Dog Training The American Male (11 page)

“Fine! Keep the damn dog!” More
angry than hungry, Nancy attempted to push her chair back in order to stand,
but the dog refused to budge. Maneuvering sideways, she managed to squeeze her
way onto her feet, only to kick the water bowl, spilling half its contents onto
her bare feet.

“Ugh!” She stormed out of the kitchen
and back inside the master bedroom, bolting the door behind her.

Jacob went after her. He tried
the door, only it was locked. “Nance? Can we talk about this please?”

She opened the door a minute
later, shoving his clothes and toothbrush against his chest. “This is my
bedroom, roommate. You can take the guest room. You can also do your own
laundry. And cleaning. And cooking!”

She slammed the door—

—the noise covering up the
schlerping
sound of eggplant parmesan being licked off Nancy’s plate as Sam—standing
on his hind legs, devoured the Italian take-out.

DEAD
MAN WALKING

The grayness of
dawn peeled away the South Florida night in its humid vapor. A surge of traffic
converged upon Interstate 95, forcing motorists to adhere to the speed limit.
Trash trucks crawled through a maze of neighborhoods, their rear orifices
squealing as garbage men in overalls fed the vehicles piles of refuse.

Monday morning. Rush hour and
children heading off to school, Americans shaking off the remains of the
weekend.

Inside the house with the
uprooted scarlet Bromeliads, the sound and scent of dueling sphincters soured the
air.

Stretched out on the La-Z-boy
recliner was Jacob Cope, his pale hairy right leg curled over the leather arm
of the chair. Stretched out on the sofa was Sam, the dog’s hairy right hind leg
mirroring that of its sleeping master—man and dog on their backs, their rectums
blowing farts to welcome the day.

At precisely seven forty-nine, the
door to the master bedroom was unlocked and opened. Nancy emerged, dressed in
her business attire. A meeting between the radio psychologist, the station
owner, and the new programming director had been scheduled for nine a.m. sharp,
and she would arrive on Vincent Lombardi time, if not sooner. All she needed
was a cup of coffee, a cup of non-fat yogurt, and her
Tory Birch
flats.
She had the right shoe, the left one was still missing.

Must be in the den . . .

She entered the kitchen to start
the coffee, only to be greeted by a trail of feathers. Still a bit sleepy, she
followed the goose down into the den -- her blood pressure soaring as her eyes shifted
from her mangled throw pillow to the four-legged mongrel stretched out on her
new sofa. “Get the hell off of my sofa, you mangy mutt!”

Startled awake, Sam slunk off the
couch, his tail tucked between his hind quarters.

Nancy turned to the two-legged
mongrel snoring in the La-Z-boy recliner. “Jacob, wake up.”

The shaggy man belched in his
sleep and rolled over on his side.

“Jacob!” Grabbing the remains of
the pillow, she beat him over the head, feathers flying across the room like
volcanic ash.

Jacob sat up, groggy. “Wha?”

“Your dog chewed up my good
pillow!”

He rubbed his eyes, looking
around dumbfounded. “You sure it was Sam?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe an
alligator snuck in last night and . . .” Nancy paused, sniffing
the air. “What’s that smell?” Leaving the den, she entered the hallway . . . and
gagged. “Jacob!”

Jacob rolled out of the La-Z-boy
recliner to join Nancy, who was pinching her nose at the stench of the ceramic
white tiled floor which has been cluster-bombed with smoldering brown blobs of
doggy diarrhea.

Jacob covered his mouth. “He must
have gotten into the eggplant. I’ll get a mop, it’ll be okay.”

“It’s not okay. Do you know why
it’s not okay, Mr. Y?”

“Who’s Mr. Y?”

“Mr. Y is the tiny voice in every
man’s head that says, don’t worry about how your actions might affect other
people, just do it. Do you know where that tiny voice is coming from, Jacob?”

“From my dick?”

“It’s coming from your male ego.”

Nancy pushed past him, returning
to the den. She will grab her coffee and yogurt and escape this Monday morning speed-bump
of aggravation. She will seek refuge in her car and listen to her
Best of
Enya
CD. She will meet with her boss and the new programming director,
excitedly accept their ideas for marketing her show, then devour a spinach
salad for lunch before performing an amazing radio broadcast. In essence, the
unflappable Nancy Beach, Ph.D. will use her willpower and emotional self-control
to change what could have been a disastrous morning into a glorious day . . . only
first she must find her other shoe.

Retracing her steps, she returned
to the master bedroom and located the missing
Tory Birch
flat—in the
dog’s mouth.

Tail wagging, Sam stood in her
doorway, the canine’s teeth biting down on her prized leather shoe.

“Drop it now fleabag,” Nancy
growled, “or I swear I’ll give you away to a hungry Korean family.”

The German Shepherd dropped down
on its front paws, ready to play.

“Not a chance in hell,” Nancy muttered,
lowering her center of gravity.

The dog bolted past her . . . underestimating
the tenacity of the seething Ivy League grad and former varsity field hockey
goalie, who lunged sideways and tackled the kennel-reeking, four-legged,
one-hundred-and-ten-pound missile of muscle and fur around its hips, her right
hand reaching up to its mouth to secure the shoe.

Only Sam wouldn’t let go,
tug-of-war being far more fun than tag. Rolling out from under Nancy, the dog
regained its footing and backed away in seismic two-foot jerks, dragging its unintended
playmate with it.

Nancy refused to let go; years of
Pilates having prepared her core muscles for this very moment. Balancing on her
free hand and knees, she battled the hound like a mother fighting off a
car-jacker attempting to drive off with her infant.

Rising to the challenge, the dog
shook its head back and forth, saliva flying across Nancy’s undone blouse—Jacob
watching from the kitchen. He’s a dead-man-walking, only he’s unsure of what to
do first—call the tile cleaners, the dog pound, or hurry to the bathroom and
relieve his aching bladder.

With a guttural scream, Nancy
called the end of the fight. She had fought valiantly, but the dog had the
better leverage, its jaws far stronger than her grip. Releasing the shoe, she regained
her feet and limped into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Still wagging its tail, Sam
approached Jacob and dropped the shoe by his feet.

Jacob inspected the mangled
tooth-marked entanglement of spit-soaked leather. “Hey, uh Nance . . . I
got your shoe back.”

THE
CABOTS

It was at 9:03
A.M. – eighteen minutes past Lombardi time -- when Nancy frantically keyed in
at the
Lifestyle
lobby. Ignoring the chocolate-faced receptionist’s wild
hand gestures, she made a beeline straight for her producer, Trish Kieras, who
was waiting anxiously at the end of the hall.

“Olivia Cabot’s already in the
conference room with her father and Pistol Pete. Go!”

Nancy took a deep breath and entered
the conference room.

Seated at the end of an oval walnut
table was Olivia Cabot. The fifty-three-year-old CEO’s face resembled a tan
Kabuki mask, the smooth inanimate look courtesy of an early morning session of
Botox. On Olivia’s left was Peter Soderblom, the station’s new programming
director. Fair-haired and in his late thirties, “Pistol Pete” had been an
associate producer at KYW News Talk Radio in Philadelphia when Olivia had hired
him away to run her radio station.

Three seats over was Olivia’s
eighty-two-year-old father, Truman Cabot. The retired millionaire and founder
of Cabot Enterprises was preoccupied with watching
Jeopardy
on an iPad while
slurping spoonfuls of green pea soup from a Styrofoam take-out bowl.

“Olivia, I am so sorry—”

“Sit down. Peter has something to
discuss.”

The programming director avoided
direct eye contact with the perky blonde radio host. “I’ll keep this short and
sweet: In order to attract bigger sponsors, we’re dropping sixty percent of our
Lifestyle
radio hosts in favor of syndicated talent. Starting Monday,
you’ll be replaced with Dr. Laura.”

Nancy winced, the blow
registering in her gut. “But why?”

“Do you mean Y as in my male
chromosome or why as in why were your winter Arbitron ratings a point-oh-six?”

“I’ve only been on the air six months.
I have some new strategies devised for the third quarter that should bring in
at least a three point five.”

Peter handed her a printout
sheet. “These are results from a radio survey mailed to homes within the
station’s signal strength. According to listeners, you’re not connecting.”

Nancy scanned the paper.
“Thirteen listeners? You’re basing your decision on thirteen listeners? What
about my Internet listeners?”

“The decision’s been made.”
Olivia tapped her father on the top of his head. “Daddy, eat before your soup
gets cold.”

Peter Soderblom’s cell phone rang,
cutting off Nancy’s Hail Mary offer to do her Internet feed topless. “Pistol
Pete, never retreat.” The programming director’s expression dropped. “When did
you figure that out? Yeah, well thanks for fisting me, ass-wipe.” He hung up.
“Olivia, may I speak with you in private?”

“Let’s talk in the lobby, I need
a cigarette.” Olivia turned to Nancy. “Stay here with my father. And do not
give him any sugar.”

Nancy waited until they had left
before turning her attention to the old man. Truman Cabot had a reputation for
supporting the underdog, provided they showed some moxie.

 Moxie was Nancy Beach’s middle
name.

 “Mr. Cabot, we haven’t met yet,
but I’m a big admirer of yours. My name is Nancy Beach . . . 
Doctor
Nancy Beach.” She extended her hand—retracting it as Mr. Cabot picked inside
his ear, then smelled his finger. “I want something sweet.”

The old man returned his
attention to the iPad as Alex Trebeck read the next question. “Politics for
one-hundred dollars: He was elected America’s first black President.”

“Who was George Jefferson?”

“Mr. Cabot, I’m the host of an
up-and-coming radio show on your network called
Life’s a Beach
. Given a
chance, I just know our ratings will climb. Is there any way you might talk to
your daughter and ask her to give our show another ratings book?”

“Got any chocolate?”

“Sir, your daughter said no
sugar.”

“She’s my step-daughter and she’s
a cunt. You want your show—give me something sweet.”

Give it to him. They already
fired me, what else can they do?
She searched through her purse, locating a
miniature York Peppermint Patty. “How’s this?”

Before she could lay out her
terms for the exchange, the old man snatched the candy from her hand, peeled off
the wrapper, and popped the quarter-size chocolate snack into his mouth.

“So, you’ll talk to your daughter
about my show, right? Right, Mr. Cabot?”

The old man’s face turned red.

“Sir, are you all right? Mr.
Cabot?” Nancy’s heart beat wildly in her chest. “Oh, geez -- please tell me
you’re not a diabetic.”

He gasped in silence, his face
turning red.

“Oh my God, you’re choking!” She
patted him on the back, then gave him a vicious slap between his shoulder
blades.

The unchewed, partially melted dark
chocolate peppermint patty flew out of Mr. Cabot’s mouth -- along with the old
man’s hearing aid and his dentures -- everything splattering in the plastic
bowl of green pea soup.

“Oh, God . . .I am
so sorry. Can you breathe? Mr. Cabot?”