Dog Training The American Male Part 9

Nancy sat up, bewildered. "This isn't a b.i.+.c.hon. A b.i.+.c.hon is a small, white foofie dog. This . . . this is a horse."

"Silly, it's not a horse, it's a German Shepherd. They're loyal and smart, and very protective. The cops use them to sniff out drugs."

"And I suppose you left your stash buried in my flower bed?" Nancy pointed over Jacob's shoulder where the dog was using its front paws to dig out a scarlet Bromeliad.

"Sam, no! Sorry. I'll replant that."

"Jacob, I don't want a big dog. How could you make a decision like this without asking me?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise."

"Mission accomplished. Now please take it back."

"I can't do that. Sam's owner abandoned him. If I bring him back to the pound, they'll gas him."

"That's not my problem."

"It sort of is. The pound closed twenty minutes ago."

Exasperated, Nancy stood, her cramps returning. Doubled over, she hurried back inside the house, slamming the front door.

Sam circled Jacob, wanting to play.

"Now what am I going to . . . owff!" Jacob dropped to his knees in pulsating agony, the dog having shoved its long wet nose into his groin, flicking his b.a.l.l.s up to his belly like a pinball lever.

I AM THE keeper of my own fate, emanc.i.p.ating myself from the self-imposed bonds of my gender . . .

Four Advil and forty minutes later, Nancy emerged from the master bedroom, her psyche re-composed, her temper cooled. To his credit, Jacob had dinner delivered and laid out on the kitchen table-the aroma of the eggplant parmesan momentarily replacing the overpowering scent of a kennel.

Jacob was already seated, her boyfriend's facial expression and body language showing submission. The dog was lying on its side on the linoleum floor by its metal water bowl, panting hot, humid tongue-laced breaths across the room.

Nancy stepped over the smelly animal and took her usual seat-only Sam's bulk was preventing her from pulling out the chair. "Can you do something about this?"

"Here Sam, here boy! Sam, come here!"

The dog refused to move.

Jacob shrugged. "Maybe he only understands German?"

Refusing to switch places, Nancy wedged herself into her chair. Still unable to move the dog, she pushed the table into Jacob's stomach, forcing him to surrender territory. "What time does the pound reopen?"

"I don't know. Tomorrow's Monday, I'm guessing nine a.m."

"You'll take him back in the morning."

"Which means he'll be ga.s.sed by noon. I'm Jewish, Nancy. Ga.s.sing innocent beings doesn't sit well with my people."

"Then drop the dog off at the nearest synagogue, I don't care. This smelly animal is not staying in my house."

"What if I bathe him?"

"No."

"If I bathe him, he'll smell just like a b.i.+.c.hon."

"When he's as small as a b.i.+.c.hon then he can stay. Tonight he sleeps in the garage."

"It's gotta be a hundred degrees out there."

"Then let him sleep outside, or in your van. I don't care, as long as he's out of my house."

"Our house."

"Excuse me?"

"You said it was your house. Technically, it's our house. My name's on the lease, too. I pay half the rent-that makes it our house."

"Fine! Keep the d.a.m.n dog!" More angry than hungry, Nancy attempted to push her chair back in order to stand, but the dog refused to budge. Maneuvering sideways, she managed to squeeze her way onto her feet, only to kick the water bowl, spilling half its contents onto her bare feet.

"Ugh!" She stormed out of the kitchen and back inside the master bedroom, bolting the door behind her.

Jacob went after her. He tried the door, only it was locked. "Nance? Can we talk about this please?"

She opened the door a minute later, shoving his clothes and toothbrush against his chest. "This is my bedroom, roommate. You can take the guest room. You can also do your own laundry. And cleaning. And cooking!"

She slammed the door- -the noise covering up the schlerping sound of eggplant parmesan being licked off Nancy's plate as Sam-standing on his hind legs, devoured the Italian take-out.

DEAD MAN WALKING.

The grayness of dawn peeled away the South Florida night in its humid vapor. A surge of traffic converged upon Interstate 95, forcing motorists to adhere to the speed limit. Trash trucks crawled through a maze of neighborhoods, their rear orifices squealing as garbage men in overalls fed the vehicles piles of refuse.

Monday morning. Rush hour and children heading off to school, Americans shaking off the remains of the weekend.

Inside the house with the uprooted scarlet Bromeliads, the sound and scent of dueling sphincters soured the air.

Stretched out on the La-Z-boy recliner was Jacob Cope, his pale hairy right leg curled over the leather arm of the chair. Stretched out on the sofa was Sam, the dog's hairy right hind leg mirroring that of its sleeping master-man and dog on their backs, their r.e.c.t.u.ms blowing farts to welcome the day.

At precisely seven forty-nine, the door to the master bedroom was unlocked and opened. Nancy emerged, dressed in her business attire. A meeting between the radio psychologist, the station owner, and the new programming director had been scheduled for nine a.m. sharp, and she would arrive on Vincent Lombardi time, if not sooner. All she needed was a cup of coffee, a cup of non-fat yogurt, and her Tory Birch flats. She had the right shoe, the left one was still missing.

Must be in the den . . .

She entered the kitchen to start the coffee, only to be greeted by a trail of feathers. Still a bit sleepy, she followed the goose down into the den -- her blood pressure soaring as her eyes s.h.i.+fted from her mangled throw pillow to the four-legged mongrel stretched out on her new sofa. "Get the h.e.l.l off of my sofa, you mangy mutt!"

Startled awake, Sam slunk off the couch, his tail tucked between his hind quarters.

Nancy turned to the two-legged mongrel snoring in the La-Z-boy recliner. "Jacob, wake up."

The s.h.a.ggy man belched in his sleep and rolled over on his side.

"Jacob!" Grabbing the remains of the pillow, she beat him over the head, feathers flying across the room like volcanic ash.

Jacob sat up, groggy. "Wha?"

"Your dog chewed up my good pillow!"

He rubbed his eyes, looking around dumbfounded. "You sure it was Sam?"

"Gee, I don't know. Maybe an alligator snuck in last night and . . ." Nancy paused, sniffing the air. "What's that smell?" Leaving the den, she entered the hallway . . . and gagged. "Jacob!"

Jacob rolled out of the La-Z-boy recliner to join Nancy, who was pinching her nose at the stench of the ceramic white tiled floor which has been cl.u.s.ter-bombed with smoldering brown blobs of doggy diarrhea.

Jacob covered his mouth. "He must have gotten into the eggplant. I'll get a mop, it'll be okay."

"It's not okay. Do you know why it's not okay, Mr. Y?"

"Who's Mr. Y?"

"Mr. Y is the tiny voice in every man's head that says, don't worry about how your actions might affect other people, just do it. Do you know where that tiny voice is coming from, Jacob?"

"From my d.i.c.k?"

"It's coming from your male ego."

Nancy pushed past him, returning to the den. She will grab her coffee and yogurt and escape this Monday morning speed-b.u.mp of aggravation. She will seek refuge in her car and listen to her Best of Enya CD. She will meet with her boss and the new programming director, excitedly accept their ideas for marketing her show, then devour a spinach salad for lunch before performing an amazing radio broadcast. In essence, the unflappable Nancy Beach, Ph.D. will use her willpower and emotional self-control to change what could have been a disastrous morning into a glorious day . . . only first she must find her other shoe.

Retracing her steps, she returned to the master bedroom and located the missing Tory Birch flat-in the dog's mouth.

Tail wagging, Sam stood in her doorway, the canine's teeth biting down on her prized leather shoe.

"Drop it now fleabag," Nancy growled, "or I swear I'll give you away to a hungry Korean family."

The German Shepherd dropped down on its front paws, ready to play.

"Not a chance in h.e.l.l," Nancy muttered, lowering her center of gravity.

The dog bolted past her . . . underestimating the tenacity of the seething Ivy League grad and former varsity field hockey goalie, who lunged sideways and tackled the kennel-reeking, four-legged, one-hundred-and-ten-pound missile of muscle and fur around its hips, her right hand reaching up to its mouth to secure the shoe.

Only Sam wouldn't let go, tug-of-war being far more fun than tag. Rolling out from under Nancy, the dog regained its footing and backed away in seismic two-foot jerks, dragging its unintended playmate with it.

Nancy refused to let go; years of Pilates having prepared her core muscles for this very moment. Balancing on her free hand and knees, she battled the hound like a mother fighting off a car-jacker attempting to drive off with her infant.

Rising to the challenge, the dog shook its head back and forth, saliva flying across Nancy's undone blouse-Jacob watching from the kitchen. He's a dead-man-walking, only he's unsure of what to do first-call the tile cleaners, the dog pound, or hurry to the bathroom and relieve his aching bladder.

With a guttural scream, Nancy called the end of the fight. She had fought valiantly, but the dog had the better leverage, its jaws far stronger than her grip. Releasing the shoe, she regained her feet and limped into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Still wagging its tail, Sam approached Jacob and dropped the shoe by his feet.

Jacob inspected the mangled tooth-marked entanglement of spit-soaked leather. "Hey, uh Nance . . . I got your shoe back."

THE CABOTS.

It was at 9:03 A.M. eighteen minutes past Lombardi time -- when Nancy frantically keyed in at the Lifestyle lobby. Ignoring the chocolate-faced receptionist's wild hand gestures, she made a beeline straight for her producer, Trish Kieras, who was waiting anxiously at the end of the hall.

"Olivia Cabot's already in the conference room with her father and Pistol Pete. Go!"

Nancy took a deep breath and entered the conference room.

Seated at the end of an oval walnut table was Olivia Cabot. The fifty-three-year-old CEO's face resembled a tan Kabuki mask, the smooth inanimate look courtesy of an early morning session of Botox. On Olivia's left was Peter Soderblom, the station's new programming director. Fair-haired and in his late thirties, "Pistol Pete" had been an a.s.sociate producer at KYW News Talk Radio in Philadelphia when Olivia had hired him away to run her radio station.

Three seats over was Olivia's eighty-two-year-old father, Truman Cabot. The retired millionaire and founder of Cabot Enterprises was preoccupied with watching Jeopardy on an iPad while slurping spoonfuls of green pea soup from a Styrofoam take-out bowl.

"Olivia, I am so sorry-"

"Sit down. Peter has something to discuss."

The programming director avoided direct eye contact with the perky blonde radio host. "I'll keep this short and sweet: In order to attract bigger sponsors, we're dropping sixty percent of our Lifestyle radio hosts in favor of syndicated talent. Starting Monday, you'll be replaced with Dr. Laura."

Nancy winced, the blow registering in her gut. "But why?"

"Do you mean Y as in my male chromosome or why as in why were your winter Arbitron ratings a point-oh-six?"

"I've only been on the air six months. I have some new strategies devised for the third quarter that should bring in at least a three point five."

Peter handed her a printout sheet. "These are results from a radio survey mailed to homes within the station's signal strength. According to listeners, you're not connecting."

Nancy scanned the paper. "Thirteen listeners? You're basing your decision on thirteen listeners? What about my Internet listeners?"

"The decision's been made." Olivia tapped her father on the top of his head. "Daddy, eat before your soup gets cold."

Peter Soderblom's cell phone rang, cutting off Nancy's Hail Mary offer to do her Internet feed topless. "Pistol Pete, never retreat." The programming director's expression dropped. "When did you figure that out? Yeah, well thanks for fisting me, a.s.s-wipe." He hung up. "Olivia, may I speak with you in private?"

"Let's talk in the lobby, I need a cigarette." Olivia turned to Nancy. "Stay here with my father. And do not give him any sugar."

Nancy waited until they had left before turning her attention to the old man. Truman Cabot had a reputation for supporting the underdog, provided they showed some moxie.

Moxie was Nancy Beach's middle name.

"Mr. Cabot, we haven't met yet, but I'm a big admirer of yours. My name is Nancy Beach . . . Doctor Nancy Beach." She extended her hand-retracting it as Mr. Cabot picked inside his ear, then smelled his finger. "I want something sweet."

The old man returned his attention to the iPad as Alex Trebeck read the next question. "Politics for one-hundred dollars: He was elected America's first black President."

"Who was George Jefferson?"

"Mr. Cabot, I'm the host of an up-and-coming radio show on your network called Life's a Beach. Given a chance, I just know our ratings will climb. Is there any way you might talk to your daughter and ask her to give our show another ratings book?"

"Got any chocolate?"