Dog Training The American Male

by L. A. Knight

  “The cops thought so,” Wanda muttered.

  Jacob smiled nervously. “I do a lot of policemen’s balls. I mean, I perform comedy for the cops . . . they laugh a lot . . . it’s funny. Uh, how much does the gig pay?”

  “Enough to take care of your dog. The show’s on the fourteenth at six p.m. You’ll sit at my table for dinner, then you’ll perform during dessert.”

  “Sounds amazing . . . wow. Thank you.”

  “Very generous, Ruby,” said Vin. “Jacob, if you’d leave now so I can treat my patient.”

  Ruby reached out and grabbed Jacob’s hand. “Stay. These things can be tricky. You seem like the well-adjusted, supportive type.”

  “Yes. I’ve been told that.”

  Vin rolled his eyes at Wanda, who was holding her mouth to keep from busting out laughing. “All righty then. Slight cramping here, Ruby, while I take the pap smear . . .”

  ANITA

  Nancy checked the time on the white foofie dog clock. Nine-oh- eight . . . she’s late. Not a good way to start her first day with a new client.

  Sam was out back, whining to come inside.

  “Forget it, flea bag. Your days of sleeping on my sofa are over.”

  The doorbell rang, sending the dog into a jumping frenzy.

  Nancy left the kitchen, heading down the hall. She paused to check her face in the hallway mirror, then opened the door.

  Standing on the front stoop was a gum-chewing white woman in her mid-thirties, her short, mouse-brown hair spiked, her slender neck tattooed with three Japanese letters. She was wearing a black strapless tube-top, silver Capri pants and high wedge heels. Slung over her shoulder was a leather backpack.

  “Anita Goodman.”

  “Don’t we all. Sorry, I’m Nancy Beach.”

  “Nice ta make your acquaintance.” The accent was a nasal Bronx, the handshake firm. Anita entered, looking around. “So where’s the puppy?”

  “The puppy? The puppy’s out back.” Nancy led her to the kitchen where Sam was pawing and scratching at the sliding door, muddying the glass as he attempted to gain entry and greet the stranger.

  Anita’s expression dropped. “That’s not a puppy. That’s a dog.”

  “No shit.”

  “Okay, here’s the thing: Dogs are like people—the younger you get them, the easier they are to train. This dog’s gotta be what? Four or five? In doggy years, that’s like thirty. Ever try to teach a thirty-year-old a new trick?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. But I’d still like to try.”

  “Not try—do. In order to do, I charge thirty-five dollars an hour, plus any necessary supplies.”

  “Agreed. Uh . . . how many lessons do you think he’ll need?”

  “We’ll know when we know, won’t we? First, let’s see how trainable he is. You said on the phone your husband picked him up at the pound?”

  “My boyfriend, yes.”

  “Based on my vast years of experience, I wouldn’t set the bar too high. A lot of pound refugees were beaten by their previous owners. What’s the expression? Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know when you’re going to bite into a nut. Let him in, but keep him restrained, these are new pants.”

  “That’s the problem, I can’t restrain him; he’s too big.”

  Anita winked. “Girlfriend, trust me—it’s not about the size, it’s about knowing where to grab hold.” Rummaging through her bag, she removed a large chain. “This is a choke collar. When I slip it around the dog’s neck and pull thusly,” she demonstrated on her hand, “the noose tightens, restraining the bitch or butch as I like to call them. Okay, what’s the animal’s name?”

  “Jacob . . . I mean Sam.”

  “Let Sam in.”

  Nancy slid open the door. Sam entered like an excited locomotive, licking and jumping, spinning around in circles.

  “Sit, Sam! Sit. Sit!” Anita managed to grab the dog by its neck and slip the choker collar over its head. “We pull thusly—” she yanked the chain hard “—and the animal is restrained.”

  Sam sat.

  “Oh, I like that.”

  Fishing again through her back pack, Anita removed a small bag of dog treats. She took one out, the scent exciting the dog.

  “I’m a firm believer in the reward system—rewarding your animal when it does something good. Who’s a good boy? Sam’s a good boy. Give me your paw, Sam. PAAAAWW.” She held out her hand.

  The dog raised its front right paw.

  Anita shook it, then gave Sam the treat.

  “There’s a good boy. Always reward the desired behavior immediately, then repeat it right away . . . the animal learns through repetition. Let’s try it again. Sam . . . paw.”

  Sam placed his paw in Anita’s hand.

  “Wow, he did it by himself.”

  “German Shepherds catch on fast, they’re a smart breed, but virtually any animal can be trained—it’s all about conditioning.”

  DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

  LESSON ONE: CONDITIONING

  At precisely 5:57 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 as per Nancy’s wishes, leaving them by the front door (a logical dispersal point, steeped in ancient Japanese tradition).

  His bladder full, he headed straight for the hall bathroom. He unzipped, lifted the closed lid and seat and urinated. He flushed the toilet, rinsed his hands, and removed the neatly-folded hand towel from the rack to dry off, leaving the towel on the sink (as a common courtesy to the next user).

  He entered the kitchen to the dog leaping and barking at the glass sliding door. “Hey, boy! I missed you.” Jacob opened the door, unleashing the spinning, nipping, licking one-hundred and ten pound fur-shedding motion of muscle. In between dog hugs, Jacob gazed outside. The backyard had been transformed into a sixty by forty foot grass-covered rectangle, bordered on all sides by a six-foot-tall wooden privacy fence. In the right-rear corner of the yard was a dog house with a five foot tall A-framed roof adorned in olive-green tar paper.

  “They did a nice job on the yard, eh, boy?”

  Ignoring the muddy paw prints on the linoleum floor, Jacob opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of beer. He searched through three kitchen drawers before he located the bottle opener. Prying off the cap, he left the drawers open and the opener on the kitchen counter (as a common courtesy to the next user), and searched the pantry shelves. Locating the box of doggy treats, he tossed a bone to his tail-wagging companion and headed for the den.

  Exhausted from work, Jacob flopped down on the leather sofa with the beer. Feeling between the cushions, he located the remote control and flicked through the TV stations—Sam seated beside him on the couch, the dog’s churning jowls turning the biscuit into a trail of crumbs.

  Suddenly alert, Sam bolted for the front door, the dog’s howling chorus of barks greeting Nancy, who keyed in with one hand, her other holding a steaming-hot takeout bag.

  Suddenly alert, Jacob bolted for the front door, his olfactory senses stimulated. “Hey, babe.” He kissed Nancy quickly on the lips, “is that a Philly cheese-steak I smell?”

  “From D’ best Sub Shop; took me a half an hour to fight through traffic.”

  “Honey, you are d’best.” Jacob reached for the treat—

  —only to have Nancy snatch it away. “Uh-uh.” She pointed to his sandals. “Shoes in the bedroom closet.”

  “Shoes? Oh, sure.” He grabbed the sandals, then hurried into the master bedroom, blindly tossing them into the open closet—returning in time to find Nancy in the hall bathroom. “Wipe the rim.”

  “The what?”

  “The toilet rim has pee on it. Wipe it clean. Now put the seat down . . . good, boy (it’s always important to offer verbal encouragement—animals can sense if their owners are pleased), and what do we have here . . . a wet hand towel, which I just washed and folded.”

  Jacob attempted to fold and re-
rack the towel, but succeeded only in managing to mangle it through the loop (some skills are gender-biased) and it was off to the kitchen.

  “Jacob, look at this kitchen . . . Look at the floor!”

  “I’ll wash it, no problem.”

  “Do you think you could close a drawer after you open it?”

  “Sorry.” He slammed the three drawers shut.

  “The can opener?”

  Opening a drawer, he tossed the can opener inside.

  “It goes in the middle drawer with the steak knives.”

  He opened the drawer on the left, removed the can opener, and deposited it in the middle drawer.

  “Jacob?”

  He slammed the two open drawers shut.

  “Well done.” Nancy pointed to one of the kitchen chairs. “Sit.”

  Jacob sat, his mouth watering.

  Smiling to herself, Nancy tossed him the cheese-steak.

  OLD HABITS

  At precisely 5:57 p.m. the next day, Jacob Cope entered his home. “Nance, I’m home.”

  He placed the newspaper on the book shelf by the hall mirror and kicked off his sandals, leaving them by the front door, the urge to pee overwhelming his five senses. Rushing into the hall bathroom, he lifted the lid and seat and urinated, his eyes fluttering in relief. Geez, that was close, the back teeth were floating.

  Shaking it twice, he tucked his penis inside his boxers, zippered his fly, flushed, and rinsed the urine sprinkles from his hands. Removing the neatly-folded hand towel from the rack, he dried off, leaving the towel on the sink.

  He entered the kitchen to find the dog leaping and barking at the glass sliding door. “There’s my killer watch dog.” Jacob let the dog in. Knelt to allow the German Shepherd to lick his face, then grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge. Opening the middle drawer (conditioning through repetition) he located the bottle opener and opened the beer. Tossing the opener back in the drawer, he left the drawer open (in case he wanted a second beer), removed a dog biscuit from the pantry and headed for the den, Sam jumping on the sofa ahead of him.

  Flopping down next to the dog, he gave Sam the bone, then located the remote control—as the dog bolted for the front door, wailing its greeting at Nancy, who keyed in with one hand, holding a steaming-hot takeout bag in the other.

  Right behind the dog was Jacob. “Mmm . . . I smell Chinese food.”

  “From Uncle Tai’s. Took me forty minutes to fight through traffic . . . and what the fuck are your sandals doing on the floor?”

  “Oops.” Jacob grabbed the odor-laced leather shoes, hurried into the master bedroom, and blindly tossed them into the open closet—

  —returning in time to find Nancy inspecting the hall bathroom. “Seat up, pee on the rim and the floor – can’t you aim that thing?”

  “Sorry.”

  “And what a surprise – my neatly-folded towel tossed in a pile . . . unbelievable.”

  “Sorry. Hey, want me to set the table?” He reached for the bag of Chinese food—

  —only to be whacked on the head with the rolled-up newspaper. “Sorry, Jacob, you don’t get rewarded for negative behavior. Guess I’ll have to share this delicious dinner of jumbo shrimp, egg rolls, and General Tso’s chicken with Helen—at least she’ll appreciate it.”

  Satisfied that her negative reinforcement will make an impact on her salivating mongrel, Nancy left the house, slamming the door behind her.

  Confused, Jacob looked down at the dog—bright-eyed, its tail-wagging. “Hey boy, wanna go for a ride to McDonalds?”

  * * * * *

  VINCENT COPE HAD just entered his gated community when his cell phone rang. “What do you need now, Jacob? A loan for a new sex toy?”

  “Advice, Vin. I just got into a fight with Nancy, only I have no idea what just happened.”

  “I’m not a marriage counselor, Jacob.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “You’re living with your girlfriend – same thing.”

  “Did Helen ever swat you on the head with a newspaper?”

  “Helen’s a yeller, not a hitter. Wait . . .did you just say a newspaper?”

  “Right on the head.”

  “What’d you do? Shit on the carpet?”

  “No. I got a little pee on the rim of the toilet . . .no big deal. Certainly no reason to swat me or take away my dinner. She’s on the way to your house with my Uncle Tai’s.”

  “Good, I love Uncle Tai’s.” Vincent turned into his driveway, pressing the garage door opener. “Gotta run, Jake. I’ve got twenty-eight minutes to eat, change my clothes, drop off Dylan at the hockey rink, and get Wade to baseball practice.”

  “Vin, what should I do about Nancy?”

  “Apologize.”

  “Apologize for what? And don’t tell me because God gave me a penis. God gave me a set of balls too, you know.”

  “Enjoy playing with them by yourself, dick weed. Nancy went out of the way to bring home your favorite dinner, and all you give a shit about is yourself.”

  “Listen, Vin—”

  “No, you listen. Between your neuroses and that dog, living with you is probably akin to being stuck on the It’s a Small World ride at Disneyworld. As your brother and a skilled surgeon, my advice is to apologize to Nancy or else hide the kitchen utensils before she gives you a second circumcision.”

  Vin disconnected the call and climbed out of the car, registering the soreness in his lower back and knees. He had been on his feet working since eight o’clock this morning, and there is no rest for the weary.

  God had blessed Vincent Cope with three sons—Wade (fourteen), Dylan (twelve) and Austin (ten), and all three were heavily involved in sports. Thirty years ago when Vin was entering his teens, kids athletics consisted of pick-up games in the backyard—sandlot football and softball, street hockey on skates and half-court basketball in the driveway. If you were good enough you tried out for the high school team; if you had talent, you extended your playing career in college—otherwise it was intramural and adult leagues. Whatever the level, you played because you loved to compete and you loved the comradery.

  Today, kid’s sports had evolved into community-generated little leagues organized by adults who dreamt of their offspring receiving college scholarships and a shot at the pros. Competition began at age five and six—two mandatory practices a week, plus games. And if your kid was good enough to make the travel team -- like ice hockey defenseman, Dylan Cope -- then it was additional practices, plus weekend jaunts to Orlando and Jacksonville—and God help the “lucky” parent if your kid’s team advanced in the tournament. In the last year, Dylan had played in more hockey games than the average professional in the NHL; Vin escorting him to weekend tournaments in Minneapolis, Tampa, Las Vegas, and Toronto.

  The exhausted gynecologist entered his home through the garage. Helen was in the kitchen, stirring some kind of red sauce-based concoction onto a plate.

  “How was work?”

  “Horrible. My last patient was as feisty as an alligator and had more wrinkles on her twat than a bag of prunes. I need to eat fast. What is that slop?”

  “What’s the difference? You either eat it or go hungry.”

  “Pour a little rat poison in mine, just for flavor. Where’s Wade? Baseball practice starts in twenty minutes.”

  “He’s in his room, playing on the Wii. What happened with your brother? Nancy called; she’s on her way over. Did Jacob ever get rid of that dog?”

  “It’s complicated. He named the dog Sam.”

  Helen shook her head. “He’s psychotic.”

  “Who’s psychotic?” Nancy followed Dylan in from the hall.

  Vin spotted the takeout bag, his stomach rumbling. “The Uncle Tai’s for a free Gynnie Gusher.”

  “Make it two, just like the one Jeanne had.” She tossed him the bag. “So who’s psychotic?”

  “Your live-in boyfriend,” said Helen, snatching the bag from Vin. “He named the dog after his father.”

  “I t
hought his father’s name was Friedrich?”

  “That’s what our psychotic mother told him when he was a kid.” Vin circled his wife, who was scooping the Chinese food out of its cartons onto three plates. “Technically, that’s mine.”

  “We’re married. I get half.”

  “Vin, were you and Jacob close to your father?”

  “Jake was five when Dad left for Desert Storm. The father I grew up playing ball with was different from the soldier who returned from Iraq after losing both legs. When Jacob saw Dad in the VA hospital, he freaked out.”

  Amputees . . . “Vin, Jacob said your father committed suicide.”

  “Dad was depressed; he suffered from post traumatic stress before the Army docs had even classified it. He was home less than three months before he killed himself. We hid it from Jacob as long as we could.”

  Helen rolled her eyes. “So instead, your wacko mother told him your father suffocated under a pile of elephant shit? Exactly how does that soothe the blow?”

  “The V.A. sent my father home, not realizing he was a ticking time bomb. Jake and I were staying at our grandparents the morning my father put a gun in his mouth. My mother was sleeping in the same room when he did it.”

  Nancy covered her mouth. “The poor woman.”

  “Ma skipped the funeral; she was pretty traumatized. The elephant story was her way of protecting Jacob while venting her anger at my father.”

  “That’s an excuse, Vincent,” Helen said, venom in her voice. “Your mother is nasty to everyone. I’m not speaking to that woman . . . not after what she said to me on Thanksgiving.”

  Vincent sighed. “Okay, what did she say?”

  “She told me the reason you became a gynecologist and not a brain surgeon was because you weren’t getting enough sex at home.”

  “Helen, the woman’s seventy-two years old. Being raised Catholic you may not know this, but after the age of seventy some Jewish women experience a debilitating neurological condition that causes their mouths to disengage from their brains. We call these episodes bubbameisters. It’s like going through a second menopause . . . sort of a right of passage. Trust me, it’s best just to ignore them. Nancy, can you pass me the duck sauce?”