Dog Training The American Male

by L. A. Knight

  “Mr. Cabot?”

  “Look at that hellcat. Goddam, she makes my blood boil.”

  Nancy glanced over her shoulder at Carmella Cope, who was spinning around in her wheelchair, her spread legs held high to catcalls.

  Oh dear God . . . “Sir, would you like to meet her?”

  Mr. Cabot looked up as if seeing her for the first time. “You know the goddess?”

  “She’s my boyfriend’s mother. I’m Nancy . . . Dr. Beach.”

  “You’re my doctor?”

  “No, sir. I work at your daughter’s radio station. My show used to be called Life’s a Beach. I recently switched it to Dog Training the American Male. I’m the host, Nancy Beach.”

  “You host the doggy show?”

  “Actually, sir, it’s a relationship show. I use dog training techniques to empower women . . . and men. I could teach you how to begin a relationship with the goddess.”

  “One million dollars.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Hook me up with the goddess and I’ll pay you a million dollars.”

  Nancy’s pulse raced. “Stay right here!” She crossed the room, her mind on fire. Be nice. Flatter her. Show her respect, build trust. And if that doesn’t work . . . drug the bitch.

  “Go on, Ma. Apologize to Nancy.”

  Carmella averted her gaze. “Sorry.”

  “I’m the one who should be sorry, Mrs. Cope. The mother-son bond is forever. I only hope you’ll allow me to get to know you better so I can be a part of your life.”

  Carmella looked up, suspicious. “Who’s the old fart you were talking to?”

  “His name is Truman Cabot. His daughter owns the radio station where I work. It would mean the world to me if you’d allow me to introduce him to you.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Ma—”

  “I’m already seeing two men.”

  “Nancy’s not asking you to date him, just to say hello.”

  “Eh . . .”

  “Please, Mrs. Cope.”

  “Fine. If it’ll shut you up.”

  Nancy waved Mr. Cabot over.

  “Jacob, help me sit up . . . I think I may have pulled something in my gynnie. Might have to see your brother; bet that would send him running back to brain surgery school.”

  “Truman Cabot, I’d like you to meet Carmella Cope.”

  Mr. Cabot offered her a denture-filled smile.

  “What are you grinning at, you old fool?”

  “You look just like my beloved Rachel, just before she died.”

  “And you look like an enema. Take off that ridiculous bathing cap, you’re embarrassing me.”

  He peeled the rubber cap from his silver-haired skull. “Go out with me and I’ll buy you a Mercedes.”

  “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a Kraut car. Besides, I’m already seeing Goldman and Schwartz.”

  “You’re dating a law firm?”

  “I’m a free-wheeler, Cabot. Only you’re not my type.”

  “I’m every widow’s type—an eighty-two year old with a three-hundred million dollar bank account, a bad heart, and a case of Viagra.”

  Carmella reached for her pincer-cane, using it to part Truman Cabot’s robe—revealing a sagging chest and a paunch belly that obscured a red Speedo bathing suit and whatever lay beneath. “Like I said, you’re not my type.”

  Cabot panicked. “I was just in the pool. You have to allow for shrinkage.”

  “Looks like it’s been shrink-wrapped. Now beat it, Richie Rich, before I use my gripper to check your prostate.”

  Dejected, Mr. Cabot glanced at Nancy and left.

  DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

  LESSON FIVE: DEALING WITH SEPARATION ANXIETY

  Spencer watched approvingly as Nancy walked Sam up and down the sidewalk using the long leash. “Very good. I think that’s enough for today.”

  “Thank God. How about an iced tea?”

  “That would be lovely. First, let’s see if Sam remembers his new command.”

  Nancy detached the leash from the dog’s choker collar. “Sam, house!”

  The German Shepherd sprinted through the open backyard gate and entered his dog house.

  Spencer followed Nancy into the enclosed yard, locking the gate behind him.

  The moment they were inside the house, Sam went wild, sprinting around the yard before digging in the garden.

  “Look at him, Spencer. He does this every time I leave for work. Damn you, dog! I just planted those Bromeliads!”

  Spencer watched the German Shepherd tear apart the row of colorful red plants. “I’d say Sam has a bad case of separation anxiety.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “My dear, I never joke when it comes to the welfare of a canine. Separation anxiety is the second most common reason dogs are abandoned by their owners and eventually euthanized. Remember, dogs are pack animals; being left alone is against their nature. A dog suffering from anxiety will bark excessively, can become destructive, and, if given the opportunity, will defecate in the house. The animal may become so nervous that it will chew parts of their own body down to the bone. I knew of one dog that chewed on its tail so much the appendage had to be amputated.”

  Great . . . another roommate suffering from panic attacks. “Okay, Obi Wan, what am I supposed to do?”

  “For now, I’d suggest walking Sam before you leave for work every day. Unfortunately, a dog of this size and intelligence will need something more stimulating to fill your void—at least until he accepts you as his pack leader. My wife and I had the same problem with Tilda when we adopted her.”

  “I bet your wife would have preferred a small white foofie dog.”

  “Actually, Kate liked the bigger breeds. When we first met, she had a one-hundred-and-seventy pound Newfoundland.”

  “I’d love to meet her—your wife, not the dog.”

  “Unfortunately, she passed away a few years ago. Breast cancer.”

  “I’m so sorry. I lost my father to stomach cancer.”

  “It’s a frightful disease.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  “A daughter, she’s about your age. Married an Aussie; now they live in Melbourne with my three-year-old grandson. I suppose I’m suffering from my own separation anxiety.”

  “Have you tried dating? My mother was against it at first, now she’s on a senior single’s cruise—at least she was. God knows where she is today.”

  “No actual dates, though I’ve attended a few social functions where I live. Sadly, the women tend to be either hounds or terriers.”

  “Where do you live? The American Kennel Club?”

  Spencer smiled. “Sorry, old habit. I tend to segregate women into show categories. Terriers are your yappers, women who drone on endlessly. Hounds are the sniffers; always prying into your affairs, wanting to know everything from the place you were born to the last time you had a solid bowel movement. Essentially they want to know if you’re suitable for marriage. Sporting breeds are your Boca bitches—eye candy relegated to young men or the eccentric rich.”

  “I know I’ll regret asking, but what am I?”

  “Well, at first I assumed you were a Toy—either a Shih Tzu or miniature poodle, but as I’ve gotten to know you I see you more as a working bitch—someone who seeks her own independence. I think a Doberman Pinscher suits your style.”

  “Pretty profound. Just out of curiosity, what was your wife?”

  “Kathy? Definitely a Herder, like your German Shepherd. Loyal to a fault, excellent with kids. But, as you can see, my herding days are over. Truth be told, it would be nice to find a sporting dog, certainly not an Irish Setter—God help me, perhaps a retriever or better yet, an English Springer Spaniel, something with a little fight in her.”

  “I know one! She’s single and loves dogs. Her name’s Anita. What if I set you up on a blind date?”

  “I don’t know. How physically impaired is she? Can she see shadows?”


  “No, no, she’s not blind. The date would be the first time the two of you would meet—we call that a blind date.”

  “Smashing. You set me up with my doggy date, and I’ll bring over the equipment you’ll need to help Sam with his separation anxiety.”

  DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

  LESSON SIX: BREEDING RITUALS

  Nancy drove out of the gated community, Helen Cope in the passenger seat. “Cabot really offered you a million dollars if Carmella would date him?”

  “Actually, he said ‘hook-up.’ I wasn’t sure he meant a date or sex.”

  “Either way, it’s like paying someone to give you malaria. Does this guy even have that kind of money?”

  “Enough to date a hundred Carmella Copes.”

  “And the old bat refused?”

  “She took one look at the size of his Johnson and sent him on his way. Poor guy just got out of the pool. But you know what they say about first impressions. I asked Jacob to work on her, but he refused to question Mommie Dearest.”

  “What makes you think she’d listen to me?”

  “You’re her daughter-in-law, the mother of her three grandsons. All you have to do is help me convince Carmella to give Mr. Cabot a chance and we’ll split the bounty.”

  “Let me tell you a little something about my relationship with Carmella Cope. The first time we met, she called me a whore. She finally stopped a year later when Vin asked me to marry him and he threatened not to invite her to the wedding. A year later I was at my baby shower, eight months pregnant with Wade when Carmella pulled me aside, drunk as a skunk and said, ‘I know what you’re up to, Helen of Troy. After it’s born, I’m having the baby’s blood tested just to prove to Vincent that it’s not his kid.”

  “My God, she actually said that?”

  “Nancy, I was so pissed I refused to allow her to see Wade until he was ten months old. She’s mellowed slightly over these last few years, I think it’s because she’s getting laid, or whatever it is these old people do in these senior cities of theirs.”

  “I guess that means you’re out.”

  “For half-a-million bucks? Oh, I’m in. In a worst-case scenario, I can always use the money to hire someone to kill her.”

  * * * * *

  IT WAS DUSK when Spencer Botchin assaulted the two flights of concrete stairs to reach apartment 3-F, the bouquet of roses held firmly in his left hand. He took a moment to wipe perspiration from his brow, and then knocked on the door.

  After a minute the door opened, revealing Anita Goodman. She was wearing a short black leather dress, her bulging cleavage held together between the plunging neck-line with a leather string. The matching leather boots rose clear up to her knees.

  Spencer’s eyes widened. “Major Botchin Spencer Sergeant . . . I mean, Spencer Botchin. I’ll be your blind date for this evening.”

  “Anita Goodman.”

  “I’ll do my best. I mean, happy to meet you.” Spencer’s mustache twitched as he imagined Anita in her bra and thronged panties on all fours while he inspected her body like a dog show judge . . .

  “Are those flowers for me?”

  “Flowers? Yes.”

  She took them and tossed them inside. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “Perhaps you might want to put them in water?”

  “Nah. I’m not big on flowers. I appreciate the effort – you get one gold star. Next time try candy.”

  “Plain, or with peanuts?”

  “Surprise me.”

  Spencer led her down the stairs and across the parking lot to his van. He held open the door, then hustled to the driver’s side and climbed in.

  Anita sniffed the air. “Smells like dog in here.”

  Spencer started the van. “Not just a dog, madam, but eighty-two pounds of sinew and muscle, possessing bloodlines that trace back to 18th century Europe.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “Indeed. So, I thought we’d start with dinner at Ruth-Chris Steakhouse, and then catch the 9:30 showing of Avengers-2.”

  “Let’s do Thai. And I wanted to see Eternal Love; it’s playing at the Regal.”

  “Thai food and a chick-flick? Not in this lifetime.”

  Anita rubbed her left hand along the inside of Spencer’s thigh. “Eighty-two pounds of sinew and muscle, huh? Is that when it’s angry?”

  Spencer’s eye’s fluttered. “You know . . . I haven’t had good Asian food in quite some time.”

  * * * * *

  WHILE SPENCER WAS on his blind date, Nancy found herself in Mr. Cabot’s three-bedroom suite, helping him on with his cummerbund. The millionaire was dressed in a classic white dinner jacket, white shirt, black trousers and a matching bow-tie . . . what the quirky retiree referred to as his “James Bond pick-up attire.”

  Arm in arm, she led him out of the apartment to the elevators. They rode downstairs to the rec room, which had been converted into a senior citizen’s rendition of “Casino Royale.” There were blackjack and poker tables, roulette, and a Wheel of Fortune. Several hundred residents, dressed in evening wear and dinner jackets were gambling with fake money provided by the staff, with prizes promised to the top twenty earners at the end of the night.

  Mr. Cabot signed in at the registration desk and received his envelope of fake money.

  Nancy spotted Helen dealing cards at one of the poker tables. “There she is, dealing cards at Carmella’s table. The moment you approach, my friend’s arranged for one of the players to give up their seat. Are you ready to dazzle C. C. Rider with your card-playing skills?”

  “Not yet. Give the Viagra another few minutes to kick in.”

  “You took Viagra? I thought you were here to play poker?”

  “I’m here to poke her all right—poke her with my one-eyed trouser snake. Last time Carmella saw it, it was hiding beneath my two rocks. This time . . . watch out, sister.”

  Why do men get more disgusting as they age?

  “Go on over, Dr. Nancy, I’ll be there in a two shakes.”

  Nancy headed over to the table where Helen was dealing cards from a shoe. Seated around the green felt from left to right were Sol Rabinowitz and his hearing-impaired wife, Esther, Morty Goldman and Carmella, Janie Honeywell, a three-hundred pound red-head giggle-puss, and Bill Blackmon, a retired cardiologist from Des Moines, Iowa.

  “Hi, Helen. How’s it going?”

  “Good, Nancy. Are you my relief?”

  “Looks that way.”

  Carmella watched the two women suspiciously as they traded places. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Nancy’s a volunteer, just like me. Watch out for my mother-in-law, Nance. I think she’s looking at Janey’s cards using the reflection from her lapel pin.”

  The heavyset red-head reached for her shiny silver Weight Watchers pin, causing the lump of jiggling fat beneath her arm to knock over Carmella’s stack of chips.

  “Easy, Rush Bimbo.”

  “C.C., have you been looking at my cards?”

  “Of course I’ve been looking at your cards. So has Doc Blackmon.”

  “Actually,” the retired cardiologist grinned, “I’ve been looking at her breasts. Professionally, of course.”

  Helen glanced over Nancy’s shoulder to see Mr. Cabot approaching from across the room. She nodded at Blackmon, who pocketed his chips. “Think I’ll check out the big wheel. Janey, why don’t you bring the twins over to my apartment later and I’ll raise the stakes, heh-heh.”

  “Oh, behave.” She slapped him playfully on the back, the powerful blow sending him stumbling into Mr. Cabot’s erection.

  “Aww!” Cabot dropped like a sack of potatoes.

  “Oh no!” Nancy rushed over to him, in full panic. “Mr. Cabot, what’s wrong? You’re turning red. Just stay calm and breathe. Can you tell me what hurts?”

  “My . . . hard . . . my hard—”

  Sol Rabinowitz leaned over and listened. “He said his heart. My God, he’s having a heart attack! Quick, somebody get the number for
911!”

  Janie Honeywell grabbed Dr. Blackmon by his arm, tearing the fabric of his jacket as she dragged him over. “He’s having a heart attack, Doc. Do something!”

  “And be sued for malpractice? Forget it. Allow the man to croak in peace.”

  Helen leaned over Nancy. “Hang in there, Mr. Cabot, an ambulance is on the way.”

  “Where’s . . . Carmella? Must . . . show her—”

  Nancy rushed over to Jacob’s mother’s side. “He’s asking for you.”

  “Do I look like a priest?”

  “Stop being so selfish!” Nancy led Carmella by the elbows to Mr. Cabot—

  —as whirling scarlet lights illuminated the rec hall. Seconds later, two EMTs were making their way through the jittery crowd of seniors, wheeling a crash cart on a gurney.

  “Out of the way, folks, give us room. What seems to be the problem, sir?”

  “He says it’s his heart,” Nancy answered.

  The EMT stared at the pretty petite blonde. “Don’t I know you?”

  “Yeah,” Carmella said. “She’s your whore.”

  The other Emergency Tech worked on Mr. Cabot, getting his vitals. “Blood pressure’s 145 over 80, pulse 92. Where’s it hurt, big guy?”

  “My . . . dick. I took Viagra . . . he hit me in the groin.”

  All eyes focused on Mr. Cabot’s hard-on, wedged painfully beneath his cummerbund.

  “What did he say?” squawked Esther Rabinowitz.

  “He said it’s his schmeckle.” Sol yelled back.

  “His pickle?”

  “Exactly. Play your cards.”

  The EMTs loosened Mr. Cabot’s cummerbund, then strapped him down onto the gurney, his erect penis pitching tent beneath his trousers.

  Nancy stopped them. “Wait. If it’s not his heart, why are you taking him?”

  “His blood pressure’s elevated; it could be a Viagra overdose. We’ll admit him overnight and keep an eye on it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Janie said. “They’re going to watch his hard-on all night?”

  Morty snickered. “Die Hard 5: Viagra Stakeout.”