You can’t hurry love. And you can’t slow it down either. Love is capricious chance. If you’re looking for a Jenna Jameson, chances are you’ll end up with a Reese Witherspoon. It happened to me.

Not so long ago, standing in front of the mirror, I was tying my ascot and making ready for a swank party. Just when I was about to pinch my cheek and ask, “Who’s that good looking guy?” I received two phone calls that were about to change my life.
The first call came from a Doberman rescue spot out in Fillmore, near painter Jimmy Hayward’s ranchito. They were confirming my appointment for tomorrow at three.
It was time to get a dog. My Inner Child had been acting out and we felt the responsibility of a dog would slow the boy down. Also, we figured that a pooch was a lot cheaper than meds.
The second call was Grace. I was her date to the party and she was standing me up. Grace is a celebrity chef with a foodie-rave restaurant. Johnny Depp just made a surprise reservation for a posse of ten and Grace couldn’t miss the connection. I’ve been stood up in worse ways, for lesser pirates.

I was a little disappointed that I had to go to the party alone. I don’t like Gothic. Judy and Max Gherkin’s house is a modernist Manderley. It’s like Rebecca, with too many ghosts, hidden secrets and toxic minds. While their manse was designed for light and space, it hung more like Grey Gardens.
Judy is young and she is an eager new bride. Her recently enhanced bosom is now as ample as her inheritance.
The older Max Gherkin is a trust conservator who is successful at beguiling trust; it’s the state regulators who are not trusting him. Over dry and sallow skin, Max wears the cloak of the haunted.

Who was I to question where the money came from? The bartender was heavy-handed and the actors, subbing as waiters, never stopped passing the top-flight hors d’oeuvres.

As Max left with the excuse of getting more ice, he warned his new wife, Judy, that she better not go into the kennel for fear of roiling the dogs. She nodded obediently.
For kicks, Max Gherkin sports a kennel that breeds dogs for canine beauty pageants.

As soon as Max left, Judy brightened up and elbowed me in the ribs. “Let’s go see the doggies!”
With provisions from the bar, we hiked to the homestead of thirty-four little pups. The kennel was quiet except for the radio; it was tuned to a hardcore gangsta rap station that the dogs favor as a lullaby.
Judy and I stood before a wall of crates stacked five high filled with slumbering pups. Some were snoring. Some were stretched out while others were curled in a ball. A few were twitching nervously in their sleep.

In the middle of this snoozing canine sculpture, only one wet nose was wide-awake and pressed against the grate. The duct tape nameplate read ‘Unnamed Girl No. 2.”
It was love at first sight. The year old was looking up at me with eager eyes and a tail tempo that tripled the Jay-Z beat. She squealed with delight. Maybe I did too. Her love was requited. This was the cutest little dog I had ever seen. In my whole life. One ear stood up while the other lounged at half-mast. Her nose was a black button and she was smiling.
“What in the heck is it?” I asked.
“A tuxedo dog!" Judy answered, "A wire-haired fox terrier.”
“How cute! How sweet!”
“eh...Not really. They kill foxes---on a foxhunt. They have a lockjaw bite like a pitbull. Max says you yank the dog out of your saddlebag by their handy little tail and toss ‘em into the foxhole. They’re tough buggers.”
“Well then, Tally-Ho. I’m in love.”
“Really?” Judy asked, “Unnamed Number Two is the runt of the litter... And we are trying to get rid of some inventory…”
I stood a little taller, cleared my throat and said, “I can give her a name.”

Immediately I forgot about the Doberman. I had another dog to rescue. I guess, down deep, every Daddy needs a little girl to love.

The loud beating of my heart must have woken up the entire compound. Within seconds, thirty-four dogs were yowling, yapping and yodeling.
I started to laugh but Judy looked at me with some alarm. The caterwaul was funny but deafening; the dogs were trying to bark-out the other. It was madness.
Judy grabbed my arm. “Max.” The fear in her eyes was tangible...

In the next issue of Artillery Magazine, a small green leaf becomes a smoking gun, tragedy turns to triumph and trouble gets doubled.