She was a paying customer. Wheezy needed training. And since the platform was on Caleb’s side of the yard, she was well within her rights. If anything, he was the one getting in the way of her opportunity to transform Wheezy into a star.

“I’m improvising.” She cocked her head at him. “Why? Don’t you like it?”

“What is it?” he asked, diplomatically choosing not to answer.

“This is how Ruby and I are going to get Wheezy his championship title,” Caleb said. “It’s a stage.”

Spencer sighed and scrubbed a hand along his jaw. “Yes, I can see that. What I meant was, for what purpose? You know as well as I do that the dogs don’t appear on a stage—they show in the ring. You’ll only confuse the poor animal if you make him prance around on this thing.”

“Wheezy is a highly intelligent animal and a natural showman,” Ruby retorted, feeling nettled. The stage wasn’t for prancing. It was for performing. “He only needs the right setting—a little something extra to light his theatrical fire.”

Considering that the dog in question was trying to bury his tree root underneath his own body right now, her theory was a hard sell.

“I didn’t give permission for this to go up in my backyard,” Spencer said.

“But it’s not technically in your backyard, is it?” Ruby glanced at the line separating them. Since now seemed as good a time as any to show how far they’d come in the training, she released a sharp whistle. The sound had the effect of causing Caesar to waddle obediently up, but Wheezy didn’t lift his head.

Because of course he didn’t.

She was about to make excuses for him—the trauma of the haircut, the deliciousness of the tree root, all that hammering sending his senses into disorder—but Spencer beat her to it. With his usual air of command, he said, “Wheezy, come.”

When the dog didn’t do more than twitch one of his curly golden ears, Spencer snapped his fingers and added, “Now.”

With only a mild grumble at being thus summoned, the golden retriever got to his feet and trotted over to his side.

“Wheezy!” Ruby cried. “You’re making us look bad!”

“Spencer does that at the office, too,” Eva said. “All he has to do is clap his hands one time, and the dogs just line up.”

“Don’t get too excited” was Caleb’s contribution. “There’s probably roast beef in his pocket.”

Whatever magic Spencer kept inside his pants remained a mystery. After offering some low-voiced praise to the animal at his feet, he turned his attention to Ruby. “You’re more than welcome to stay for the barbecue,” he said, sounding surprisingly like he meant it. “Caleb doesn’t seem to be doing much with your dog, so the least we can do is feed you.”