Dog Training The American Male Read online

  DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

  L.A. Knight

  Copyright © 2013 by L. A. Knight. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to:

  [email protected]

  Visit L. A. Knight on the World Wide Web at:

  LAKnightEntertainment.com

  Ebook Layout by Stanley Tremblay, www.findtheaxis.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  SAMPLE - VOSTOK: Loch 2

  From the author…

  This is the first of a series of novels in which I hope to launch a comedic trek into the publishing world. If you were expecting a romance novel, then you’re humping the wrong leg. Dog Training the American Male (loosely based on actual events and experiences) is more Wedding Crashers than War and Peace and if you find yourself relating to any of these bizarre characters then I’m guessing you’re either married, own a dog, live in Boca Raton, or use Shades of Gray as a coffee table book. If it generates a laugh then you possess a superior intellect and I’ve done my job.

  My father believed that laughter is the best medicine. He gave me my sense of humor and a lifetime of love and wisdom and left us far too soon. This book was my therapy in dealing with his passing; a percentage of the proceeds of which will go to the foundation at the South Florida Bone Marrow and Stem Cell Transplant Institute which is involved in an exciting new Phase I & II FDA-approved protocol designed to cure solid tumor cancers. If you’d like to learn more or place a donation, please go to www.ZapCancer.org . Their success would put a smile on my face . . . and could save a loved one’s life.

  My thanks to Stanley Tremblay, editor Barbara Becker, the amazing James Gelet, and the kind fans of author Steve Alten who probably purchased the e-book just to read the first two chapters of his next novel. I hope you’ll give Dog Training a read after you rush to the back of the book to read the free excerpt. Please spread the word if you like Dog, or better yet post a review at Amazon to combat the dog haters/cat lovers among us who have no lives, thus the time and energy to surf Amazon and castrate hard-working authors like a frustrated community college English teacher stuck in the house on a weekend bender with no cable.

  Yeah, you know who you are Dr. Schecter! C-minus my ass!

  Blessings.

  L. A. Knight

  NANCY

  Nancy Beach’s hazel eyes snapped open in panic, her heart pounding as if it was chugging blood from a water cooler. You fell asleep! What time is it? Did you miss the interview?

  She nearly lost her breakfast when she saw the credits rolling on the greenroom’s flat screen television. Then she saw the digital clock.

  Nine-fifty seven. Oh, God . . . thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  She realized she was no longer alone in the Today Show guest waiting room. An angelic child with blonde curls occupied the chair to her left, the eight-year-old’s feet dangling over a cushion as she read the Wall Street Journal.

  Impressed, Nancy asked, “Are you really reading that?”

  “The future looks bleak. Mother says I need to be prepared. Why is that disgusting man staring at you?”

  Nancy turned to her right where a one-legged Hell’s Angel biker was gazing at her from across the fake glass coffee table like a Rottweiler in heat. In return, she offered a polite smile. “Is there something on your mind?”

  The biker grinned, continuing to stare at the perky mounds of flesh pressing against her cream-colored blouse.

  “Kathy Lee and Hoda starts in one minute. Do you really think it’s necessary to make me feel so uncomfortable before my interview?”

  The little girl folded back her page, glancing at the Fortune 500 stocks. “He can’t make you feel anything. Why are you giving him all your power?”

  “I’m not. I’m just trying to reason—”

  “He’s a mongrel. He doesn’t possess the social capabilities to reason.”

  Nancy whispered, “But he only has one leg.”

  “Yes, and he’s mentally raping you with the one on the right. Tell him he either takes a hike, or you’ll punt his frank and beans up his asshole with your size eight Pradas.”

  The biker’s smug smile evaporated. Struggling to stand using his crutch, he hobbled into the corridor, grumbling to himself.

  Nancy’s flesh tingled as the theme music for The TODAY Show with Kathy Lee and Hoda pumped out of the flat screen television.

  The little girl continued to scan the stock index while offering advice. “Predators sense fear. Are you really ready for your interview? Those two bitches will eat you alive if you don’t bring your A game.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “You’d better be more than ready. Your Arbitron ratings are in the toilet. The TODAY Show booking is manna from heaven . . . a make-it-or-break-it moment.”

  “I prepped for weeks. I’ve got my six success points down-pat, and two really amusing antidotal stories – one for single women, one for married ladies. I’m just not sure how to get the men interested.”

  “I suppose you could flash them your tits; it’s keeping them interested that always gets you in trouble.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dark clouds are forming on your horizon . . .sorry, just reading your horoscope. You’re a Libra, yes? I saw it on your Facebook bio. Uh-oh.” The child pointed to the television where Hoda and Kathy Lee were taste-testing wine with their first guest -- a French chef.

  Nancy watched, horrified. “Look at them! They’re sucking down Chateau Margaux like it was drawn from the Fountain of Youth. They’ll be toasted by the time—”

  “Mrs. Beach, we’re ready for you.” The associate producer, a black woman in a navy collared shirt, khaki pants, headphones and sneakers entered the greenroom.

  “It’s Dr. Beach, actually. I h
ave a doctorate and an MBA . . . it should be in my intro.”

  “Got it right here. If you’ll follow me, and watch your step.”

  “Dead woman walking,” muttered the blonde-haired eight-year-old, turning another page.

  Nancy followed the associate producer down a restricted access corridor past the make-up room. “That little girl – who is she?”

  “Just another child prodigy destined for mediocrity.” The producer stopped at the stage-right entrance of Studio A. “Wait here.”

  A sound man joined them, clipping the business end of a pencil eraser-size microphone to the collar of Nancy’s blouse, the battery pack to the back of her charcoal-gray skirt.

  Through a maze of booms, bright lights, and mobile cameras trailing thick black power cords, she spotted her quarry. Kathy Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb were “in-commercial” while an assistant prepped them for their next segment.

  Nancy closed her eyes; mentally reciting her radio host mantra like it was the Lord’s Prayer: I am the keeper of my own fate, emancipating myself from the self-imposed bonds of my gender. I am the keeper of my own fate, emancipating myself from the self-imposed bonds of my gender. I am the keeper of my own fate . . .

  “And we’re back. Hoda, I just love Miami, I wish we could stay here more than a week. Do you love Miami as much as I do?”

  “Absolutely. But do you know what I love more than Miami, Kathy Lee? Thursdays. And today is Thursday, which means it’s time for another episode of Okay—Not Okay.”

  “Right you are, Rooda woman . . . oops. Did I just say Rooda?”

  “You called me rude!”

  “It was the wine, my lips are numb. You know I’d never call you rude . . . unless of course you made a comment about my belly flab.”

  Nancy’s pulse ticked upward. Come on, ladies, I’m losing precious seconds of air time.

  “Anyway, Ho-down, this morning we’re going to be discussing relationships.”

  “Which brings us to our next guest, a relationship counselor who hosts a local radio show in West Palm Beach called Love’s a Beach. Let’s welcome . . . Dr. Nancy Beach.”

  The producer gestured.

  Nancy walked into the blinding lights and audience applause. She waved to no one in particular then took the vacant stool on Kathy Lee’s left, her eyes straying to the two Teleprompters.

  “Love’s a Beach . . . I love that, don’t you, Hoda?”

  “It’s perky. She’s perky. How old are you? Fifteen?”

  Nancy maintained her grin until her cheeks twitched, waiting for the audience’s laughter to subside. “Actually, I’m twenty-six, with a doctorate degree from Penn.”

  Education established. First success point down, five to go.

  Kathy Lee looked impressed. “Penn, wow. Were you called in to console those poor victims assaulted by that creepy football coach, Jerry Sandusky?”

  “That was Penn State, Kathy Lee.”

  “Okay. So were you?”

  “No. I’m actually a relationship and intimacy specialist. My radio show, which airs on WOWF 1160 AM weekdays from noon ‘til three counsels women to better empower them in their business and personal relationships with the Y chromosome . . . men.”

  Points two and three down, three to go . . .

  Hoda nodded to the audience. “Empowering women in their relationships with the Y’s; that really is so important.”

  Kathy Lee smirked. “Believe me, I ask myself why all the time. Why, Frank? Why? Why? Why?”

  “Dr. Beach, how many years have you been married?”

  “Oh, I’m not married.”

  “Engaged?” asked Kathy Lee.

  Nancy’s pulse pumped faster. “I was engaged. Twice. Suffice it to say, neither relationship worked out.”

  “Sounds to me like you could have used a relationship and intimacy counselor. Am I right?” Hoda turned to the audience for support.

  The audience applauded.

  “Oh, stop it, Ho-woman. I’m sure Dr. Bitch . . . oops; did I really just say that? I meant Dr. Beach—”

  “Were they sleeping around on you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your two fiancés,” Hoda asked, continuing her cross-examination. “Did they cheat?”

  “Been there, sister,” Kathy Lee chimed in. “Of course, you don’t toss the baby out with the bath water. Not if you really love one another.”

  “Or if you’re planning someday to run for President,” Hoda added with a snarky smirk.

  Nancy casually dispersed a sweat bead touring her right cheekbone. “It’s funny you should mention that. In my women’s counseling seminars—”

  Kathy Lee interrupted point four. “Are you dating anyone special now?”

  “Dating? No. I’m sort of between boyfriends.”

  “Oh. What about women? Ever think about playing for the home team?”

  “No. But my older sister, Lana—”

  “Forget your lesbian sister,” said Hoda, cutting her off. “How long since you had any?”

  “Since I had any what?

  “Sex. And no counting vibrators or dildos.”

  “Oh, they never count vibrators or dildos,” Kathy Lee chirped, addressing the studio audience. “Why is that, I wonder? And who exactly is they?”

  “Shh. I want to hear her answer. C’mon, Dr. Beach . . . when’s the last time you felt a man’s sausage squeezed between those silky twenty-six-year-old gymnast thighs?”

  Nancy’s pulse danced along her neck, her rattled psyche seconds from a full-blown meltdown. How would Hilary Clinton handle the assault? Would Sheryl Sandberg dignify the inquisition with a response? “Hoda, for now I’ve chosen to prioritize my career over my social life.”

  “Don’t avoid the question; just give us a time-frame. Six months?”

  “I, uh—”

  “Longer?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a year.”

  Kathy Lee’s eyes widened. “A year? You’re twenty-six and you haven’t had sex in a year? Good God, did you join a convent?”

  The audience roared, encouraging another assault by Hoda. “Listen, sweetie, take some advice – use it or lose it. Youth is like a man who has hit thirty – it only comes around once. Before you know it you’ll be forty, injecting Botox like it was heroin. Then you’ll hit fifty and you’ll be waking up every hour with night sweats and hot flashes . . . am I right, Kathy Lee or am I right?”

  Kathy Lee nodded. “Menopause. They should call it women-o-pause.”

  “Wait, wait, I just realized something,” Hoda said, facing her audience. “How can a talk show radio therapist advise her callers about marriage when she’s never been married, relationships when she isn’t in one, or sex when she isn’t getting laid? That seem strange to you, Kathy Lee?”

  “Like a three-input ding-dong . . . can you imagine? Hey sex-doctor, my birth canal is a two-lane highway compared to your unused twat.”

  Nancy’s retort caught a dry spot in her throat – and suddenly she couldn’t speak!

  “Good one, Kathy Lee, I bet blondie’s vag is so tight, she uses it to store loose change.”

  “Unlike you, Ho-Ho. You could hold two Gucci purses and a Dooney and Bourke handbag in that man cave of yours . . . oh hell, I just peed my pants.”

  “Aaaaahhhh!”

  * * * * *

  NANCY BEACH SHOT up in bed, her heart pounding, her Penn Quaker Athletics tee-shirt soaked in sweat. Hyperventilating, it took her a full thirty seconds to realize that she was in bed in her sister’s apartment, that it was all just a dream.

  Wow.

  The emerald glow from the digital alarm clock read 5:13 a.m. Reaching for a clothing drawer; she pulled out a clean tee-shirt, stripped and changed, then resettled herself beneath the quilt, her “inner Freud” providing a post-game analysis of her dream.

  The blonde kid . . . obviously that was me – a child prodigy destined for mediocrity. And Hoda and Kathy Lee . . . their barbed responses -- a window into my own neurosis. The b
iker – another man waiting to take advantage of my kindness . . . unless it was Dad? The eight-year-old telling the adult me to kick him in the balls, to take control of my life. I really had it together when I was a kid . . .God, what the hell happened to me?

  Stop!

  That’s victim-speak. So you went through a few bad relationships . . .big deal. You’re focusing on your career now . . .it’s definitely needed. Only my career as a radio host and relationship counselor deals with relationships, rendering my advice more theoretical rather than organic – which is why my ratings suck.

  Stop!

  You’re a Penn graduate, a qualified psychologist with an MBA. You don’t need a Y in your life to teach women how to secure a place for themselves at the workplace table; you don’t need to be groped on a blind date by a junior partner in a law firm in order to teach women how to speak up more in board meetings . . .and whoda-hell names their kid Hoda anyway?

  It took ten minutes before Nancy’s toxic thoughts yielded to exhaustion, her breathing settling into a soothing rhythm . . .

  The heart-stopping whrrrrrrrr of a blender violated the early morning silence, reigniting Nancy’s pulse. Eyes wide open she stared at the ceiling, her blood simmering as she waited for the cursed food processor to cease. When it continued into a second minute, Nancy kicked off the blanket and leaped out of bed, her bare feet striding toward the door—

  —her right foot planting itself firmly in the plastic container of kitty litter; a gravel-coated nugget squeezing between her big toe like silly putty.

  She looked up at God, exasperated. “All right already, I get it. Enough with the stupid metaphors!”

  Her sister’s tabby poked its head inside the tiny bedroom, the cat’s audible protest obliterated by the blender.

  “I hate you too, Madonna.”

  Walking to the bathroom on her heel, she stepped inside the bathtub and rinsed off the cat turd from between her toes. Drying her foot, she headed for the kitchen, intent on silencing the annoying blender.

  Poised before Nancy, back to her, was a shirtless bodybuilder possessing the deeply-tanned steroid-enhanced posterior physique of a young Arnold Schwarzenegger. The top of the bodybuilder’s red unitard remained rolled down around the sculpted hourglass waist to the matching sweatpants. Powerful rear deltoids rippled as the Adonis’s arms swung back in a slow stretch, causing the wing-like Latisimus dorsi to dance.