by L. A. Knight
“Ladies, tell me what’s happening. Why is our attendance dropping? Is it mornings? Would it be easier if we held an evening session, say around eight o’clock?”
A few murmurs. And then a white woman in her fifties stood, egged on by her two companions. “For me, mornings are better. The problem I think a lot of us are having is with your advice. It works for a few days, maybe a week, and then things start to revert. My husband’s great right before we go at it, but a few hours later he’s back on the couch while I’m cleaning out the pantry. I can’t be licking his balls twenty-four/seven.”
A few ladies applauded in agreement.
Another woman stood. “I’m tired of always pleasing my Y. Why can’t he please me?”
“By please, I assume you mean sexually?”
“Hell, yeah. Why should I be the one always trying to get him off? I’d trade a good orgasm and a back rub for him screwing up my laundry any day.”
The other women nodded and applauded.
Nancy held up her hands, desperate to stave off the anarchy. “You can have that. You can have it all. A man who wants to please you; a partner who speaks to you with respect. Next week we begin the real training, ladies—the serious stuff that will turn your Ys into Stepford husbands and boyfriends and fiancés. Best of all, if you bring a friend there’s no charge for you or your guests. In fact, next week’s session is absolutely free to everyone, because you’re going to be so excited about what I’ll be revealing and how it will change your lives that you’ll gladly pay double in two weeks. A preview of what’s to come will be delivered on my radio show this week, so keep listening. Sound good? Yes?”
Mild applause. A few encouraging nods.
Nancy ended the session, then hustled to the exit to say her good-byes.
Pete Soderblom was the last one in line. He smiled, wiggling his index finger in the direction of her breasts. “Beep . . . beep . . . beep.”
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“It’s my bullshit detector. Your ship’s sinking fast, Dr. Nancy, and you haven’t a clue how to fix it.”
“You’re wrong. This was nothing more than a speed bump. You watch—after next week it’ll be standing-room-only again.”
“Hope you’re right because I spoke to Dr. Laura’s agent this morning . . . he sounded real anxious to sign a syndication deal.”
“Don’t—” Her cell phone reverberated with a new text:
NANCY—DOG TRAINER’S NAME IS SPENCER. CALL HIM AT
551-236-6879. TELL HIM I REFERRED YOU. KISSES.—JEANNE
“Ha! Speak of the devil. That was my relationship expert assuring me we’ll be getting together this week to organize our new training . . . I mean, strategy. You watch—by the time I’m done, Dr. Laura will be blurbing my book . . . on your station, of course.”
SPENCER
The white van labeled K-9 KINDERGARTEN wove through the neighborhood, parking curbside at the designated address. Climbing out of the vehicle was a lanky Englishman in his mid-sixties, with a salt-and-pepper colored mustache and short-cropped hair, dressed from his cap to his army boots in desert camouflage. Striding up the driveway to the front door, he paused, tilting his head like an engaged canine to hear the dog barking out back.
Good hearing, though certainly not great. Lacks training. Too deep to be a Poodle or Bearded Collie. My guess . . . German Shepherd. And a lazy one at that.
Proceeding to the front door, he knocked, then stood at ease with hands behind the small of his back.
Nancy opened the door.
“Ms. Beach? Sargent-Major Spencer Botchin, retired. Formerly of the British Canine patrol, reporting as requested. German Shepherd?”
“Thanks, but I already have one.”
“Indeed. By its bark I’m guessing a male, forty-nine to fifty kilos . . . about a hundred and ten pounds.”
“I’m impressed. Would you like to come in, or can you train him psychically?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Never mind. Please come in. He’s had a little training already. He can sit and give you his paw.”
Spencer was incredulous. “Sit and give his paw? What’s next? Balancing on a high-wire while carrying an umbrella?”
“No. I just meant . . .”
“Never mind all that. Show me the dog.”
Nancy led him through the house to the kitchen where Sam was leaping at the sliding glass door.
“Ah, yes . . . I see he’s mastered the scratching at the back door trick.”
“That’s why I called you. Should I get his box of treats?”
“Treats? My dear Ms. Beach, this is a German Shepherd, an animal of extreme intelligence, bred to serve man. I don’t know who the devil trained it, but if it were up to me, they’d be drawn and quartered! Come.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come. With me. Quickly.” Spencer led her back out the front door and down the driveway to his van. He opened the rear doors, revealing a cage holding a fearsome German Shepherd. Twenty pounds lighter and not nearly as bulky as Sam, the dog barked viciously, its snout curled back, exposing every fanged tooth.
Spencer unlocked the cage, sending Nancy backing away in fear.
“No worries, she’s trained to respond that way. Tilda, come!”
Tilda jumped down from her cage and sat on all four paws by Spencer’s right heel, the dog’s weight on its feet, not its belly, the snarling personality completely doused.
“We call this the ready position. From here, we’ll proceed with a small demonstration.” Spencer walked down the sidewalk alone. Fifty feet away, he yelled, “Tilda, heel!”
Tilda sprang to her feet and hustled to Spencer’s right flank.
The trainer walked toward Nancy, the dog keeping pace. When Spencer turned, the dog turned with him. When he stopped the dog stopped – all without looking.
“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 t
he 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.”
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
“Suddenly my hootie feels as cold as ice. Jacob, be a good son and tell these cheap bastards to turn up the heat.”
“Ma, it’s ninety degrees in here.”
Selma Krawitz joined them. The silver-haired senior and queen of the women’s gin rummy league pointed beneath Carmella’s wheelchair. “Good grief, C.C., you dropped trou again. Your giggle flower’s buck-naked to the vinyl.”
Jacob looked beneath the chair. “Jesus, Ma. How’d you manage to lose this?” His face contorted involuntarily as he retrieved the adult diaper.
“Don’t be a drama queen. I didn’t soil it. I wear them to keep my bare ass warm.”
The men turned like tumbling dominoes to stare at Carmella.
“Look at ‘em, dirty old men. Hey, Selma, watch this!” Carmella lifted both legs in the air, offering the men an unobstructed three second beaver shot. “First one’s free, boys. The rest’ll cost you next month’s social security check.”
“Jesus, Ma—stop!”
“Relax, I’m performing a civic duty; the old farts’ hearts can use the exercise.”
Across the room, Truman Cabot was seated at his private table. The retired millionaire and founder of Cabot Enterprises was dressed in a bathing suit, bathrobe, bathing cap, and swim goggles, having just completed his evening walk in the pool. Saliva oozed from the old man’s open mouth as he stared at the wheelchair flashing vixen.