Life on the Leash

by Victoria Schade

  “I think we’ve got it,” Rachel said, resting her camera on her shoulder after about ten minutes of shooting, when the dogs had tired of modeling.

  Fritz fell onto his side, and Daisy plopped down facing him, placing her front paws on top of his. Lucy was already on her back between them, indelicately splayed with all four paws pointing in opposite directions.

  “Wait!” Rachel said quietly as Cora started to stand. “I see one more shot. Lie down in between them and look up at me.” She grabbed a step stool and moved it closer so that she was looking down on the resting dogs.

  Cora tiptoed among the dogs and positioned herself on the floor amid the sleeping scrum. She pulled Lucy next to her so that the fat little dozing dog was on her back nestled into Cora’s side. Daisy sighed and adjusted herself so that the top of her head rested against Cora’s cheek, and Cora reached back and snaked her arm around the dog’s shoulder. Fritz, suddenly possessive, placed his big square head on Cora’s chest and reached his paw across her body, as if to hug her. Cora took his paw in her other hand.

  The effect was a canine version of Yoko and John’s iconic Rolling Stone cover, with the three dogs flanking her at every angle. Cora closed her eyes and surrendered to the sleepy sweetness surrounding her while Rachel snapped away above them.

  “Perfection,” Rachel murmured. “Okay, I promise now we’re truly done.”

  Cora sat up and the dogs barely stirred. She gently stroked Lucy’s pink belly. “I can’t thank you enough for doing this. May I peek?”

  Rachel handed her the camera, and Cora was stunned by the final images of the day. The initial photos of them sitting at attention looked professional and adorable, but the last few shots were something else entirely. They actually radiated the love Cora felt for all dogs.

  “You are an artist, Rachel. These are amazing.”

  “Aw, you’re gonna make me cry! It’s easy to take great photos when you have subjects like you guys. That was pretty magical.”

  Wade interrupted, “All right, all right, enough of the sobfest. We’ve got more work to do. Cora, come here.” He beckoned her over to his computer. “Check this out.” He pushed a button and suddenly Cora’s face filled the screen—her impromptu on-camera training session with Daisy.

  “Oh my God, turn it off!” she screamed, hiding her eyes.

  “Deal with it. If you’re serious about doing this you’re going to have to learn to critique yourself.”

  Cora peeked from behind her hands and saw that Wade had filmed some additional footage of Daisy, so the shots of her talking to the camera were supplemented with close-ups of Daisy’s attentive face. He also added music and graphics, so the casual three minutes of footage they had filmed off-the-cuff now looked like a professional training piece. The clip ended with a screen showing Cora’s full name, e-mail address, and phone number.

  She was dumbfounded. “That’s amazing—you made me look like I know what I’m doing. Why . . . why are you doing all of this? Why are you guys helping me so much? Can I pay you? Can I give you free dog training for life?”

  Wade smiled. “Oh, we’re definitely taking you up on the free dog training. But it’s no big deal to do this stuff. I edited that footage while you guys were taking the photos. This kind of project is fun for me . . . I deal with boring stuff in my real job. Dogs are easy! Plus I had a mentor who did something similar for me way back when. I’m paying it forward.”

  “And you gave me a reason to pick up my good camera again,” Rachel added. “Now that the twins are in preschool maybe I’ll get back to my photography. I used to be so creative, but now there’s barely enough time for me to brush my teeth. You did me a favor!”

  “I’m just so honored by all of this. Really . . . thank you.”

  “We’re not done yet. Let’s pick your favorite photo. Wade gave me strict orders that you’re not to leave until you’ve submitted your stuff.”

  Cora was incredulous. “You mean you want me to send it right—”

  “Now,” Wade interrupted. “You’re already late submitting, let’s get this train moving. The clip is done. The photos are done. We’re sending it off. Today.”

  Rachel popped the memory card into her oversize computer and the photos filled the screen. They quickly narrowed their choices down to two favorites, one of the images of the dogs sitting next to Cora, each with a tilted head and happy expression, and one of the final images of the day with the dogs dozing around her.

  “They’re both so different. How can we choose?” Cora asked.

  “I have a favorite. Wade, what about you?” He walked over to the screen and stood next to Rachel.

  “I have a favorite, too. No question.”

  Cora stared at the images. One looked professional and typical—she had seen similar shots on other trainers’ websites. The other looked like art.

  “It might be risky, but I like the sleepy one. I love it because it’s not all about me . . . it’s about . . . relationship.”

  “Me, too!” Rachel and Wade said simultaneously. Wade offered Cora a high-five.

  “This photo alone should at least get you an audition.”

  “Is the mutual admiration society done with the meeting? Let’s get this bad boy submitted,” Wade said, ever the taskmaster. “Log in to your e-mail on my computer.”

  Cora sat down at his desk. “I’m so nervous!”

  She looked at Rachel and Wade, and they nodded encouragingly at her. Fritz made his way over to where she sat and rested his head on her knee, offering his support as well.

  “Wish me luck, everybody.”

  She held her breath, closed her eyes, and pushed send.

  TWENTY

  * * *

  Fritz walked slowly through Rock Creek Park, seeking out the shady stretches and panting, as if he’d just run a few miles. Springtime in DC was unpredictable, with typical temperate days intermixed with sweltering hints of the summer to come. The sun was warmer than Cora expected, and she worried that she and Fritz might have overdone it during their Sunday meditation stroll. Sometimes his gait showed his age, and even though her vet told her that he was in great shape for a senior, Cora still worried about him constantly.

  Cora tried to be fully present during their Sunday walks, but when she found a shady patch and sat down next to Fritz, she couldn’t resist checking her phone just once. An e-mail from the Rescue League highlighting the at-risk dogs in the shelter in need of foster homes tugged at her heartstrings.

  She hadn’t fostered a dog since she and Aaron broke up. She missed it, though, and guessed that Fritz did as well. He was always a gracious host to the dogs passing through their home, welcoming the new dogs with the finesse of an ambassador and helping build their confidence through gentle play and companionship. She looked over at him and asked, “Want to save a life, Fritzy?”

  Cora scrolled through the dogs’ photos in the e-mail. Every single one looked adorable, and her heart broke that she couldn’t take them all in. She wrote post after post on ChienParfait about how wonderful shelter dogs were, and that they weren’t broken or damaged. Now she felt like she had to work overtime to undo the Ershovich damage. She wrote about how easy fostering was, and how rewarding. She followed up with her fosters once they were in their forever homes and told their new stories of happiness, easy living, and friendship, always including heart-tugging before-and-after photos. But she was blogging into the abyss; each post received only a few hits.

  She kept scrolling through the e-mail until a face stopped her in her tracks. The dog had short light blond fur with a subtle white mask, a liver-colored nose, and a light brown spot on the top of her head nestled in her impressive worry wrinkles. Her origami ears were pointy with the tips folded down, as if they never quite made it to a full point during her puppy growth spurt. Her muzzle was puffy, which made her look like she had a little shar-pei in her. Her head was tilted to the side in the picture, as if the photographer had just asked her a question she couldn’t answer. Ther
e was something in her face that Cora couldn’t resist.

  The dog’s description was all too familiar. “Josie is an owner surrender. She’s an adorable young pocket pit mix, weighing in at only forty-three pounds. She’s a snugglebug and she loves everyone she meets, including other dogs, children, and cats. She knows how to sit, and she takes treats very gently. Josie isn’t doing well in the shelter environment. The shelter is almost at capacity, and we’re in desperate need of foster homes. Please consider helping Josie.”

  Fritz nuzzled Cora’s hand, as if giving his approval. “Should we?” she asked him. Finding a foster was almost like falling in love at first sight, and Cora was powerless when it happened. She dashed off a quick text to her friend Abby, who volunteered at the League, to get the behind-the-scenes scoop, and discovered that Josie would be a perfect fit.

  Cora texted Maggie, knowing what her answer would be but asking anyway as a courtesy. Maggie was always a doting Auntie to Cora’s temporary lodgers.

  Cora put her phone down and rubbed Fritz’s shoulders. She hoped that a part-time new buddy would put the pep back in his step. He had slowed down suddenly since their last foster, and she hoped that bringing a dog like Josie in would liven him up again.

  She leaned over and kissed him. “Off we go, bud. Let’s walk.” He stood up and shook his body off, and they headed back to the main path. They spotted a dog in the distance, and Fritz’s tail immediately started wagging in anticipation. Cora nodded. “Yup, I think Josie is just what you need, boy.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  * * *

  Cora had only been in the Feretti household for ten minutes and already things were going to hell.

  “What do you mean by ‘they need more exercise’?” Simone Feretti asked, sounding incredulous and defensive at the same time.

  Cora watched the two sleek German shorthaired pointers chase each other through the spacious living room, trying to figure out a way to gently express her concerns without further angering her new client.

  “I’m sure you know that these dogs are bred to hunt and retrieve for hours,” she began. “If they don’t get a ton of brain and body exercise every day, you end up with . . . this.” Cora gestured to the canine scrum at her feet, which was grappling close to an end table crowded with candlesticks. The dogs’ dark brown heads and chocolate chip–spotted coats blended seamlessly into the Feretti décor, their streamlined elegance a fine complement to the calming tans and creams in the room. Their temperament, however, was anything but.

  Simone’s forehead remained an expressionless expanse, though it was clear that she was furious with what she was seeing. The kicked-up edges of the Oriental rugs and jostled throw pillows were more than she could take. Her sleek blond bob trembled as she watched her dogs wreak havoc in her picture-perfect life.

  “Hunter, OFF!” Simone shouted. “Blade, stoy! Stoy!”

  Cora cringed when Simone invoked Ershovich’s seething Russian correction. The bastard was everywhere.

  “When are you going to take them outside and start training them?” Simone asked. “They’re destroying my house.” A thin, twisty vein began to bulge in the center of her forehead.

  “Actually, you and I are going to train them together, as a team,” Cora replied as color flooded her cheeks. She tried to envision how a woman with a flotilla of household staff would interpret the word team. “It’s important that Blade and Hunter develop that bond with you. And we’ll be working inside for the whole hour today.”

  Simone leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. The woman’s lack of emotion was throwing Cora off her game. There was nothing for her to grab onto to make a connection with Simone, no scrap of pleasantry that she could spin into camaraderie. Cora’s success depended on building relationships with both the dogs and the people, and Simone wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

  “This should keep them busy while we talk,” Cora said as she handed each dog a bone from her bag. She circled back to her initial point, hoping that Simone might fill in the blanks about their unusual household dynamic. “So these guys are canine athletes and they really need to work—”

  “I know they need to work. I know that,” Simone interrupted, smoothing the hem of her Chanel blazer. “My husband hunts with them in the fall. They’re hunting dogs, and they live like hunting dogs. They have the entire backyard to play. We have a very large fenced property. They run around like lunatics out there all day long. In fact, this is the first time they’ve been inside in days.”

  Cora’s eyes widened involuntarily, and she struggled to collect herself. “Um, I’m not a big fan of making dogs live outside . . . they really just want to be close to their people. Pack animals, you know? I didn’t realize that they’re living in the backyard . . .” How had she missed that during their initial phone call? Even though the dogs’ outdoor accommodations were probably as sumptuous as the Feretti home, Cora knew that dogs living isolated from their people were treated like livestock rather than like beloved pets.

  Simone’s face hardened and she clenched her hands so tightly that her slender fingers turned white.

  “They’re not living outside. They are hunting dogs.” She enunciated the words, as if that would make it clearer to Cora. “They have a custom-built climate-controlled doghouse and run in the yard. As you can see, these dogs are maniacs when they’re inside, that’s why we keep them out back. The problem is they’ve been barking, and now our neighbors are complaining about the noise. I bought electric collars to curb the barking until you’ve finished training them. I’d like you to fit them on the dogs.”

  Only if you let me try one on you first, Cora thought.

  “Electric collars are actually shock collars, and I never train with pain,” Cora replied in measured tones, aware that she had to tread lightly if she hoped to save the dogs. “Shock collars are dangerous tools that can cause serious trauma, including fallout from—”

  Simone raised her hand in the air to silence Cora. “Will you train these dogs the way I want or not?”

  Blade and Hunter had abandoned their bones and were wrestling in between where Cora and Simone sat, their playful growls adding to the tension in the room. Cora felt a flush rising in her cheeks. She wanted to tell Simone without any sugarcoating that the way she was treating her dogs was cruel. That their less-than-desirable behavior was a direct result of their banishment to the yard. That she should have purchased lawn ornaments instead of animals with needs. Based on her read of Simone, Cora knew that no matter how she tried to spin it, the message would sound judgmental, rather than helpful.

  So the two women sat in silence, staring at Blade and Hunter as they tussled. Cora admitted to herself that she wasn’t going to be able to work with Simone, but she didn’t know how best to convey the news to the tightly wound woman sitting across from her. Agonizingly, she was convinced that she could help Blade and Hunter transition from lawless yard dogs to well-mannered companions. The dogs she could handle, it was the humans that were going to be a problem.

  Cora took a deep breath. “I’m thinking that I might not be the right trainer for you.”

  “Yes, I think that you’re right,” Simone replied, arms crossed and eyes unblinking.

  “Okay. Good. That’s good, I’m—I’m glad we agree,” Cora stuttered and smoothed her hand over the flyaway curls near her forehead. The hot red embarrassment splotches spread from her cheeks to her neck. “There’s no charge for today, of course. I’ll just pack up and be on my way. But I’d like to forward you some information about the dangers of shock collars and refer you to a few other positive trainers in the area—”

  Simone silenced Cora with her hand again. “Thank you, but that’ll be unnecessary.” Her tone was glacial. “I’m going to put the dogs outside before they do more damage.”

  Simone turned and reached for Hunter. He ducked away, knocking into the delicate pedestal table near the couch and tipping over a crystal vase filled with dogwood blossoms. The unexpected crash
-splash sent both dogs running from the room.

  “Felisa! Felisa, the dogs are loose!” Simone screamed as she ran out of the room after them. Cora raced behind her and knocked into the petite Hispanic woman who had let her into the house, nearly sending her to the ground. The dogs rounded a corner and disappeared into the kitchen, with all three women close behind them.

  “They’re trapped in here now—shut the other door, Felisa!” Simone moved toward Blade, who was pacing in a corner of the professionally outfitted kitchen. She looked like she wanted to tackle him. The closer she got, the faster he paced. Felisa stood in a corner and chanted “Oh, oh, oh,” as if she wasn’t sure quite what to do.

  “Wait, can I make a suggestion?” Cora interrupted. “I’ve got some treats in my back pocket, and I bet if we all just stand still and I toss the treats in front of me, the dogs will come over and we can get them without a struggle.”

  Simone continued moving toward Blade as if she hadn’t heard Cora, arms outstretched. The dog panted and ran back and forth with his rear end tucked. Hunter stood quietly in the desk nook, watching the drama unfold. Everyone—dogs and humans—held their breath as Simone paused and then leaped at Blade.

  She miscalculated how fast he was, which wasn’t surprising, given how little daily contact she had with the dog. Blade swished by Simone’s legs as she lunged for him, knocking her knees out from under her. Clearly embarrassed, Simone righted herself and turned to glare at Cora.

  “This is unacceptable. Get them.” It was a command, not a request. She crossed her arms and moved to the back of the cavernous kitchen.

  Cora nodded, her face hot from the tension and Simone’s unwavering stare.

  “Hey guys! Hey pups!” She knelt down and threw a few treats in front of her. Hunter, unscathed by the chase, came willingly from beneath the desk and collected the treats on the floor.

  “What a sweet boy, mon petit loup,” Cora whispered to him. The dog flinched when he saw her outstretched hand but returned his focus to the scattered treats. Cora wondered if his hand-shyness was a result of a lack of human interaction, or something more sinister, like Ershovich’s direction to “be the boss no matter the cost.” Cora could understand why Simone might gravitate to Ershovich’s advice, since she seemed to want canine robots instead of dogs with spirit and personality. The Doggie Dictator trained the dog out of every dog he worked with, and the world applauded him for it. Cora gently grasped Hunter’s collar. “Okay, okaaaay, you’re fine now.”