Page 1 of Men or Paws

ChapterOne

Rocco

I was tempted to have my dog’s DNA tested to see if he was part goat. Not only was he a paper aficionado, he also had an affinity for head-butting. Unfortunately, my privates tended to be where the bullseye was located and, let’s just add, he very rarely missed his target.

“Houdini—drop that script,” I commanded.

The dog morphed into Robert De Niro, stopping for the briefest of moments to squint his eyes and give me a sideways look that appeared to be saying,You talkin’ to me?

That’s what I get for spoiling him rotten.

He knew he could get away with murder.

Houdini got back to work, pinning the sitcom pilot script to the kitchen floor with his left paw while tearing off one page after another with his teeth. He finally stopped and hocked up a piece of paper, a look of disgust on his face like he had eaten some bad kibble.

I shrugged. “You did better than me. I couldn’t make it past the fifth page on that one.” I stroked Houdini’s coat along the length of his back, then brushed some of his cream-colored hair off my black pants. “I know you’re bored, but I do need to work, buddy. Go outside and play.”

He gifted me one of his patented golden retriever smiles, like going to explore the great outdoors would be just as fun as playing with his squeaky squirrel. I was certain he was yanking my chain since he usually didn’t go outside unless I went first.

I slid open the screen door that led to the backyard.

Naturally, Houdini didn’t budge.

“Okay then . . .” I closed the screen door, but not before peering out at the pool.

Another swim sounded great, but I needed to focus on more important things.

Like my future.

It was time to make some big changes in my life. Well, one change, actually, even if it was on the enormous side. One that would surely get Hollywood talking.

Speaking of that . . .

My phone rang and I eyed the caller ID.

It was Oliver, my friend and agent.

I plopped down on the leather couch in the family room and answered the call. “You should be snorkeling or eating roasted pig instead of calling me. What do you want?”

“I love you too,” Oliver said without missing a beat. “How many scripts have you read?”

“No comment.”

“Give me a ballpark number, that way I’ll know if it was a mistake to go away.”

“It wasn’t a mistake. I read eight scripts. And the only person who would benefit from one of those being made into a TV series is an optometrist because their business would boom from the barrage of eye-rolling injuries.”

Oliver laughed. “It’s your own fault. I told you to let me weed out the bad ones for you when I got back. Why won’t you let me do my job?”

“Why won’t you just enjoy your vacation?” I countered.

Oliver was in Hawaii with his girlfriend.

“Occupational hazard,” he answered. “My success is directly connected to your success. It’s hard to let go when I don’t know what you’re up to. Hey, what would you think if I had baby monitors installed in all the rooms in your house?”

I laughed. “I would think you’re a freak. Quit being paranoid. You act like I’m going to choose the wrong project, thus killing your career and forcing you to live on the streets.”

“It sounds odd when Rocco Romano, the Bad Boy of Hollywood, uses the wordthusin a sentence. Careful talking like that in public.” Oliver chuckled. “Anyway, if my career implodes, I would just move back in with my parents at the age of forty and become the laughingstock of Hollywood.”