sulk, Yukon,” Maxi said, sternly now. “That’ll get you nowhere.”
That remark was apparently lost on the big, furry malamute, who started pawing the carpet beside Maxi’s bed.
Just like a man—he wants what he wants when he wants it,
Maxi thought to herself, all the while staying perfectly still, her eyes tightly closed. Maybe she could fool him into thinking she’d gone back to sleep.
Wrong. Keeping up his restless noodling, he was not to be ignored. With a sigh of resignation, Maxi sat up, swung her legs around, hit the floor, gave the guy a quick rub, and headed for the bathroom, with Yukon padding after her, a big smile on his face.
Christmas was three days away. She’d already sent off gifts to her family in New York, and today was her last chance to do some fast shopping for friends here. But first to the dog park for an hour with Yuke, their Sunday-morning ritual. Now that she was up, might as well get an early start.
At the grassy public park at the corner of Laurel Canyon and Mulholland Drive, the city allowed dog owners to let their animals off the leash. Of course you had to hang with them every second, and even then an occasional fight would break out. An-gelinos called the place the showbiz pooch park, because on weekend days you would catch any number of celebrities supervising any variety of dogs. For Maxi, there was the added perk at times of nailing down interviews with dog-owner celebs. Dog-park camaraderie was infectious. Stars who ordinarily would have their “people,” the layers of staff they maintain between themselves and the press, routinely turn her down through regular channels would happily acquiesce at the dog park. Maxi would schedule her interviews first thing Monday morning, while the mutual doggie glow was still in the air. The most fun interviews were when she got the celebs on camera with their dogs. Jack Lemmon and Chloe, his big, beautiful, black standard poodle, did many interviews with her—Chloe would sit up in her own chair next to Jack’s.
This morning the dog park was less crowded than she usually found it, probably because it was not yet seven o’clock. And not a celeb in sight.
They’re all sleeping in,
she thought, just like she should be doing. But at least it gave her and Yukon loads of room to do their Frisbee thing, and she felt her body waking up with the exercise. Still, every movement was circumscribed by her recent injury. With each jump, sprint, reach, and stretch, she felt twinges of pain, and she knew Yukon, game though he was, did too. They were both a lot slower than they were two months ago, but getting stronger every week. Today’s workout had been a little less painful than last Sunday’s.
Rolling out of the dog park at a little after eight o’clock, it occurred to Maxi that this might be a perfect time to drop by Cedars and check on Sandie Schaeffer—Sunday morning, early, no traffic, and quiet. It was a fast six minutes across Mulholland Drive to her small house in Beverly Glen. She settled Yukon in the backyard, put a tub of water next to his Home Depot “designer” dog house, then jumped back into her weekend junker, a beat-up Chevy Blazer, and zipped down to Cedars at Beverly and San Vicente.
Turns out this
was
a good time for a hospital visit—she even found free parking, no charge on Sundays, at one of the meters around the rambling medical center.
In jeans, T-shirt, and running shoes, she skipped up the concrete steps to the entrance at Cedars, and without stopping at the desk she made her way directly to the Intensive Care Unit on the eighth floor.
Act like you know exactly what you’re doing . . .
When she got to the entrance, three white-coated doctors were walking out of the steel-and-glass doors of the ICU, engrossed in conversation. As they rushed past her, Maxi managed to slip inside before the double doors closed behind them. Maybe she should have asked Mr. Schaeffer for permission to visit his daughter. Then again,
That remark was apparently lost on the big, furry malamute, who started pawing the carpet beside Maxi’s bed.
Just like a man—he wants what he wants when he wants it,
Maxi thought to herself, all the while staying perfectly still, her eyes tightly closed. Maybe she could fool him into thinking she’d gone back to sleep.
Wrong. Keeping up his restless noodling, he was not to be ignored. With a sigh of resignation, Maxi sat up, swung her legs around, hit the floor, gave the guy a quick rub, and headed for the bathroom, with Yukon padding after her, a big smile on his face.
Christmas was three days away. She’d already sent off gifts to her family in New York, and today was her last chance to do some fast shopping for friends here. But first to the dog park for an hour with Yuke, their Sunday-morning ritual. Now that she was up, might as well get an early start.
At the grassy public park at the corner of Laurel Canyon and Mulholland Drive, the city allowed dog owners to let their animals off the leash. Of course you had to hang with them every second, and even then an occasional fight would break out. An-gelinos called the place the showbiz pooch park, because on weekend days you would catch any number of celebrities supervising any variety of dogs. For Maxi, there was the added perk at times of nailing down interviews with dog-owner celebs. Dog-park camaraderie was infectious. Stars who ordinarily would have their “people,” the layers of staff they maintain between themselves and the press, routinely turn her down through regular channels would happily acquiesce at the dog park. Maxi would schedule her interviews first thing Monday morning, while the mutual doggie glow was still in the air. The most fun interviews were when she got the celebs on camera with their dogs. Jack Lemmon and Chloe, his big, beautiful, black standard poodle, did many interviews with her—Chloe would sit up in her own chair next to Jack’s.
This morning the dog park was less crowded than she usually found it, probably because it was not yet seven o’clock. And not a celeb in sight.
They’re all sleeping in,
she thought, just like she should be doing. But at least it gave her and Yukon loads of room to do their Frisbee thing, and she felt her body waking up with the exercise. Still, every movement was circumscribed by her recent injury. With each jump, sprint, reach, and stretch, she felt twinges of pain, and she knew Yukon, game though he was, did too. They were both a lot slower than they were two months ago, but getting stronger every week. Today’s workout had been a little less painful than last Sunday’s.
Rolling out of the dog park at a little after eight o’clock, it occurred to Maxi that this might be a perfect time to drop by Cedars and check on Sandie Schaeffer—Sunday morning, early, no traffic, and quiet. It was a fast six minutes across Mulholland Drive to her small house in Beverly Glen. She settled Yukon in the backyard, put a tub of water next to his Home Depot “designer” dog house, then jumped back into her weekend junker, a beat-up Chevy Blazer, and zipped down to Cedars at Beverly and San Vicente.
Turns out this
was
a good time for a hospital visit—she even found free parking, no charge on Sundays, at one of the meters around the rambling medical center.
In jeans, T-shirt, and running shoes, she skipped up the concrete steps to the entrance at Cedars, and without stopping at the desk she made her way directly to the Intensive Care Unit on the eighth floor.
Act like you know exactly what you’re doing . . .
When she got to the entrance, three white-coated doctors were walking out of the steel-and-glass doors of the ICU, engrossed in conversation. As they rushed past her, Maxi managed to slip inside before the double doors closed behind them. Maybe she should have asked Mr. Schaeffer for permission to visit his daughter. Then again,
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