hour before the ceremony.”

Before I could voice any further objections, she was skipping back to the party.

“And don’t forget to bring that fabulous fiancé of yours!”

Then, flapping her fingers in a dismissive wave, she disappeared into the crowd.

I looked down at the bundle of white fluff in my arms, and a rush of sympathy washed over me. Like Dickie, poor Mamie was undoubtedly Patti’s Plaything du Jour. As soon as the dog got old and arthritic, her eyes clouded with cataracts, no longer a cute accessory, she’d be history.

“Okay, Mamie,” I sighed, stepping outside.

“Ready to go slumming?”

Chapter 8

Idrove home with Mamie in the backseat. She was having the time of her life, racing back and forth from one side of the car to the other, not wanting to miss one palm tree or street lamp.

My state of mind, however, was a tad less jubilant. I’d been insane to take her, of course. I fully expected World War III to break out the minute Prozac set eyes on her. Prozac likes being an only child.

But their meeting, much to my relief, was surprisingly uneventful.

Not that Prozac was happy about having a houseguest. Not one bit. The minute she saw Mamie, her eyes narrowed in disgust.

What’s THAT doing here?

“This is Mamie, darling. She’s just staying for one night. You don’t mind, do you?”

Get a clue, Sherlock. What do you think?

If she had fingers, I’m sure she would’ve given me one.

I put Mamie down to see how the two would interact, fully prepared to snatch one of them up at the first sign of trouble.

But there was no bloodshed. No fur flew. On 74

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the contrary, Mamie scampered over to Prozac and began sniffing her amiably, eager to be friends.

“See?” I said. “She likes you.”

Of course she likes me. What’s not to like? Just tell
Fluffy here the feeling isn’t mutual.

She bared her teeth in a most unfriendly hiss.

I guess Mamie got the hint because she abandoned Prozac and began sniffing my hardwood floors with all the intensity of Long John Silver in search of buried treasure.

I, meanwhile, started unpacking her toys—a veritable Santa’s workshop of balls, bells, and stuffed animals. Not to mention a stuffed toy violin that actually played music, and a cell phone that actually rang.

Prozac gazed at the display through slitted eyes.

Jeez. Fluff-O gets enough toys to stock a Toys “R”

Us, and all I get is a crummy rubber mouse.

Having sniffed her way around the room, Mamie now scampered back to join us.

“Hey, Mamie,” I said, picking up her cell phone. “Want to check your messages?”

But Mamie wasn’t interested in her toys. She went right back to Prozac, panting wetly.

Prozac eyed her with disgust.

Take a hike, Cottonball.

And in one fluid movement, Prozac slithered down off the sofa, across the room, and up onto the top of the bookshelf, where she gazed down imperiously at us peasants below.

Wake me when she’s gone.

“Oh, Pro. Don’t be that way.”

But she was going to be that way. With a final hiss, she curled up in a ball and turned her back KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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on us. The cold shoulder treatment had officially begun.

I tried in vain to tempt her with dinner, but when I opened a can of Minced Mackerel Guts—

a sound that normally sends her barreling to the kitchen at the speed of light—there were no little paws thundering across the linoleum.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, kid,” I said to Mamie, reaching into the Neiman Marcus bag to get her dog food. Imagine my surprise when I pulled out a tupperware container filled with tiny cubes of cut-up steak. And not the broiled hockey pucks I get at Sizzler either. This was filet mignon. I happen to know this for a fact because I helped myself to a couple of bites.

Yes, I know I should be ashamed of myself, mooching off a dog’s dinner, but I couldn’t resist. Besides I had only two or three tiny pieces.

(Okay, five.)

And Mamie didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed quite taken with me. Ever since Prozac had retired to the bookshelf, Mamie had been following me around, staring up at me with worshipful eyes.

“Okay, sweetie,” I said, bending down to give her a love scratch. “Time for your dinner.”

I put some of her steak in a plastic bowl—why did I get the feeling she was used to eating off Limoges?—and set it down in front of her.

Unlike Prozac, who attacks her food with all the gusto of a longshoreman at a truck stop café, Mamie nibbled at hers daintily.

I watched with envy as she ate the succulent morsels.

With a sigh, I began scrounging around my barren cupboards to fix something for my own 76

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dinner. I finally rustled up some mini-tuna sandwiches on Saltines. Accompanied by a side of canned beets. One of these days, I really had to stock up on staples.

After dinner, I took Mamie for a walk. Her little nose went into overdrive, sniffing at every patch of grass and tree in sight, getting acquainted with her new neighborhood. Finally she settled on a lush patch of lawn in front of a neighboring duplex and left a poop the size of a Junior Mint. I scooped it into a baggie, although I doubted anyone would have noticed it, not without a microscope.

Back home, I tried to interest her in her toys again, but she only had eyes for me. All she wanted was to sit in my lap and stare up at me worshipfully.

Why couldn’t Prozac ever show me devotion like this? No wonder dog people were so crazy about their dogs.

I tried several times to coax Prozac down from the bookshelf, but she wouldn’t budge.

Oh, well, I told myself, as I got in bed and turned on the TV, Mamie would be gone tomorrow and Prozac would be back on the couch and eating like a sumo wrestler.

I spent the next couple of hours watching
Rear Window
, with Mamie curled at my feet. When it was over, I turned out the light to go to sleep.

But sleep didn’t come. Sleep never comes easily without Prozac nestled in the crook of my neck.

I was just about to get out of bed and grovel for her forgiveness when she sauntered into the bedroom.

With a single graceful leap she was on the bed.

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Mamie, who knew better than to try anything stupid like joining us for a lick and sniff session, stayed put at the foot of the bed.

“Oh, Prozac. I missed you!” I took her in my arms and began stroking her. “Did you eat your mackerel guts?”

She yawned a cavernous yawn, sending a blast of mackerel fumes in my direction.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Then we curled up together, Prozac nestled in her usual position in the crook of my neck.

And as I felt her warm body purring against mine, I finally relaxed.

No wonder cat people are so crazy about their cats.

I woke up the next morning, sun streaming in my bedroom window. I checked my clock radio and saw that that it was after nine. Prozac, the little angel, had let me sleep in for a change.

I stretched lazily in bed. The wedding wasn’t until two that afternoon and I still had the whole morning to get spiffed up.

I intended to give myself the works: manicure, pedicure, leg wax, eyebrow pluck. I’d luxuriate in a delicious bubble bath, after which I’d blow-dry my stubborn curls to silky perfection and slip into a slinky black cocktail dress I’d bought a couple of months ago, the only item to have escaped the wrath of Lance’s Closet Makeover.

I’d tried it on the other day, and much to my amazement it hadn’t shrunk in the closet like so much of my clothing tends to do. I could see myself at the wedding in my slinky dress, exfoliated and coiffed, my hunkalicious fiancé-for78

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hire at my side. And for the first time since this whole mess began, I had good vibes about the wedding. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a disaster after all.

So it was with a spring in my step and hope in my heart that I got out of bed and headed for the kitchen to fix breakfast.

And that’s where my trip to Fantasy Island came screeching to a halt.

The first thing I saw when I walked in the kitchen was my garbage can upended, its messy contents scattered on the floor.

The second thing I saw was Mamie rolling around in said garbage.

Her formerly pristine white fur was dotted with bits of tuna, low-fat mayo, petrified pizza crusts, and blobs of beet juice. All of it sprinkled with a generous coating of coffee grounds. Off to the side was a small puddle where she’d taken a tinkle.

No wonder Prozac let me sleep in; she’d masterminded this whole fiasco.

She was lolling on the kitchen counter now, with what I could swear was a smirk on her face.

“You’re responsible for all this, aren’t you?” I hissed.

She shot me one of her Innocent Bystander looks, the same look she gives me when I come home to find my panty hose shredded to cole slaw.

Moi?

“Oh, don’t play innocent. I know you put her up to it.”

Whatever. So what’s for breakfast?

She jumped down from the counter and began her Feed Me dance around my ankles.

I can’t believe I actually fed the little monster, KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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but I didn’t want to be tripping over her all morning.

“You don’t deserve this,” I said as I tossed her some Luscious Lamb Guts.

Then I gave Mamie the rest of her filet mignon.

Needless to say, two seconds later, Prozac’s little pink nose was buried in Mamie’s dish, and poor Mamie had to settle for the lamb guts.

Meanwhile, I got down on my knees and began cleaning up the mess on the floor. I’d just wiped up the last glob of beet juice when the phone rang. Wearily I answered it.

“Hey, Jaine. It’s Patti.”

Oh, Lord. Not Patti. Not now.

“What’s Mamie up to?”

Her neck in garbage.

“Nothing much. She’s just hanging out.”

“Let me speak to her.”

“You want to
speak
with her?”

“Yes. Put her on the phone.”

Stifling a groan, I held the receiver to Mamie’s ear. She licked it eagerly as Patti cooed baby talk on the other end. After a few nauseating beats of this nonsense, I grabbed the phone back and said good-bye to Patti through a mist of lamb-scented dog spit.

Then I hung up and checked my watch. Only 9:45. No need to panic. I still had plenty of time to get Mamie groomed for the wedding.

After wiping down the receiver with Lysol, I got back on the phone and started calling dog groomers. But it was Saturday, a busy day in the pet grooming world. Every place I called was booked solid, except for one salon out in Tujunga that couldn’t squeeze us in until 4:30.

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Okay, then. I was just going to have to groom her myself.

I hurried to the bathroom and ran the water in the tub, adding a generous heaping of bubble bath.

The trouble came when I tried adding Mamie.

They say many dogs like baths. I can assure you Mamie wasn’t one of them. From the way she carried on, you would’ve thought I was giving her electric shock treatments. In no time, I was drenched.

All the while Prozac gazed down at us, highly amused, from her perch atop the toilet tank.

This is more fun than watching you try on bathing
suits.

Finally, the terrible ordeal was over, and I faced the even worse ordeal of drying Mamie’s hair.

Ever try holding down a squirming dog with one hand and a hair dryer with the other, scrunching curly ringlets as you go?

My advice: Don’t.

Never again would I complain about straightening my own mop.

At last I was finished. Mamie didn’t look quite as fluffy as she’d looked yesterday, but it would have to do. As she dashed off to freedom, I checked the time. Still hours till the wedding. If I took a quick shower, I’d have plenty of time to wax my legs and do my nails and blow my hair straight.

And then I remembered: Mamie’s pink polka-dot hair bow!

I raced to the kitchen and fished it out from where I’d tossed it in the garbage. I groaned at the sight of it—reeking of tuna and stained purple with beet juice.

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I tried scrubbing it with Wisk, but the stains—

and the stink—were set for life.

Damn. I was going to have to buy another one.

Muttering a steady stream of curses, I changed out of my soggy pajamas into a pair of sweats, then headed out to my Corolla with Mamie in my arms. No way was I going to leave her alone with the she-devil Prozac.

After plopping her alongside me in the passenger seat, I strapped myself in and set off to go bow hunting.

Do you realize how tough it is to find a pink polka-dot hair bow? Trust me, Columbus had less trouble finding America.

I spent the next two hours fruitlessly driving from one beauty supply store to another. I saw more hair accessories that day than I’d seen in my entire life. It was in Nordstrom’s Children’s department that I finally found a reasonable facsimile of the bow. It was more dusty rose than pink, and the polka dots were a little too big, but it was better than nothing. I just prayed Patti wouldn’t look at Mamie too closely.

By the time I got home with my treasure, my hours of prep time were gone with the wind. I was supposed to be at Patti’s house in twenty minutes. Which left me exactly zero time to do any personal grooming.