Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(78)

“We don’t have any animal models.” Coop checks his cell phone. “And we’re running out time. You don’t like cats? What about the ferret?”

Uncle Doug sneers and puffs on his cigarette. “I think I’ll pass. The last thing I need is a feral weasel wriggling out of my hands and sneaking down my pants. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“The dog then,” Matt offers. “I’m not even a dog person and I think it’s cute. And you’d have to work really hard to get it down your pants.”

Uncle Doug picks a fleck of tobacco off his tongue. He studies it while seeming to consider this latest proposition. “What kind of dog is it?”

“A Maltipoo.” I slide Buttons back into her cat carrier. “He’s around six pounds.”

“Dogs are much more obedient than cats,” Uncle Doug says. “You have a muzzle for it?”

“A muzzle?” I move over to Jo-Jo’s kennel and take him out. He’s a gray fluff ball barely bigger than my hand. “I don’t think they make muzzles small enough.”

“Come on, Uncle Doug,” Coop pleads from behind the video camera.

“It’s pretty cold just squatting out here,” Leyna says from outside.

Uncle Doug gestures at me with his cigarette. “How well you got that thing trained?”

I place Jo-Jo on the floor and show my uncle all his tricks. Ballerina, play dead, flip, lie down, roll over. By the time we’re done, his tiny little tongue hangs from his mouth as he pants.

Finally Uncle Doug sighs and crushes out his cigarette. “Okay. But I want that beast to lie stock-still. In total submission. If he even flinches, I’m gonna hurl him across the room.”

“You will not,” I say.

“Okay, then, I’ll hurl you across the room. How’s that?”

“Fine.” I scoop Jo-Jo up and put him on the table. I get him to lie down and roll over. “Stay, Jo-Jo. Stay.”

“Look how adorable,” Matt coos.

Uncle Doug shuffles cautiously up to the table. “Yeah, that’s how they get you. Kill you with cuteness. Sucker you in and then go right for your nuts.”

I laugh. “I can guarantee you he’s not going to go anywhere near your balls.”

“You think it’s funny, but go ask any emergency-room physician how often she sees pet-incurred testicular injuries. You’d be mighty surprised how common it is.”

“Yes,” I say. “I would be incredibly surprised. Now, can we get on with this?”

We have to do at least a dozen takes of the scene because Uncle Doug is simply not believable as an evil mad veterinarian who experiments on animals. Sure, he looks the part. Big and gruff, hairy, rubber gloved, lab coated, and red eyed. But he’s barely touching the dog with the tips of his fingers, and his scrunched-up face completely betrays his absolute revulsion.

For twenty minutes straight, Jo-Jo doesn’t move a muscle. He is being such a good boy. There’s no biting. No scratching. No ball-sack lunging. Not even a whimper. Just a frozen little Ewok-faced puppy with his tiny furry paws stuck in the air.

“Look,” Coop finally says, his face red from frustration, “grab the dog like you mean it. You’re a vet, for f*ck’s sake. You’re not scared of animals. Just jab it with the needle and take the goddamn blood. You wanted to be in the movie. So be in it.”

Uncle Doug takes a deep breath. “Okay. Fine. I’ll do it. Once. But you better make sure you’ve got that camera rolling, because it’s the last time you’re going to see this.”

“Thank you.” Coop nods to Leyna and Hunter at the window, then hits the record button and points at my uncle.

Uncle Doug quickly grasps Jo-Jo by the belly and raises the collapsible hypodermic. “All right, you mutt,” he grumbles his dialogue. “Time to do your part in my grand experiment.” Uncle Doug cackles evilly, then leans over the dog and prepares to stick him with the needle. “I’m going to need a nice hefty sample from you.”

And, as if on cue, Jo-Jo sends a streaming spout of whiz straight into Uncle Doug’s face. Dog pee soaks his mountain-man beard and cascades down the front of his lab coat.

Leyna and Hunter bust into hysterics.

Matt and Coop’s jaws drop in sync as Uncle Doug leaps away from the lab table and unleashes the longest string of curses I think I’ve ever heard. He grabs a soiled rag from the workbench — which, truth be told, is probably way more bacteria laden than Jo-Jo’s pee — and swabs at his face and neck like a madman.

“YOU!” Uncle Doug points at me with the dirty cloth.

My eyes dart to Jo-Jo, still frozen in place on the table. He looks at me for some sort of guidance. Can I move yet? Sorry about the pee, dude, but he squeezed me like a sponge.

I have several options here. Run away and leave my dog to the mercy of my foaming-at-the-mouth uncle. Dart in to save him and risk being beaten to death with any of the numerous blunt objects — baseball bat, pipe wrench, bong — that are in grabbing distance.

Or try to reason with a raging zoophobe who’s just been whizzed on by a dog.

“It was an accident,” I try. “He didn’t mean it. You just spooked him. When you grabbed him so suddenly. He’s a little dog. He’s got a little bladder.”

“Not. So. Little.” Uncle Doug swipes at his face again with the rag, glaring at me, breathing heavily and loudly through his nose, like a speared bull that’s getting ready to charge.