“No one said nothing about no dog,” said the weathered but kind-faced cabby who met us at Waterloo station. It had been an ordeal to import JP to England—blood test, microchip, health certificate—but rehearsals were about to begin for Wagatha Christie, a murder mystery pilot about a canine sleuth that JP had inspired when he single-pawedly cornered a burglar in our house. The production company had promised to book a dog-friendly cabby.

“Oh, I’m friendly enough,” Harry shrugged. “Got a dog myself … at home where she belongs, not slobbering in my taxi.” I assured him that JP didn’t drool. Harry raised his abundantly bushy eyebrows in a display of disbelief, and picked up one of our two suitcases. “What have you got in this, lead?”

“JP’s food,” I said.

“English food not good enough for him?”

I explained that JP had been raised on his vet’s vegetarian recipe and that he wouldn’t eat meat. Harry scowled. “He’s a mutt with a mouth, ain’t he? Put some of my wife’s pie and mash in front of him and see if he don’t eat that.” I had no idea what pie and mash was, but I shook my head. “Suppose you don’t give him fish, neither.”

“Nope.”

“Em, hm.” Harry grunted.

* * *

Harry’s taxi pulled up at our hotel every morning at 10 sharp, a sheet covering its back seat and deodorizers hanging from coat hooks. Pasted to the divider was the photo of a Bulldog with the word Sadie written in red across the top. JP would curl up and sleep soundly all the way to Notting Hill, apart from waking himself with the occasional sneeze—he’s apparently allergic to Heavenscent Pine Forest. 

* * * 

“Désirée can’t act with just anyone,” quipped Nicola Rawlins, the Teacup Maltese’s aristocratic owner, at the sight of us arriving at Holland Park. It was the final day of rehearsals, which had been reserved exclusively for the woman and her four-legged starlet. Désirée was sparkling white except for a black streak down her wildly teased mane. JP was totally disinterested in her, even after she rolled onto her back, the type of gesture he normally took as an invitation. “Désirée! Calm down. You don’t have to work with him if you don’t want to.” Nicola said, and smoothed her own tousled hair. Sharon, the executive producer, explained that I was the writer, and that JP was my muse, not an actor.

“Oh…” Nicola said, in an instant change of heart. With one hand she scooped up her dog, and with the other she took my arm. “I’ve been desperate to speak to you about some of Désirée’s dialogue.”

“She doesn’t actually say very much,” I said.

“That’s just it,” Nicola said, rubbing her nose against her dog’s and accepting her licks. “Precious,” she crooned.

“Couldn’t own a dog that slobbered all over me,” Harry said just loudly enough for Nicola to hear.

“Harry, how about taking JP for a drive?” Sharon suggested quickly.

“Em. Hm,” Harry grunted. “Don’t mind.” Harry had become more of a companion to JP than a driver, occupying him when rewrites proved too boring. I admit to feeling pangs of jealousy when JP would return from their excursions, tail up and wagging, with what looked like grass stains on his nose and paws.

We strolled around the manicured gardens and lawns of Holland Park to familiarize Désirée with the world of the story, and to convince Nicola that Désirée was not in danger from the caged goats and llamas of the park’s petting zoo … and that the co-star, her sidekick Great Dane named Monty, would not be getting more close-ups or screen time. With that reassurance, Nicola air-kissed me good-bye, and apologized if Désirée had offended JP—it was nothing personal, Désirée just wasn’t a dog’s dog. 

* * *

“What do you mean the Dane is double-booked?” Sharon said into her mobile phone. It was the first day of filming, and she had decided to leave everything to the director while we hid at a nearby café. “Where are we going to find another large dog that Désirée can act with…” Her voice trailed off as she looked down at JP dozing. Fearing that naptime was over, he sighed, stood up and stretched.

“What a profile!” Sharon said. JP yawned.

“What enthusiasm,” I replied dryly, knowing how blasé he was, especially when it came to pointless commands.

“We’re not expecting the next Hugh Grant,” Sharon said. “God knows Désirée’s no Julia Roberts.”

My protestations that JP wouldn’t be receptive to direction from anyone but me fell on deaf ears: Ever since the day when, on a previous production, Nicola shouted Cut! before the director, it was Sharon’s rule that no dog owners were to be present during the shoot. Sharon squinted at JP’s grass-stained nose, licked her handkerchief and dabbed at it. “I’ll get make-up to deal with that,” she said, and led JP off to fame.  

* * *

When I returned to my hotel room, my ears were still purring with songs from a Cats matinee. There was a small hump of dog beneath the quilt—no doubt it was JP, tightly curled up and depressed after his short-lived acting career. Before I could comfort him, the phone rang.

“JP is a natural! The brightest star in the firmament!” Sharon said.

“Really?” I asked, pride overcoming surprise.

“We finished early, so we had an assistant drive the dogs home.” Sharon said. Just then, there was a serpentine movement toward the pillows, followed by the appearance of two tiny paws and the fluffy head of…

“Désirée,” I said, prompting her to snarl.

“You’re not serious,” Sharon said. “Nicola will have kittens.”  

* * * 

“Thank God she’s safe!” Nicola cried when Sharon handed Désirée back to her. “How could this have happened?”

The guilty assistant shrugged. “The director told me to drop the cute one off at your house and the other one at the hotel.”

“Indeed!” said Nicola. “You fool! Not only did you deliver the cute dog to the hotel, but you left the Dalmatian on my doorstep without a lead! As soon as I appeared he turned his back and left.”

“Left! Where?” I asked.

Nicola went silent, obviously feeling less than intelligent herself. Sharon took the JP-scented handkerchief out of her purse and held it in front of Désirée’s nose. “Okay, Wagatha, where is he?”

“She only traces the scent of humans!” Nicola objected. But Wagatha, suddenly in character, jumped from her arms, and ran down the street. “Désirée! Come back here this instant!”

We followed Désirée down Holland Park Avenue for what seemed an unlikely distance for JP to have wandered on his own … straight to Sadie’s Pie, Mash and Eel eatery. Through the window, we could see Harry feasting. On one side sat JP; on the other lay an old, creased Bulldog—both were staring at him with hopeful but futile anticipation. An apron-clad woman appeared, leaned down to kiss Harry on the cheek, and set before him a large dish of what looked like snakes and potatoes swimming in a bright green soup.

“You taken the bones out of the eels?” Harry asked his wife.

“Don’t I always?” she replied.

Harry placed the concoction on the floor and JP’s snout was instantly immersed.

The door of the café opened as someone exited. Before Nicola could stop her, Désirée bolted inside, and dog-shy creature that she is, raced over to JP and kissed him with such fervor that she slipped into the soup plate, overturning it. JP jumped back, saw me and came running over.

“Ah!” Harry called out to JP. “He finally caught up with you, did he?”

“So this is where Harry and JP have been running off to,” Sharon said, and smiled at Désirée. “Well done Wagatha! Another case solved! It’s not grass on his nose, it’s parsley! ‘The Disappearing Dalmatian and the Mystery of the Green-stained Snout!’” Sharon pulled out her notepad and jotted that down. “I like that,” she pondered to herself. “Episode two…”

“Oh brilliant!” Nicola said. “Did you hear that Désirée? A recommission!” Désirée wagged her approbation, and, oblivious to the soaking green mess she had become, licked and pawed at JP with adoration.

JP returned to lapping up the spilled globules of mashed potatoes, bits of eel and parsley liquor, the latter being a recipe which, Harry claimed, was a closely guarded secret at all Pie and Mash establishments, handed down from generation to generation, in this case to Harry’s wife. Sadie the Bulldog looked longingly at her bowl, filled with nothing but her own drool.

“Whatsamatter Sadie?” Harry said. Sadie rested her slavering chops on Harry’s foot. “Dalmatian been nicking your dinner?” He looked at me sardonically. “Oh, couldn’t have been JP. He’s a vegetarian.”

I smiled in acknowledgement that JP is his own dog, and I’m just his sidekick. “He’s a mutt with a mouth, ain’t he?” I shrugged.

“Nothing beats parsley for a shiny coat,” Harry said.

“And nothing beats a mop for a shiny floor,” said Harry’s wife, who appeared from the kitchen. “You gonna clean up that slobber?”

Harry looked down at his feet, where a puddle had formed. “Now where’d that come from?” He feigned surprise.

“Couldn’t have been Sadie,” I ribbed.

“Em, hm.” Harry grunted.

 

 

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