Dog Training The American Male (30 page)

“Now, I know what you’re
thinking—you’re thinking, ‘get me out of here—this guy Zev is some kind of
nut.’ But the information I’m sharing with you is not some hokey conceptual
thought or theory, it comes from teachings that are four thousand years old.

“True story: When I was your
about your age I was living a textbook life. Beautiful woman, successful
business, big house, driving around in a sports car . . . you
name it, I had it. Then my son was born with an immune deficiency that was
undiagnosable. I spent six months sleeping on a cot in Jackson-Memorial
hospital while my infant was hooked up to machines to keep him alive. This went
on for years. I felt my life spiraling out of control. I felt anger toward the
doctors who had no answers. I found myself hating the Creator . . . 
what
did I do to deserve this, God?
I’m not a bad person. I’m not a drug addict
or an alcoholic. I’m not a criminal. Why won’t you answer my prayers?’”

Jacob sat up, finding himself
relating to the man’s angst.

“When my son turned six, we
attempted to enroll him in public school. Because he had spent the first years
of his life in a hospital, he had never learned to crawl. When a baby doesn’t
crawl, it doesn’t develop the strength or coordination to use its thumbs. As a
result, my son couldn’t dress himself. Because he wasn’t around other children
growing up, he couldn’t speak properly. No school would take him, the
administrators insisting he had to go to a special school for the mentally
handicapped.

“Again, I was devastated. ‘
Why,
God . . . why is this happening?
’ I was lost, full of
fear. A friend recommended I speak to a man who was teaching a course on
spirituality. The teacher told me I wasn’t a victim; in fact I was in total
control, only I was looking at things all wrong. He explained to me the reason
my son was placed in my life and exactly what I had to do to change the
situation. He also told me that I had to shed my anger toward the doctors and
school administrators, and especially toward God, that there was no one to
blame . . . that it was my anger that was causing me to
block the Creator’s energy, what he called God’s Light. Well, normally my ego
would have dismissed this teacher and his ridiculous advice, but at that point
I was so desperate that I would have listened to anyone. And so I listened, and
I began working on changing my consciousness. And slowly but surely things
began to get better, not just with my son but in my relationships, with my
health, and with my career. Today my son is seventeen and in an excellent
private school for normal kids where he’s a straight-A student. We bike ride
together, play sports together, and he’s become so physically coordinated that
he plays the drums in a local band. Instead of being institutionalized, my son
is enjoying a full normal life, all because I changed my consciousness and with
it, my perception of the challenges given to me. Challenges are opportunities, Jacob.
In the process of changing myself, I became someone who shared versus someone
who received for the self alone.”

“This ancient wisdom . . . is
there a book I can read about it?”

“There are books, there are
courses being offered at local centers and on-line. As a way of giving back, I
offer a free introduction called
Twenty-Nine Amazing Minutes
.”

Jacob smiled. “Twenty-nine
minutes. That’s why you wanted to talk to me.”

“And why Patel sent you to
service my computer, no doubt.” Zev searched one of his desk drawers,
retrieving a flyer with a Boca address.

 “Kabbalah?”

“It’s not what you think. Come
by. Meet a few of the teachers; see if you like what you hear. Meanwhile, think
of your life as a bank account—the more positive things you put in, the more
you’ll eventually get out. Just bear in mind that you may not reap the rewards
you sow right away. If that were true—if we were rewarded immediately after we
did something positive, then there’d be no such thing as free will; man’s
existence reduced to a dog performing tricks in order to receive a cookie from
his master.”

DOG
TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

Lesson Twelve: THE SHOCK COLLAR

Nancy arrived
home to find Spencer’s van parked by the curb, the dog trainer seated on her
front porch. As she approached, he shot her a look of consternation.

“Sorry I’m late, traffic was a
bitch.”

“Bitch . . . as
in female dog? I happened to listen to your show on Friday. Am I right in
assuming you’re advising your listeners to use dog training techniques to
domesticate their men?”

Nancy blushed. “Well . . . sort
of.”

“Madam, I’ve spent my entire
adult life working with both dogs and men, and based on my experiences the
canine is the nobler creature. Unlike humans, they are loyal to a fault, their
love is unconditional, their motives free of personal gain. A dog’s reward for
obedience is simply to have pleased its master.”

“A man’s reward for domestic
obedience is to be pleased by his woman.”

“Stop it . . . you’re
confusing the issue.”

“I thought the issue was
conditioning.”

“You miss the point. Unlike men,
dogs are receptive to training; what you’re doing is using deception to
overcome inherent laziness. The average American male would rather sit on the
couch all day; scratch his balls, and sleep.”

“Sounds like Sam before I had him
neutered.”

“My point is free-will. Man’s
first priority is to fulfill his own selfish needs. A dog’s loyalty is
instinctively to its pack.”

“Would you consider a frat house
a pack? Or a bar room filled with drinking buddies watching football? And
correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t a Sergeant-Major the Alpha dog of his
platoon?”

“Yes, but—”

“Have you ever performed for a
treat, Spencer? Ever peed on a tree or dry-humped a woman’s leg? Stuck you nose
in her groin? Chased pussy? Do you enjoy having your butt scratched?”

“Well, who doesn’t?”

“Be honest—have you ever
inspected your own bowel movement before you flushed?”

“What?”

“Ever pick a fight with another
man just to prove who’s tougher? Dug a hole at the beach? Howled at the moon?”

“Good . . . God,
I’m a dog.”

“You and the rest of the heterosexual
Y population. And, by the way, you should know that since I’ve been employing
dog training techniques on my boyfriend he’s been more content, less anxious,
and he’s lost weight. More important, he’s been more attentive to my needs.”

“Does he really inspect his own
poo?”

“He gives them names. Torpedoes
fire cleanly out the hole. Floaters float. Chunky’s have nuts, corn fritters
have—”

“Stop. I just ate
Taco Bell
for
lunch.”

“Ah, the Mexican toilet grenade.”

“Good lord. Is this boyfriend of
yours housebroken?”

“No, but he’s getting there. So
what’s on today’s agenda? This is a big week for me and I could really use
something new.”

“I’ve got just the thing.” From
his jacket pocket Spencer produced a black dog collar with a small built-in
two-pronged metal device, along with a thumb-size battery-powered control box.

“This is an electrical training
collar. Far superior than a choker or prong collar, the remote trainer
generates a small charge that will shock the dog’s central nervous system,
deterring any undesirable behavior for up to half a mile away.”

Nancy inspected the device. “It
really shocks the dog? That seems kind of cruel.”

Now it was Spencer’s face that reddened.
“Cruel? Nancy, cruel is deporting an illegal immigrant without his wife and
kids. Cruel is sending a National Guardsman suffering from depression on a
fourth tour of Afghanistan. Cruel is abandoning a six-year-old boy in the halls
of the British Art Museum for two hours while his father engages in a game of
‘Hide the Wienerschnitzel’ with a young RAF nurse in a janitorial closet. That,
madam, is cruel!”

“Oh . . . kay.”

Spencer took a long, deep breath,
calming himself. “My God, where did that come from? Don’t know why I
regurgitated that old steak bone. I suppose some things in our past are meant
to remain buried.”

Nancy’s eyes welled up with
tears.

“Oh, dear, what have I done?”

“It’s not you,” she said, biting
her lip. “My father . . . on his death bed—he apologized
for doing something to me . . . revealing a secret he never
intended to tell me.”

“Sweet Jesus, not another
instance of sexual abuse.”

“God, no. He apologized for
leaving more money to my sister, Lana. He said it was done . . . because
she was
his
.”

“I don’t understand?”

“He was inadvertently telling me
I was adopted. My parents never told me, I’m not even sure my sister knows;
we’re only a few years apart.”

Spencer gathered her in his arms,
holding her close as she sobbed against his chest. “A horrible way to find out,
still, it doesn’t change anything.”

Sam heard her from the backyard
and started barking.

“It changes everything. Unless I
keep it to myself . . . ugh, listen to that stupid dog!”

“Clearly, he’s attached to you.
Even though you weren’t his first owner, it doesn’t matter. He still loves you
just the same . . . as I’m sure your father did.”

Nancy broke into fresh tears as
she hugged him again.

“All right, enough . . . you’re
mussing my shirt up with snot.”

She laughed. “Sorry. You’re the
only person I’ve ever told.”

“And you’re the first person I
ever told about my father’s adultery . . . excluding my
wife and three therapists.”

“You’ve been a good friend,
Spencer Botchin.”

“And you’ve been a wonderful
surrogate daughter, Nancy Beach.” He looked up as Sam’s barking reached a
frenzied state. “What say we go around back and teach your dog a few manners?”

* * * *
*

“I’m telling you,
Helen, I’ve never
seen Sam so responsive. By the third shock he was heeling at my side like a
show dog.”

“He didn’t try to pull off the
collar?”

“Spencer said the shock is
instantaneous throughout the entire central nervous system, there’s no way for
the dog to pinpoint the source.”

“Too bad we can’t invent
something like that for my husband.”

“Why? I thought things were
better?” Nancy turned into the restaurant parking lot, waiting in line to valet.

“Vinnie treated a new patient the
other day—a twenty-two-year old platinum blonde named Tonja Davidson. Tonja,
who happens to be a cheerleader with the Miami Dolphins, just
loved
her
Gynnie Gusher so much that she recommended it to all her cheerleader friends . . . every
fucking one of them. Vincent is like a horny teenager with a subscription to
Penthouse
,
and all of Wanda’s wicked love toys won’t get him to even look at me.”

Nancy inched her car forward in
the valet line. “Helen, I’m sure it’s just a passing phase.”

“Yeah . . . so
is middle age. What’s the ungrateful son-of-a-bitch need with me when he’s got
naked centerfolds parading around his office like he was Hugh Hefner.”

Nancy looked to her right as the
valet approached—her eyes catching sight of a lighted billboard. As the man
reached for her door, she accelerated out of line.

“What are you doing?!”

“Let’s skip lunch; I just had a
crazy idea.”

“Tell me. I like crazy.”

She exited onto Glades road,
pointing to the billboard.

CUSTOM
ELECTRONICS

You
Design It - We Build it!

* * * *
*

The women entered
the store an hour
later, having bought two electronic dog training collars at the local
Pet
Supermarket
. They were greeted at the jewelry counter by a short
gray-haired Israeli man in his sixties, who gazed lazily at them from behind
coke-bottle-thick glasses.

“Can I help you ladies?” he said,
his accent heavy.

From a brown plastic shopping bag
Nancy removed the two still-packaged electronic dog collars. “We’d like you to
rig these electrical devices to a man’s watch.”

“Why? Are you teaching your doggy
to tell time?”

“Can you do it or not?” Helen asked.

“Pay me enough, I can do
anything. Where are the watches?”

Nancy and Helen looked at one
another, then searched the glass display case.

Nancy pointed to a large faced
watch. “That one for me.”

The manager removed the watch
from the case. “That’s a dive-master watch. Does your doggy like to scuba dive,
too?”

“The watch isn’t for my dog, it’s
for my boyfriend.”

“And you’re training him to tell
time? It’s a little cruel, don’t you think? You should try bribing him with
treats.”