Dog Training The American Male (20 page)

“It’s the dog. Sounds like he’s
chewing on something.” Jeanne opened the bedroom door.

Sam bounded out, an object in his
mouth.

“That’d better not be my shoe!”

“Oh my God,” Lana laughed, “it’s
a penis.”

“Oh, shit.” Nancy chased after
the dog and her vibrator. She managed to tackle Sam on the sofa where a tug of
war ensued, the device’s rubber testicles flapping in the German Shepherd’s
face, the canine refusing to let go—until Nancy managed to switch the vibrator
on, frightening the dog.

The radio psychologist slumped to
the floor, holding up the mangled sex toy. “Looks like my ex, Dan, after you tasered
him.”

The dog came over to lick her.

“Go away, I hate you.”

Jeanne helped Nancy to her feet.
“I’ll get the instructor’s number and call you.”

Nancy escorted Lana and Jeanne to
the front door.

Sam was waiting, wagging his
tail.

“Now what?”

“He probably wants you to take
him for a walk,” Jeanne said.

“Forget it.”

The dog barked, insistent.

“He’s smart.”

“He’s a pain in my ass,” Nancy growled,
searching for the dog’s leash.

Dusk. A late
afternoon rain shower has
cooled the South Florida air.

The dog led Nancy on its leash,
dragging her twenty feet before stopping to lift its leg to urinate, only to
continue another twenty feet before it stopped again to pee.

“Stupid dog. Can’t you just do it
all at once? Or are you just doing this to annoy me?”

Reaching the end of the block,
they followed the curbed sidewalk round a five foot shrub that bordered a
corner property when Sam suddenly became alert. The dog growled viciously,
showing his teeth.

Before Nancy could react, a man
in a dark blue running suit appeared. Startled by the big dog’s unexpected
presence, the jogger tripped over the curb, falling on his hands in the street.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry. Sam,
stop!”

The German Shepherd refused to
let up, growling at the Caucasian man with the buzz-cut red hair.

The freaked-out jogger regained
his feet and hurried across the street. “That dog is a menace! You need to do
something about that animal or I’m calling the cops!”

Sam remained tense, growling
softly as the frightened man continued jogging down the street.

“Bad dog! What’s wrong with you?
Is that why you were left in the pound?”

Sam looked up at Nancy, wagging
his tail.

* * * *
*

Nancy keyed into
the house in time to
hear the cell phone ringing in the kitchen. She answered it -- the dog slopping
water everywhere as it drank from the bowl.

“Hello?”

“Nancy, it’s mother.”

“Mom? Where are you?”

“Acapulco.”

* * * *
*

Three time zones
away, Sandra Beach
stretched out in her private tub of mud, fresh lemon slices covering her eyes.
“I’m staying at the Las Brisas resort as a guest of my new friend, Fahd
Al-Khatani.”

“You’re dating an Arab?”

“He’s a Saud and he’s charming.
We met on the cruise ship; he saw me whack my Chinese man-friend with a badminton
racket and said he had to have me.”

“Mother!”

“Relax. He’s not kidnapping me . . .”
She peeked out from behind a lemon peel, “are you kidnapping me, Fahd?”

The naked mocha-skinned man in
the next mud tub over laughed. “Not yet, Sandra.”

“Fahd says not yet. So darling,
are you pregnant?”

“God, no. Why would I be
pregnant, mother, I’m not even married.”

“Who cares? It’s been thirty
years since I held an infant in my arms, now be a good daughter and make me
some grandchildren. I’d ask Lana, but your sister’s ovaries are as useless as
tits on a bull. Tits on a bull . . . that pretty much
describes Jan.”

“Jeanne. And I’m not ready for
kids.”

“Well, when do you think you
might be ready? You’re not getting any younger. Your biological clock’s ticking
faster than a Muslim’s vest . . . no offense, Fahd.”

“None taken, my sweet.”

The dog barked, wagging his tail
as he charged out of the kitchen to greet Jacob.

“Mom, I gotta run. Call me in a
few days . . . just so I know you’re not being held
captive.” She hung up as Jacob flopped down in one of the kitchen chairs,
exhausted.

“You look tired. How was work?”

“Lousy. I hate Saturday shifts.”

“How did it go last night?”

“The gig? Not well. My material
wasn’t quite suited for my audience.”

“You didn’t get home until three
in the morning.”

“I got into an argument at the
bar with Rush Limbaugh.”

“Rush Limbaugh was there?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking of using him
as my next dummy. You can pretty much say any stupid shit and get away with it
if you’re Rush Limbaugh.”

“What happened with Ruby
Kleinhenz?”

Jacob averted her eyes. “Nothing.
She hosted the event, I barely saw her. Anyway, the fence is paid for, so
that’s that.”

“Good thing, too. Your dog
attacked a neighbor tonight.”

“What?”

“I took Sam out for a walk and he
growled at a jogger. He would have bitten him had I not had him on a choker
chain.”

“Maybe the guy startled him?
Maybe Sam was protecting you?”

“The man was jogging, Jacob. Your
dog went after him. Just remember what I told you. Sam’s on probation. If he
goes after anyone else you’ll have to get rid of him.”

SPEED
BUMPS

Nancy stood at the dais, gazing
around the lecture hall. From a high of several hundred attendees, her weekly
W.O.M.B. “rebirth sessions” had dwindled to less than fifty. And the lukewarm
energy exuded in today’s session did not bode well for next week.

Desperate for answers, she decided
to skip the last workshop and find out why things were going south.

“Ladies, tell me what’s
happening. Why is our attendance dropping? Is it mornings? Would it be easier
if we held an evening session, say around eight o’clock?”

A few murmurs. And then a white
woman in her fifties stood, egged on by her two companions. “For me, mornings
are better. The problem I think a lot of us are having is with your advice. It
works for a few days, maybe a week, and then things start to revert. My
husband’s great right before we go at it, but a few hours later he’s back on
the couch while I’m cleaning out the pantry. I can’t be licking his balls
twenty-four/seven.”

A few ladies applauded in
agreement.

Another woman stood. “I’m tired
of always pleasing my Y. Why can’t he please me?”

“By
please
, I assume you
mean sexually?”

“Hell, yeah. Why should I be the
one always trying to get him off? I’d trade a good orgasm and a back rub for
him screwing up my laundry any day.”

The other women nodded and
applauded.

Nancy held up her hands,
desperate to stave off the anarchy. “You can have that. You can have it all. A
man who wants to please you; a partner who speaks to you with respect. Next
week we begin the real training, ladies—the serious stuff that will turn your
Ys into Stepford husbands and boyfriends and fiancés. Best of all, if you bring
a friend there’s no charge for you or your guests. In fact, next week’s session
is absolutely free to everyone, because you’re going to be so excited about
what I’ll be revealing and how it will change your lives that you’ll gladly pay
double in two weeks. A preview of what’s to come will be delivered on my radio
show this week, so keep listening. Sound good? Yes?”

Mild applause. A few encouraging
nods.

Nancy ended the session, then
hustled to the exit to say her good-byes.

Pete Soderblom was the last one
in line. He smiled, wiggling his index finger in the direction of her breasts.
“Beep . . . beep . . . beep.”

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“It’s my bullshit detector. Your
ship’s sinking fast, Dr. Nancy, and you haven’t a clue how to fix it.”

“You’re wrong. This was nothing
more than a speed bump. You watch—after next week it’ll be standing-room-only
again.”

“Hope you’re right because I
spoke to Dr. Laura’s agent this morning . . . he sounded
real anxious to sign a syndication deal.”

“Don’t—” Her cell phone
reverberated with a new text:

NANCY—DOG TRAINER’S NAME IS
SPENCER. CALL HIM AT

551-236-6879. TELL HIM I REFERRED
YOU. KISSES.—JEANNE

“Ha! Speak of the devil. That was
my relationship expert assuring me we’ll be getting together this week to
organize our new training . . . I mean, strategy. You
watch—by the time I’m done, Dr. Laura will be blurbing
my
book . . . on
your station, of course.”

SPENCER

The white van
labeled K-9 KINDERGARTEN wove through the neighborhood, parking curbside at the
designated address. Climbing out of the vehicle was a lanky Englishman in his
mid-sixties, with a salt-and-pepper colored mustache and short-cropped hair,
dressed from his cap to his army boots in desert camouflage. Striding up the
driveway to the front door, he paused, tilting his head like an engaged canine
to hear the dog barking out back.

Good hearing, though certainly
not great. Lacks training. Too deep to be a Poodle or Bearded Collie. My guess . . . German
Shepherd. And a lazy one at that.

Proceeding to the front door, he
knocked, then stood at ease with hands behind the small of his back.

Nancy opened the door.

“Ms. Beach? Sargent-Major Spencer
Botchin, retired. Formerly of the British Canine patrol, reporting as
requested. German Shepherd?”

“Thanks, but I already have one.”

“Indeed. By its bark I’m guessing
a male, forty-nine to fifty kilos . . . about a hundred and
ten pounds.”

“I’m impressed. Would you like to
come in, or can you train him psychically?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind. Please come in. He’s
had a little training already. He can sit and give you his paw.”

Spencer was incredulous. “Sit and
give his paw? What’s next? Balancing on a high-wire while carrying an
umbrella?”

“No. I just meant . . .”

“Never mind all that. Show me the
dog.”

Nancy led him through the house
to the kitchen where Sam was leaping at the sliding glass door.

“Ah, yes . . . I
see he’s mastered the scratching at the back door trick.”

“That’s why I called you. Should
I get his box of treats?”

“Treats? My dear Ms. Beach, this
is a German Shepherd, an animal of extreme intelligence, bred to serve man. I
don’t know who the devil trained it, but if it were up to me, they’d be drawn
and quartered! Come.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come. With me. Quickly.” Spencer
led her back out the front door and down the driveway to his van. He opened the
rear doors, revealing a cage holding a fearsome German Shepherd. Twenty pounds
lighter and not nearly as bulky as Sam, the dog barked viciously, its snout
curled back, exposing every fanged tooth.

Spencer unlocked the cage,
sending Nancy backing away in fear.

“No worries, she’s trained to
respond that way. Tilda, come!”

Tilda jumped down from her cage
and sat on all four paws by Spencer’s right heel, the dog’s weight on its feet,
not its belly, the snarling personality completely doused.

“We call this the ready position.
From here, we’ll proceed with a small demonstration.” Spencer walked down the
sidewalk alone. Fifty feet away, he yelled, “Tilda, heel!”

Tilda sprang to her feet and
hustled to Spencer’s right flank.

 The trainer walked toward Nancy,
the dog keeping pace. When Spencer turned, the dog turned with him. When he
stopped the dog stopped – all without looking.