“That old thing? Please, dear. It was an accident.” She tried to hand the check back to me.
I held up my hand. “No. Keep it. It’s to show my good faith. If Seamus does anything wrong, I want to take full responsibility and cover all the expenses.”
“Well . . . all right.” She sat back and placed the check on the table in front of her. “Of course, you’re assuming I will allow him to stay.”
Another wave of prickles swept over me. “I—I’m sorry. I meant if you let me keep him.”
She sat silently for a moment, scanning me with her bulbous eyes. I tried to meet her gaze bravely, but my body slowly withered until I was hunkered against the back of the chair. I blew it, I cried inwardly. She’s going to say no. She’s probably debating whether to let me stay.
“Katie, dear,” she began, finally. “I think you are a very sweet, responsible girl.”
My stomach clenched. Here it comes, I thought. The big “but.”
“. . . and I think you will do a fine job with Seamus,” she concluded. “He can stay.”
She—what? “Really?” I asked skeptically. I was half scared she would shout “No!” and start cackling maniacally, then say, “Yow! Girl, you should have seen your face! I totally had you going!”
“Yes.” She stood and smoothed her long denim skirt, signaling the end of our conversation. Her mouth was curled in a small, almost smug smile, making her look a lot like Mrs. B. It was almost as if she knew she was blowing my mind—and enjoying it.
“Oh my God! Thank you so much!” My chest swelled with an intense, unrestrained joy. Before I realized what I was doing, I leaped from the chair and ran to her, gathering her petite frame in a hug.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, laughing lightly.
“I know I can do this,” I said, to myself as well as to her. “I know I can make this work.”
“Of course,” she said, patting my arm. “You certainly showed a lot of courage coming over and presenting your case like that. But you know, I was going to let him stay anyway.”
“You were?”
She chuckled again. “Yes.”
“So you haven’t spoken with Christine today?”
“Christine?” She looked confused. “No, I haven’t. Why?”
My body trilled with a second, lesser shock. Christine hadn’t told her! At least, not yet. “No reason,” I said quickly. “Thank you again, Mrs. Krantz. I promise I’ll do my best.”
“I know, dear.” She walked me to the door and opened it. “Good luck now. Let me know if I can do anything to help. I know how it is to love a pet no matter what they do.”
I stepped out into the landing and turned to face her. She really understands, I thought, looking at her kind, sympathetic expression. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” I said softly. “I hope . . . I hope I don’t let you down.”
“You won’t,” she said, before disappearing behind the door.
I stood there, smiling to myself. It felt good to have someone believe in me.
Now I just had to believe in myself.
9
“The main purpose behind Alpha Dog,” Mr. Willard was saying in his nasal monotone, “is to strengthen and clarify the owner-dog relationship.”
Seamus chose that very moment to heave against his leash, sending me toppling into a large metal trash can. The resulting clang echoed throughout the unfurnished wood-paneled classroom and beyond.
Mr. Willard paused and looked right at us. So did the others in the class, including, it seemed, the dogs. Five minutes into our first session and we were already causing a scene.
“Sorry,” I said, my cheeks broiling. I straightened up and tried to pull Seamus sideways a few feet, a safe distance away from the trash can. Unfortunately he was busy trying to sniff a scared-looking corgi beside us, and it ended up taking quite a bit of time. Eventually he gave up and began wandering in little circles, wrapping my legs with his leash.
Mr. Willard waited until we were relatively calm and quiet before resuming his speech. “Stop and think for a moment,” he said, pacing back and forth across the front of the room with his hands clasped behind his back and his squat body stooped forward slightly. He reminded me of one of those sheet-metal ducks people shoot at in those carnival games. P-ting! I thought as he stopped and turned to go the other way. P-ting! “I want you to think,” he added, pausing dramatically, “about why you are here.”
I huffed in frustration as I slid two loops of Seamus’s leash off my legs. It was a no-brainer why I was there. Seamus was so spastic, our walks were like extreme cardio workouts. Every item of clothing I’d brought to Austin now had chew holes. My dog’s snoring was waking me up several times a night, so I was starting to fall asleep during my classes. And my roommate was probably plotting our murders this very minute. All just for starters.
But I did wonder why the others had come. Besides Seamus, there were four other dogs in the class: the corgi; a lazy-looking basset hound; and Natasha, the Great Pyrenees, with her beautiful long, white-blond fur and perpetual drool lines. Natasha had been the first dog we met when we walked into the classroom. She’d bounded right up to us, all one hundred pounds of her, and proceeded to slobber all over Seamus as if he were her very own lollipop. Roughly translated, their brief introduction went something like this:
NATASHA: DAAAH-link! Geev to me large kiss! (Pounces on Seamus, licking and salivating profusely)
SEAMUS: Aaaaaauuuugh!!!! (Runs between Mom’s legs, knocking her to her knees)
And last, but not least, there was Ollie, Mr. Willard’s border collie. Most of the time Ollie sat slightly behind and to the side of his master, looking bored and a little disgusted by the rest of the pack until Mr. Willard would call him for a demonstration. Then Ollie would eagerly trot forward and flawlessly perform the trick like some state-of-the-art cyberdog.
Because Alpha Dog was one of the university’s community classes, the dog owners were as diverse as the dogs. Natasha’s owner was Barry, a tall, bearded, painfully shy man in his mid-thirties. The basset hound belonged to a huffy-looking woman in an expensive suit who appeared to have a cell phone surgically attached to her right ear. The only other youngish person there besides me was the corgi’s owner, a cute, athletically built guy who reminded me of a nineteen-year-old Will Smith. “Aw, come on, Floyd, chill,” he would say whenever the corgi got spooked—which seemed to be any time another dog looked at him.
“Canines, as you know, are pack animals,” Mr. Willard said, resuming his waddling. “They are social creatures who take their behavior cues from the other, stronger dogs around them. It may surprise you to realize that you are part of their pack. You have to take the lead. If you do not teach them proper behavior, they will never learn.”
I thought about what he said as I reached down to pet Seamus and furtively unwind the leash from my leg again. What exactly did he mean about me being part of the pack? Was he implying that I should act like a dog? I envisioned myself tumbling about on the condo carpet, going, “Watch me roll over, Seamus. See? Like this.” Somehow, I really didn’t think that would work.
“How many of you have had problems with your dog jumping on people?” Mr. Willard asked, halting his laps long enough to survey us.
Everyone but the corgi’s owner raised a hand.
“How many of you have discovered your dog chewing on something he shouldn’t?”
Everyone raised a hand.
“How many of you find that your dog ignores you when you give a command?”
Again, all of us raised our hands.
“Have any of you taught your dog a command?”
Everyone looked at one another. Finally the cell phone lady raised her professionally manicured right hand. “I have,” she said.
“What is the command?”
“I taught him to sit,” she said with a superior-sounding lilt in her voice.
We all looked down at the basset hound. It looked like he did nothing but sit.
“I see,”
Mr. Willard remarked. He also seemed a little skeptical. “Now then, the first thing you need to do if you want to train your dog,” he went on, “is take control. When you are in this class or practicing lessons learned in this class, your dog should be wearing its special choke collar and leash.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly rotated on his heels, inspecting each dog-owner pair. When he got to me and Seamus, he paused and walked up to us. I ducked my head reflexively. I knew exactly what was coming.
“Where is his choke collar?” he asked.
“In my backpack,” I replied, gesturing to where it lay against the wall.
He looked a little perturbed. “Why isn’t your dog wearing it?”
“I just . . . I thought it seemed sort of . . . mean.”
It was as if I’d hit a magic switch. Mr. Willard turned to the rest of the class and announced loudly, “Disciplining your dog is not being cruel. These methods you will learn, while they may seem harsh at first, are necessary to establish the fact that you are in control.” He said all this with the repetitive cadence of a practiced speech. Apparently I hadn’t been the only one to have such misgivings. Pivoting back toward me, he said more quietly, “Don’t worry. You aren’t hurting him when he wears the collar. Think of it as a wall. You can’t hurt someone with a wall, although they can walk into it. But then they learn not to. Do you understand?”
“I guess so,” I mumbled. Actually I had no idea what he was rambling on about, but I realized I had to do what he said if I was going to give this class a real chance.
“Good.” He smiled encouragingly. “Go ahead and put the collar on him, and we’ll get started on the first lesson.”
I wrestled Seamus over to my pack and pulled out the choke collar. It looked innocent enough, but its name conjured up images of iron shackles and metal racks and other sadistic devices. It’s just a wall, I told myself, still not quite grasping the metaphor.
“It’s all right. Come here,” I said, pulling Seamus closer. He seemed to pick up on my thinly veiled trepidation and went all stiff. His legs locked straight and his head jerked back. I pulled the leash hand over hand and he glided toward me, like the incredible unbending dog.
I should have known better than to unclip him from his buckle collar without somehow restraining him, but everyone was watching and I wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe I just thought he’d remain statuelike long enough for me to switch collars. I don’t know. In any case, the second I undid the clasp, he bolted away so fast, I could have sworn I saw one of those curlicue cartoon streaks. Round the classroom he ran, skirting the corgi, leaping over the bassett hound, and giving Natasha a wide berth.
“Seamus! Come here!” I yelled futilely as I ran after him.
By the time I finally trapped him and held him down long enough to attach the new collar and leash, the class had wasted a good ten minutes waiting on us.
I was beginning to wonder if this was worth the time and the tuition of one hundred thirty-five dollars. What if Seamus flunked? What would happen then? And why did I have to get professional help anyway? Why couldn’t he just do what I asked?
Suddenly I was beginning to understand some of the frustration my mom must feel toward me.
After class we headed to the park to practice. With the choke collar on, Seamus did a better job of not bolting and throwing me off guard. Any time he tried, the collar would catch and he would automatically rear back.
I still felt guilty, though. It seemed like he’d been flashing me mournful looks ever since I first wrestled the thing onto him. However, I also realized this could be the first dog walk where I didn’t come home limping, bruised, bleeding or mud-stained. I had to admit it was working.
I walked Seamus to the corner farthest away from the pool and playground—right beside the table where I’d cried all over Matt only a few days earlier. Just looking at it made my skin go tingly.
We came to a halt a couple of yards from the table. After scanning the area to make sure no one was watching, I turned toward Seamus. “Sit?” I tried, hoping I wouldn’t have to use the choker.
Seamus cocked his head at me, but otherwise didn’t move.
“Sit,” I said again.
He stamped his feet excitedly and barked.
“Okay, okay. We’ll do it the hard way.”
I pressed down on his rear end while yanking up with the leash. “Sit,” I said, drawing the word out.
Seamus sat.
“Yes! Good boy!” I stroked his back vigorously.
I made him sit over and over again, praising him each time and rewarding him with pats and cuddles. Then it was on to the homework: teaching Seamus to stay sitting.
I dug the folded photocopied sheet from my pack and read Mr. Willard’s directions. They seemed easy enough. Get the dog to sit. Signal for him to stay. Move a short distance away, making sure the dog remains sitting. Count to five.
“We can do that, right boy?” I asked, returning the paper to my book bag. Seamus smiled and wagged his back end.
“Okay, boy. Sit.” I pushed and pulled him into the correct stance. “Good! Now st—”
Seamus jumped on me, panting and wriggling, eager for his reward.
“No! Not yet. You have to stay. Stay.”
I decided to try again, only this time I wouldn’t praise him until after he stayed put.
“Sit,” I said, repositioning him. I turned and walked a few steps away. But when I spun back around, there he was right behind me, looking oh-so-proud of himself.
“No!” I groaned, grabbing a handful of my hair.
“Hey! What’s going on?” a familiar voice sounded behind us.
I looked back and saw Matt jogging toward us in his running attire, his skin dewy with sweat.
As usual, my heart did its little happy dance at seeing him—not unlike Seamus’s hyper, slobbery greetings whenever I returned from classes. But at the same time, I was a little annoyed by the interruption.
“Hi,” I said. “We’re just practicing.”
“Obedience class?” He stooped over to pet Seamus, who was literally choking himself trying to get at Matt.
“Yeah. We had our first class today.”
“How’d it go?”
“Uh . . . pretty good.” I could feel my cheeks ignite. “Okay, I guess.”
“So, what are you practicing?”
“The sit and stay.”
“Cool. Want some help?”
“No. It’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“I don’t mind. I just finished my run and I don’t need to be anywhere for a while.” He gave Seamus a final pat and sat down on top of the picnic table. “Let’s see what he can do.”
“Okay,” I said, biting back my annoyance. I really didn’t want or need an audience right then. Or the distraction of a really cute guy.
I stood next to Seamus, leash in hand. “Sit,” I said, moving him into place. Slowly, quietly, I backed away and held up my left hand. “Stay.”
As soon as the word left my mouth, Seamus ran right up to me.
“No!” I groaned irritably. “Listen, Seamus. Sit.” He sat. “Now stay.” I held my palm right in front of his face. He licked it and leaped to his feet. “No, no, no!”
My face was roasting and I refused to glance over at Matt lest I spontaneously combust from embarrassment. This just couldn’t be that hard. Maybe if I tried again, this time taking it real slow.
“Sit.” At least that part was going well. I barely needed to touch Seamus now to get him to obey. “Now . . .” I stepped in front of him and hunkered down.
“You know what you should do?” Matt said.
I ignored him and held up my right palm. “St-a-a-y— oof!”
Seamus bounded toward me so fast, it caught me off guard and knocked me flat. I heard a yelp as my left arm flailed backward, yanking the leash and choke collar. For a long moment, I just lay there, staring at the sky overhead and quietly fuming. Suddenly Matt’s face loomed into view.
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“Can I make a suggestion?” he asked, holding out a hand.
I grabbed hold and let him hoist me up. “What?” I grumbled, trying to avoid his eyes.
“Your voice is too soft. You don’t sound firm enough.”
“Fine. Whatever,” I grumbled.
“Don’t give up. Try again, and this time say it like you really mean it.” He sat back down on the bench, resting his elbows on the tabletop behind him. All he needed was a box of Milk Duds and a bucket of popcorn.
Thankfully, Seamus was still in one piece and didn’t seem to be harboring any ill will over the sudden choking. Dusting the dirt off my shorts, I went to stand beside him.
“Walk like you mean it,” Matt called out. “Move like you’re the boss.”
I bit my lip and started pulling up on the leash while simultaneously pressing on Seamus’s haunches. “Sit,” I said.
“Hear the way your voice rises up at the end? You sound like you’re asking a question instead of giving a command.”
I gritted my teeth as I raised my palm toward Seamus. “Stay.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Matt shake his head. “You did it again. You sound real unsure of yourself. If you listen to your instincts, you—”
“Do you mind?” I whirled around, shouting at him. “How can I even hear my instincts with you talking all the time?”
Even as I yelled, I knew I was freaking a little too much, but I couldn’t help it. All my frustration had built to a critical mass and was now spouting out of its own accord. Matt was a sweet guy, not to mention really hot, but I was getting real tired of him wandering into the middle of my most embarrassing moments.
“I didn’t ask to be coached!” I went on. “Believe it or not, I want to do this by myself!”
For a few seconds, my voice rang out over the treetops. Then it was like someone hit a giant Mute button. Mockingbirds quit singing, cicadas quit whirring, even the wind stopped rustling the leaves. There was only the faint throbbing of blood through my skull and Seamus’s lonely whimper.
Matt’s grin widened as he stood and walked past us, heading for the sidewalk. “See?” he said, breaking into a run. “I knew you had it in you.”
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