Double Dog Dare by Linda O. Johnston

either would take on a film career, any more than my assistant Rachel would suddenly drop her day job with Critter TLC, LLC, to become a full-fledged star . . . I hoped. Even so, the show biz bug suddenly buzzed in my ears.
    And, fortunately, Odin’s injury was probably healing okay. He hadn’t chewed at it, and the bandage remained securely in place without appearing to bother him.
    Our drive to Valencia, home of Show Biz Beasts, was utterly uneventful. I saw no Escalades at all. Imagined no pseudo Jeffs piloting any other vehicle on the 5 Freeway, even though this was a primary route toward the engulfing aqueduct.
    The animal training facility was located in a fairly nondescript stucco building at the end of a fairly nondescript industrial park in which all the structures looked the same. In fact, if I hadn’t been given directions to head for Building B, I’d never have found the place.
    Or so I initially thought, until I exited the car and commenced traversing the parking lot with the dogs. No edifice besides Building B had barks and howls emanating from it.
    And right over the door hung a subtle sign: SHOW BIZ BEASTS. I’d arrived at the right spot.
    Lexie and Odin certainly seemed to think so, the way they planted their noses against the glass and sniffed. And sniffed. Until I pushed the door open and we all three strode into a small waiting room that resembled one in a veterinary office. The floor was covered in beige tile, the walls were painted a slightly darker neutral hue, the benches were pseudo leather, and a large sliding window proclaimed where the greeter must sit.
    I approached that opening and introduced myself to the twenty-something guy behind the glass, who said he was Larry. Unsurprisingly for a place like this, a dog sat beside him—a mutt whose heritage I couldn’t immediately figure out, but he was short-haired, long-muzzled, and a deeper beige than the walls. He immediately barked hello and rolled over. I laughed as he sat up again, watching me as if awaiting praise, which I of course provided.
    “That’s Dorky,” said Larry, who wore jeans and a white T-shirt that proclaimed Show Biz Beasts were the best. “He’s been in ten dog food commercials and a film for training firemen how to save pets’ lives.” The guy stood, drawing himself up to his not-so-tall height, but it was enough to provide some sort of signal to Dorky, who sat at attention. “Play dead,” Larry commanded.
    Dorky didn’t just keel over. His big brown eyes widened. He jerked as if shot, which definitely drew a sympathetic reaction from me. But the walls surrounding them prevented me from providing any help. And then Dorky groaned and sank to the floor on his side, eyes closed.
    “Is he okay?” I demanded.
    Larry grinned. “Okay? He’s the greatest. Okay, Dorky, play alive.” Sure enough, the dog opened his eyes, rose, shook himself, and sat panting—with an expression that suggested he was laughing.
    “He is wonderful!” I agreed, just as I saw Shareen Hayhurst come through the waiting area door.
    She looked less frumpy and middle-aged here in her work clothes. Designer jeans and a T-shirt similar to Larry’s somehow seemed more appropriate to her mussy blond hair and wrinkly face. Or maybe just being on her home turf suited her.
    “Glad you could come, Kendra,” she said, then knelt to greet the canines I’d brought with enthusiastic hugs, which both Lexie and Odin lapped up. “They’re sweet. What are their names?”
    I told her, and explained the fortunately minor nature of Odin’s injury.
    “Well, Lexie and Odin, you’re in for a treat—or hard work, depending on how you look at it. Come on.” She reached for their leashes, and the pups trotted amiably at her side, as if they’d done so dozens of times.
    Larry had brought Dorky in first. The well-trained dog sat calmly in a corner of the large room. Odd, how this place didn’t look like a soundstage from outside but essentially was one,