Dog Training The American Male (21 page)

“Tilda, stay.”

Tilda returned to her ready
position on all fours.

Spencer left the dog and walked
over to Nancy. “Tilda, come!”

Tilda raced over, then assumed
the four paw ready position at Spencer’s feet.

“Tilda, house!”

Tilda sprinted back to the van
and jumped inside her cage.

“Wow. I mean . . . wow!
I never imagined a dog could be trained like that.”

“That, madam, is what discipline
and proper training can achieve. No babying the animal, no bribing it with
cookies or any of that childish rubbish, just hard work and praise. Ready to
begin?”

“Teach me, Obi Wan.”

DOG
TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

Lesson Three: UTILIZING THE LEASH

Sam dragged Nancy
out of the house by his leash, the dog homing in on his would-be-bitch like a
bee to honey.

Tilda remained in her cage,
gazing at the big male with feigned interest.

Spencer took the leash from Nancy.
Gripping the chain close to Sam’s collar, he yanked hard, placing the dog in a
seated position.

The German Shepherd whined, but didn’t
move.

“Now pay attention, Ms. Beach.”

“Nancy.”

“Very well . . . Nancy.
All dogs descended from
Canis lupus
, the common wolf. As such, all dogs
maintain an inherent pack mentality, with each dog vying to find its place
within the pack. In Sam’s case, your family is his pack, and he obviously
believes he’s the alpha dog. That must change. Our first step, therefore, will
be to put him in his proper place using the walk. I see you have Sam on a
choker chain.”

“I was told it’s the best.”

“Yes. And I was told Saint Nick
climbs down the chimney every Christmas to deliver toys to all the good little
tots in the world—only my family lived in a fourth floor flat with bars on the
windows, rendering the entire story a load of rubbish. Prong collars are
better, but this will do for starters, the proper position for a choker collar
being high up on the dog’s neck, like so. Now watch what I do and say. Sam,
heel!”

Positioning Sam on his right,
Spencer walked to the next mailbox and turned around, occasionally yanking on
the chain to keep the dog close. “Good boy, there’s a good boy . . . heel,
Sam. Good boy.”

The dog trainer walked the route
three times, ending the exercise by putting Sam into a sit position.

“All right, Nancy, take command.
Remember, dogs can sense weakness. You are the alpha.”

“I am the alpha.”

“You are the alpha.”

“Please stop saying that.” Nancy
gripped the leash. “Sam, heel!” She walked, praising the dog while keeping him
close. She ended the drill as Spencer did, placing the canine in a sit
position.

“Very good. Now that we’ve
associated a voice command with the desired behavior, we’ll test the animal,
using discipline to correct any independent thoughts . . . or,
as I call it, separating the peas from the corn.”

From his utility belt, Spencer
removed a thirty-foot nylon leash, swapping it out for Sam’s short chain leash.
“Take a break
is the command we’ll use to allow Sam to wander off. When
we want him back we use the
heel
or
come
command.”

“What’s the long leash for?”

“Retrieving the dog. You don’t
expect him to learn without any corrections. Sam, heel!”

Spencer walked, Sam keeping pace
on his right. When they reached the next mailbox Spencer said, “Sam, take a
break” and stopped walking.

The dog looked back . . .and
continued walking, its pace increasing.

Spencer allowed him to wander away
a good twenty feet before yelling, “Sam, heel.”

The spell broken, Sam continued
to sniff the neighbor’s lawn.

“Sam, come!” Spencer yanked hard
on the long leash as he reeled the dog in, forcing Sam to double-time it back
to his side. “Good boy. Sam, heel.”

They returned, then repeated the
drill several times until Sam came back to Spencer on his own.

“All right, Nancy, now it’s your
turn. Always remember, you are the Alpha dog.”

DOG
TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

Lesson Four: THE STAY COMMAND

The two-tone
Volkswagen van idled roughly through the neighborhood, the sound muted from its
driver by the 8-track cassette blaring the Beatles’
The Ballad of John and
Yoko
.

“Drove from Paris to the
Amsterdam Hilton, talking in our beds for a week. The newspaper said, say what
you doing in bed? I said, we’re only trying to get us some peace . . .”

Jacob lowered the volume to
answer his cell phone. “Hello?”

“You’re a bad boy, Jacob.”

“Ma?”

“It’s Ruby. Why did you run out
on me Friday night?”

“Run out? I didn’t run out . . . did
I?”

“Yes, you did. We were in my
suite raiding my snack bar while I was in the bedroom, changing my clothes.
When I came out you were gone.”

“Mrs. Kleinhenz—”

“Ruby.”

“Ruby, you’re a stunning woman,
but I have a girlfriend.”

“Which I totally respect.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely. My interest in you
is strictly business—I want to manage your career.”

“Then why were you changing into
a see-thru leopard teddy?”

“I think best when my tits are
exposed. My investment banker and I meet every first Wednesday of the month at
the topless beach in Miami. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Jacob. Using my
God-given attributes is how I maintain an edge.”

“I thought they were implants?”

“That’s not important. What
is
important is that we meet tonight to discuss your next booking. Be at the
Improv Comedy Club at City Place at seven-thirty, I have a meeting set up with
the manager.”

“You do? That’s great. Should I
bring the George Bush dummy?”

“That won’t be necessary. The
owner’s a personal friend of mine.”

“Ruby, I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you own leather pants?”

“What?”

“Never mind. I just thought your
ass would look good in leather. See you in a few hours.”

He rode in silence for a moment,
then turned up the volume on the 8-track in time to hear: “
. . . the way
things are going, they’re gonna crucify me.”

“If Nancy finds out I’m meeting
with Ruby tonight, she’ll crucify me.”

* * * *
*

At
precisely 6:14
p.m. Jacob Cope entered his home. “Nance, I’m home.”

He placed the newspaper on the
shelf by the hall mirror and kicked off his sandals . . . retrieving
the shoes and the newspaper as Nancy approached with the dog, only the dog was
walking calmly by her side.

“Sam, heel. Good boy. Sam, take a
break.”

The dog darted to Jacob, wagging
its tail.

“Sam, heel!”

The dog hurried back to Nancy,
circling her until it sat, statuesque, on her right side.

“Wow. How did you do that?”

“Lots of practice.”

“That was amazing.” Jacob kissed
Nancy passionately on the lips. “Gotta change. I promised my mother I’d come by
and see her tonight. You don’t mind, do you?”

Nancy’s reaction was unexpected –
his girlfriend in his face, backing him up against the door. “Actually, I do
mind. We’ve been together three months and the woman still refers to me as the
shiksa
whore who stole her son. I also mind that you come home every night and
still leave your smelly shoes on my floor.”

She ripped the sandals from his
hand and tossed them down the hallway.

“Finally, I mind that the only
time you’re interested in me is when you’re horny.” She grabbed his Johnson,
squeezing it. “You want to visit your mother tonight? Fine. But this time you’ll
bring me with you.”

Sweat dripped from every pore on Jacob’s
body. “You really want to meet Ma?”

“Absolutely. Now put those
toe-jam festering shoes away and wash up for dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jacob fetched his
sandals and hustled into the master bedroom.

Nancy looked down at Sam, the dog
still seated by her right leg. “Let that be a lesson: Nobody messes with the
Alpha dog.”

THE
ALPHA DOG

Carmella Cope was
in the rec room, watching television from a wheelchair. Not because the
seventy-two year old’s sciatic nerve was bothering her (it wasn’t), or because
she wanted to give the
kibitzers
another opportunity to spread her C.C.
Rider nickname to the new arrivals (okay, partially true), but because her most
faithful son had just called her out of the blue to announce that he was on his
way, and Carmella believed an infusion of Jewish guilt was a B-12 shot for the
soul.

Nancy followed Jacob through the
lobby of the senior citizen complex into the rec room, immediately registering
a musty “old people” scent.

“There she is, in the wheelchair.
Ma, what’s wrong? Did you fall?”

“It’s my sciatic nerve, Jacob.
It’s been bothering me all . . . who’s the hell is this?”

“Ma, this is my girlfriend, Nancy
Beach. Nancy, this is—”

“You brought the hooker?”

“Stop it. Treat her with respect
or I’ll leave.”

Carmella grumbled, her mind
flipping through a mental Rolodex of responses.
Start with tears, the pain
and suffering from the sciatica unbearable . . .

Nancy pulled over a chair,
refusing to be intimidated. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Cope. I
must say, this is a beautiful facility.”

“What do you know? The food’s
horrible, and you should see how small the portions are. So fancy Nancy, what
do you think of my Jacob? Hung like his father, no doubt. Little Sammy Cope, I
used to call him. I’ve ridden saddles that went deeper.”

“That’s it, Ma. Come on, Nancy,
we’re leaving.”

“It’s okay, Jacob. Your mother’s
just upset because she has to share you. We have to help her learn to finally
cut the umbilical cord. Mrs. Cope, there’s two things you should know about me.
First, it’s not about the size of the saddle, it’s about the fit, and your son
fits me just fine.”

Jacob smiled—his grin quickly
chased away by his mother’s glare.

“Second, I’d never do anything to
come between you and your son. I happen to believe that—” Nancy paused, her
eyes locking onto an old man watching them from across the room, his face
familiar. “Would you excuse me a moment?”

Jacob watched as his girlfriend
made her way across the room.

Carmella blew her nose in a Kleenex.
“I take it back. She’s not a whore; she’s a conniving, manipulative witch.”

“She’s not a witch, Ma. Why do
you have to be so rude?”

“It’s my nature, Jacob. Your
mother’s old. Every day I feel death’s cold fingers creeping up my . . .”
Carmella shifted uncomfortably in her wheelchair. “Oh my.”