Dog Training The American Male (15 page)

“They did a nice job on the yard,
eh, boy?”

Ignoring the muddy paw prints on
the linoleum floor, Jacob opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of beer.
He searched through three kitchen drawers before he located the bottle opener. Prying
off the cap, he left the drawers open and the opener on the kitchen counter (as
a common courtesy to the next user), and searched the pantry shelves. Locating
the box of doggy treats, he tossed a bone to his tail-wagging companion and headed
for the den.

Exhausted from work, Jacob flopped
down on the leather sofa with the beer. Feeling between the cushions, he
located the remote control and flicked through the TV stations—Sam seated beside
him on the couch, the dog’s churning jowls turning the biscuit into a trail of
crumbs.

Suddenly alert, Sam bolted for
the front door, the dog’s howling chorus of barks greeting Nancy, who keyed in
with one hand, her other holding a steaming-hot takeout bag.

Suddenly alert, Jacob bolted for
the front door, his olfactory senses stimulated. “Hey, babe.” He kissed Nancy
quickly on the lips, “is that a Philly cheese-steak I smell?”

“From
D’ best Sub Shop;
took me a half an hour to fight through traffic.”

“Honey, you are d’best.” Jacob
reached for the treat—

—only to have Nancy snatch it
away. “Uh-uh.” She pointed to his sandals. “Shoes in the bedroom closet.”

“Shoes? Oh, sure.” He grabbed the
sandals, then hurried into the master bedroom, blindly tossing them into the
open closet—returning in time to find Nancy in the hall bathroom. “Wipe the
rim.”

“The what?”

“The toilet rim has pee on it.
Wipe it clean. Now put the seat down . . . good, boy (it’s
always important to offer verbal encouragement—animals can sense if their
owners are pleased), and what do we have here . . . a wet
hand towel, which I just washed and folded.”

Jacob attempted to fold and
re-rack the towel, but succeeded only in managing to mangle it through the loop
(some skills are gender-biased) and it was off to the kitchen.

“Jacob, look at this kitchen . . . Look
at the floor!”

“I’ll wash it, no problem.”

“Do you think you could close a
drawer after you open it?”

“Sorry.” He slammed the three
drawers shut.

“The can opener?”

Opening a drawer, he tossed the
can opener inside.

“It goes in the middle drawer
with the steak knives.”

He opened the drawer on the left,
removed the can opener, and deposited it in the middle drawer.

“Jacob?”

He slammed the two open drawers
shut.

“Well done.” Nancy pointed to one
of the kitchen chairs. “Sit.”

 Jacob sat, his mouth watering.

 Smiling to herself, Nancy tossed
him the cheese-steak.

OLD
HABITS

At precisely 5:57
p.m.
the next day
, Jacob Cope entered his home. “Nance, I’m home.”

He placed the newspaper on the book
shelf by the hall mirror and kicked off his sandals, leaving them by the front
door, the urge to pee overwhelming his five senses. Rushing into the hall
bathroom, he lifted the lid and seat and urinated, his eyes fluttering in
relief. Geez, that was close, the back teeth were floating.

 Shaking it twice, he tucked his
penis inside his boxers, zippered his fly, flushed, and rinsed the urine
sprinkles from his hands. Removing the neatly-folded hand towel from the rack,
he dried off, leaving the towel on the sink.

He entered the kitchen to find the
dog leaping and barking at the glass sliding door. “There’s my killer watch
dog.” Jacob let the dog in. Knelt to allow the German Shepherd to lick his
face, then grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge. Opening the middle drawer
(conditioning through repetition) he located the bottle opener and opened the
beer. Tossing the opener back in the drawer, he left the drawer open (in case
he wanted a second beer), removed a dog biscuit from the pantry and headed for
the den, Sam jumping on the sofa ahead of him.

Flopping down next to the dog, he
gave Sam the bone, then located the remote control—as the dog bolted for the
front door, wailing its greeting at Nancy, who keyed in with one hand, holding
a steaming-hot takeout bag in the other.

Right behind the dog was Jacob.
“Mmm . . . I smell Chinese food.”

“From
Uncle Tai’s
. Took me
forty minutes to fight through traffic . . . and what the
fuck are your sandals doing on the floor?”

“Oops.” Jacob grabbed the
odor-laced leather shoes, hurried into the master bedroom, and blindly tossed
them into the open closet—

—returning in time to find Nancy
inspecting the hall bathroom. “Seat up, pee on the rim and the floor – can’t
you aim that thing?”

 “Sorry.”

“And what a surprise – my
neatly-folded towel tossed in a pile . . . unbelievable.”

“Sorry. Hey, want me to set the
table?” He reached for the bag of Chinese food—

—only to be whacked on the head
with the rolled-up newspaper. “Sorry, Jacob, you don’t get rewarded for
negative behavior. Guess I’ll have to share this delicious dinner of jumbo
shrimp, egg rolls, and General Tso’s chicken with Helen—at least she’ll
appreciate it.”

Satisfied that her negative
reinforcement will make an impact on her salivating mongrel, Nancy left the
house, slamming the door behind her.

Confused, Jacob looked down at
the dog—bright-eyed, its tail-wagging. “Hey boy, wanna go for a ride to
McDonalds?”

* * * *
*

Vincent Cope had
just entered his gated
community when his cell phone rang. “What do you need now, Jacob? A loan for a
new sex toy?”

 “Advice, Vin. I just got into a
fight with Nancy, only I have no idea what just happened.”

“I’m not a marriage counselor, Jacob.”

“I’m not married.”

“You’re living with your
girlfriend – same thing.”

“Did Helen ever swat you on the
head with a newspaper?”

“Helen’s a yeller, not a hitter.
Wait . . .did you just say a newspaper?”

“Right on the head.”

“What’d you do? Shit on the
carpet?”

“No. I got a little pee on the
rim of the toilet . . .no big deal. Certainly no reason to swat
me or take away my dinner. She’s on the way to your house with my
Uncle Tai’s
.”

“Good, I love
Uncle Tai’s
.”
Vincent turned into his driveway, pressing the garage door opener. “Gotta run, Jake.
I’ve got twenty-eight minutes to eat, change my clothes, drop off Dylan at the
hockey rink, and get Wade to baseball practice.”

“Vin, what should I do about
Nancy?”

“Apologize.”

“Apologize for what? And don’t
tell me because God gave me a penis. God gave me a set of balls too, you know.”

“Enjoy playing with them by
yourself, dick weed. Nancy went out of the way to bring home your favorite dinner,
and all you give a shit about is yourself.”

“Listen, Vin—”

“No, you listen. Between your
neuroses and that dog, living with you is probably akin to being stuck on the
It’s a Small World
ride at Disneyworld. As your brother and a skilled
surgeon, my advice is to apologize to Nancy or else hide the kitchen utensils
before she gives you a second circumcision.”

Vin disconnected the call and
climbed out of the car, registering the soreness in his lower back and knees.
He had been on his feet working since eight o’clock this morning, and there is
no rest for the weary.

God had blessed Vincent Cope with
three sons—Wade (fourteen), Dylan (twelve) and Austin (ten), and all three were
heavily involved in sports. Thirty years ago when Vin was entering his teens, kids
athletics consisted of pick-up games in the backyard—sandlot football and
softball, street hockey on skates and half-court basketball in the driveway. If
you were good enough you tried out for the high school team; if you had talent,
you extended your playing career in college—otherwise it was intramural and
adult leagues. Whatever the level, you played because you loved to compete and
you loved the comradery.

Today, kid’s sports had evolved
into community-generated little leagues organized by adults who dreamt of their
offspring receiving college scholarships and a shot at the pros. Competition
began at age five and six—two mandatory practices a week, plus games. And if
your kid was good enough to make the travel team -- like ice hockey defenseman,
Dylan Cope -- then it was additional practices, plus weekend jaunts to Orlando
and Jacksonville—and God help the “lucky” parent if your kid’s team advanced in
the tournament. In the last year, Dylan had played in more hockey games than
the average professional in the NHL; Vin escorting him to weekend tournaments
in Minneapolis, Tampa, Las Vegas, and Toronto.

The exhausted gynecologist entered
his home through the garage. Helen was in the kitchen, stirring some kind of
red sauce-based concoction onto a plate.

“How was work?”

“Horrible. My last patient was as
feisty as an alligator and had more wrinkles on her twat than a bag of prunes.
I need to eat fast. What is that slop?”

“What’s the difference? You
either eat it or go hungry.”

“Pour a little rat poison in mine,
just for flavor. Where’s Wade? Baseball practice starts in twenty minutes.”

“He’s in his room, playing on the
Wii
. What happened with your brother? Nancy called; she’s on her way
over. Did Jacob ever get rid of that dog?”

“It’s complicated. He named the
dog Sam.”

Helen shook her head. “He’s
psychotic.”

“Who’s psychotic?” Nancy followed
Dylan in from the hall.

Vin spotted the takeout bag, his
stomach rumbling. “The
Uncle Tai’s
for a free Gynnie Gusher.”

“Make it two, just like the one
Jeanne had.” She tossed him the bag. “So who’s psychotic?”

“Your live-in boyfriend,” said
Helen, snatching the bag from Vin. “He named the dog after his father.”

“I thought his father’s name was
Friedrich?”

“That’s what our psychotic mother
told him when he was a kid.” Vin circled his wife, who was scooping the Chinese
food out of its cartons onto three plates. “Technically, that’s mine.”

“We’re married. I get half.”

“Vin, were you and Jacob close to
your father?”

“Jake was five when Dad left for
Desert Storm. The father I grew up playing ball with was different from the
soldier who returned from Iraq after losing both legs. When Jacob saw Dad in
the VA hospital, he freaked out.”

Amputees . . . 
“Vin,
Jacob said your father committed suicide.”

“Dad was depressed; he suffered
from post traumatic stress before the Army docs had even classified it. He was
home less than three months before he killed himself. We hid it from Jacob as
long as we could.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “So
instead, your wacko mother told him your father suffocated under a pile of
elephant shit? Exactly how does that soothe the blow?”

“The V.A. sent my father home,
not realizing he was a ticking time bomb. Jake and I were staying at our
grandparents the morning my father put a gun in his mouth. My mother was sleeping
in the same room when he did it.”

Nancy covered her mouth. “The
poor woman.”

“Ma skipped the funeral; she was
pretty traumatized. The elephant story was her way of protecting Jacob while
venting her anger at my father.”

“That’s an excuse, Vincent,” Helen
said, venom in her voice. “Your mother is nasty to everyone. I’m not speaking
to that woman . . . not after what she said to me on
Thanksgiving.”

Vincent sighed. “Okay, what did
she say?”

“She told me the reason you
became a gynecologist and not a brain surgeon was because you weren’t getting
enough sex at home.”

“Helen, the woman’s seventy-two
years old. Being raised Catholic you may not know this, but after the age of
seventy some Jewish women experience a debilitating neurological condition that
causes their mouths to disengage from their brains. We call these episodes
bubbameisters
.
It’s like going through a second menopause . . . sort of a
right of passage. Trust me, it’s best just to ignore them. Nancy, can you pass
me the duck sauce?”

She handed him the condiment. “You
know, Vin, I think your mother and I have a lot in common. I’m still dealing
with my own anger issues over my father’s death. Plus the stuff with my two
fiancés. It’s hard to trust again once you’ve been hurt.”

“You sound like one of my
patients,” Vince said, stuffing his mouth with shrimp. “She was married thirty
years when she found out her husband was cheating on her. Now she sleeps with
men half her age and livin’ life large.”

Helen grabbed his fork mid-bite.
“Would this patient happen to be Ruby Kleinhenz?”