Putting on the Dog Read Online Free Page A

seen—at least, outside a circus. The house next to it made Shawn Elliot’s place look like a starter home.
    A young man in a uniform flagged me down. He opened the door of my van and peered inside. “A veterinarian, huh?” he asked nervously. “Anything alive in here?”
    “Just me.” I hopped out and handed over the keys. “Take good care of it. It might look like a school bus with an identity crisis to you, but to me it’s a dream come true. Not to mention my livelihood.”
    “You got it, Doc.”
    I watched him drive it away toward the section of the football field-sized lawn that had been converted into a parking area. The area was already filling up with cars that probably cost at least as much as my mobile veterinary unit—and they didn’t even come with their own autoclave.
    I felt a pang of fondness as I watched my beloved vehicle bounce along the grass. I still experienced a little thrill every time I was hit with the fact that I really had my own veterinary business. Not only did my mobile services unit give me complete autonomy; it kept me from having to spend my days cooped up inside in order to live out my lifelong goal of helping animals.
    Of course, tonight my beloved van didn’t exactly blend in with the other vehicles crammed together on the grass. It really was the size of a small school bus. But instead of bright yellow, it was painted white with blue letters on the door:
    REIGNING CATS AND DOGS
MOBILE VETERINARY SERVICES
LARGE AND SMALL ANIMAL
631-555-PETS
    A nice contrast to the gleaming DeLoreans, the dignified Rolls Royces, and the low-slung Lamborghinis, I decided with pride. Definitely lends a little character to the place.
    As I neared the tent, I switched gears, suddenly obsessing over my choice of outfit for the evening. Since my fashion statement runs along the lines of chukka boots and my customized “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.” polo shirts, I felt a little strange decked out in a flowered sundress and a pair of sandals with ridiculously impractical two-inch heels.
    I was hoping that I wouldn’t stick out as much as my van, when out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of someone lurking in the shadows. Someone much taller than either a bulldog with an eye for the ladies or a half-starved black cat.
    Adrenaline pumped through my body as I checked around. But there was no one else nearby. I was alone.
    Paranoia , I scolded myself. After all, this is the Bromptons. Not exactly a high crime area.
    Almost immediately, someone leaped out from behind a tree, and I was blinded by a flash of light.
    For a few horrifying seconds, I couldn’t see. Then I realized what had just happened—and who was responsible.
    “You again!” I yelped. “How dare you?”
    The man I recognized as Devon Barnett scowled. “I thought you might be somebody.” Shaking his head disapprovingly, he disappeared back into the shadows.
    I just stood there, shaking with anger. I didn’t know which made me more furious: having been subjected to my second assault with a deadly camera of the day...or being written off as a nobody.
    Take deep breaths , I instructed myself. Don’t let some professional stalker ruin your evening.
    My heart was still pounding with jackhammer speed as I stepped into the tent. As if that wasn’t bad enough, bursts of light kept flashing before my eyes.
    But I forced myself to focus on what was going on around me. I realized I’d finally gotten to the “Glamour with a capital G” part.
    The giant white tent was just the beginning. Beneath it, on the grass, was the setting for an elegant dinner party, complete with huge bouquets of flowers, glowing candles, and strings of tiny white lights glimmering in the branches of trees that spurted out of huge terra-cotta pots. Dozens of round tables, each outfitted with place settings for eight, fanned out from a podium. An enormous banner printed with “Support the SPCA!” served as a backdrop for the stage set up in one corner. I took it