Dog Training The American Male Read online

  He located the aspirin by the television controller and returned to the kitchen – for the first time he noticed the face of the wall clock featured a tail-wagging white Bichon.

  Nancy snatched the bottle of aspirin out of his hand and staggered into the den. “The smell of that pizza’s making me sick. I’m going to lie down . . . dammit!”

  “What? What’s wrong now?”

  “The bottle’s empty! Think you could run down to the store and get me some?”

  “Sure. Only the NFL Pre-Game Show is coming on in ten minutes; can it wait until halftime of the Dolphins – Eagles game?”

  She teared up, her emotions lost in a tempest sea. “Do you ever think of anyone but yourself? Just once I’d love to see you make the bed, or throw your dirty clothes in the hamper. Or fold a load of laundry . . . or wash a dish!”

  “Okay okay, I’ll get you some aspirin . . . geez.”

  “Make it Advil. And a box of tampons.”

  “Aw, come on!”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m a man. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Tampons, not maxi-pads. Get the ones that say super-absorbent.”

  “All right already . . .geez.” Jacob grabbed his van keys from a hook and exited through the kitchen door leading out into the garage. Why do women wait until their period comes to buy tampons? It’s like waiting until you have to take a shit to buy toilet paper.

  He recalled Lana’s words the day they moved in together. “Trust me, when my little sister’s doubled over with menstrual cramps, you’re going to need something to change Mrs. Hyde back into Dr. Jekyll.”

  He paused a moment to stare at the large cardboard box containing his sex doll.

  Yoko never needed me to buy her tampons. Or aspirin.

  Or a white foofie dog.

  FOOFIE

  Jacob turned into the drugstore parking lot, his nerves shot. For several minutes he listened to John Lennon sing Mind Games on his 8-track cassette deck before speed dialing his brother’s cell number on his iPhone. “Vin, it’s me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in my van, sitting in front of Walgreens. Nancy practically threw me out of the house to get her tampons and Advil. Vin, I need your advice.”

  “Get the extra-strength.”

  “I’m serious. Things have changed between us. When we first moved in together, everything was great. And now my life has changed in oh so many ways . . .”

  “Douche bag, it’s called the end of the honeymoon phase. You think you were just going to get endless schtuppie without the emotional baggage?”

  “I just want her to stop yelling at me. Do this, do that. Why can’t she put the toilet seat down?”

  “You want my advice? Apologize.”

  “You misunderstood. She’s the one yelling at me. Why would I apologize?”

  “You’re apologizing because God gave you a penis. In the bible it’s referred to as original sin. Adam bit the apple, stuck his schmeckle in Eve and man has been apologizing to women ever since, even though Eve made Adam eat the damn apple. And by the way, if you think it’s bad now just wait until you get married and Nancy pops out a few kids. You’ll be buying stock in Advil.”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right to me.”

  “Jacob, do you want to be right or do you want to get laid twice a week.”

  “Yesterday we got into a fight over which way the toilet paper hangs.”

  “I’ve been married to Helen for fifteen years and I still can’t get her to replace the roll so the paper hangs over the top. Sure, it used to bother me . . . that was my ego talking. Then I realized that by losing I was actually winning.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Women’s brains are wired to rule the nest; it’s the natural order of the jungle. Take the lion, the King of Beasts. Who hunts for food? The lioness. Who takes care of the cubs? The lioness. You know what the male lion does all day? He lays around and licks his balls. Who really wins? The male, that’s who. All you need to worry about are those five days a month when the devil possesses her brain.”

  “Her sister, Lana warned me about those days. She told me to buy Nancy a white foofie dog. She said it would stabilize our home.”

  “Actually, a dog could work. Women need someone to hug and blab all their problems to. Gay men and dogs are great for that. There’s a pet store on Hillsboro Boulevard not far from you. Get her the dog and by tonight she’ll be licking your balls.”

  * * * * *

  JACOB FOUND WAGS and Purr located in a strip mall next to a kosher Chinese restaurant. A litter of kittens occupied the front window pen, enticing passing shoppers to ooh and ahh. Inside, lined up in rows were baby cribs, each padded cell holding a different breed of puppy.

  Jacob entered the store, his presence attracting the attention of a flamboyant gay man in his early forties, dressed in a sky-blue lab coat and white crocs. “Welcome to Wags and Purr. My name is Cyril and I’ll be your adoption counselor. And you are?”

  “Jacob.”

  “Well, Mister Jacob, have I got fabulous news for you. We’ve got kitties for sale, only twenty dollars each. That comes with a litter box and two jingle toys.”

  “Actually, Cyril, I’m shopping for a puppy.”

  “Oh, come on, kittens are fun too. Take home two and I’ll toss in a bag of catnip. Slip some in your pants pocket and your new feline friends will work you like a pro.” Cyril meowed, pawing his own groin.

  Jacob took a step back. “That’s . . . really tempting. But I’m looking for a Bichon. For my girlfriend.”

  “Stupid cats. I can’t even give the damn things away. Okay, Mister Jacob, wash your hands with some anti-bacterial gel and follow me.”

  Cyril waited for him to cleanse before leading him past two cribs of puppies to the last padded container in the row. Inside the crib, standing on its hind legs was an eight-inch-long whimpering white fur-ball of joy.

  The salesman scooped up the adorable nine-week-old Bichon in both hands and cradled it to his face, allowing the puppy to lick his open mouth. “He’s so cute, isn’t hims?”

  Jacob glanced at the price tag. “Sixteen hundred bucks? For a dog?”

  “That’s right, daddy. Plus you’ll need a bowl and a puppy leash, and don’t forget the food. Now he’s had his vaccination—”

  “He?”

  “Yes, handsome. See, some puppies have pee-pees and some don’t. This one does so we call it a he.”

  “What about protection?”

  “I usually wear a rubber.”

  “I meant the dog. Can it be trained to protect my girlfriend?”

  “Why? Is she in danger?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Daddy, this is a Bichon not a Rottweiler. It barks at every noise and pees on the carpet, but it’ll come when you call it—geezus, it sounds just like my boyfriend, Felipe. Trust me, your girlfriend will love him—women love the breed. This little brute is the last one we have left from a litter of six and they just came in on Tuesday. Let me guess . . . this is going to be a surprise.”

  “I’ll say. She’s expecting Advil.”

  “Okay, I have no idea what that means. Tell you what—why don’t you pick out a pretty butch collar and a doggy bowl, then we’ll fill out the paperwork and you can take our precious bundle of love home in a special Wags and Purr puppy box.”

  SAM

  It was nearly five in the afternoon by the time Jacob returned home. Shutting off the engine, he calmed his new best-friend, grabbed the cardboard box off the passenger seat, and exited the van.

  Nancy was lying on the sofa. Doubled up with cramps, she had been calling her boyfriend for the last five hours, but his cell phone had been going straight to his voice mail.

  Hearing Jacob key-in, she muted the television, ready to wage war. “You left five hours ago, where the hell . . .” She sniffed the air, catching a disturbing scent coming from the front of Jacob’s pants. “Oh my
God. You went to a nudie bar!”

  “Nudie bar? I didn’t go to a—”

  Her anger seething, she stood, poking her index finger against his chest. “Do you actually believe a naked woman grinding her stink all over your lap isn’t cheating?”

  “Oh that stink. That’s not from a lap dance. I was being licked.”

  “Get out!”

  “Nancy, it wasn’t another woman . . . it’s a special gift. Something Lana suggested I buy to make us a family.” From behind his back he revealed the pet store box.

  Nancy’s demeanor changed. Cheeks flushed, tears in her eyes, she carefully opened the container . . . removing a dog bowl. “Oh my God, Jacob, oh my God . . . did you buy us a puppy?”

  “Yes I did. He’s in the van, waiting to meet his new mommy!”

  Nancy’s heart raced. Suddenly, her cramps were gone, her rage evaporated. Barefoot, still in her pajamas, she pushed past Jacob and raced out the front door. “Where is he? Where is my precious little puppy?”

  She yanked open the van’s side door—

  —and was instantly bowled over by a black, tan, and burnt-orange tornado of muscle, fur, and slobber that knocked her backwards onto the ground before assaulting her with its tongue and stench.

  The hundred-and-ten-pound male German Shepherd circled Nancy, barking and wagging its tail.

  Jacob attempted to step between them. “Isn’t he amazing? His name is Sam. He’s five years old; I got him at the pound. Can you believe they were going to kill him?”

  Breaking off its lick-frenzy, the dog sniffed an invisible trail to the nearest flower bed, lifted its hind leg, and pee’d.

  Nancy sat up, bewildered. “This isn’t a Bichon. A Bichon is a small, white foofie dog. This . . . this is a horse.”

  “Silly, it’s not a horse, it’s a German Shepherd. They’re loyal and smart, and very protective. The cops use them to sniff out drugs.”

  “And I suppose you left your stash buried in my flower bed?” Nancy pointed over Jacob’s shoulder where the dog was using its front paws to dig out a scarlet Bromeliad.

  “Sam, no! Sorry. I’ll replant that.”

  “Jacob, I don’t want a big dog. How could you make a decision like this without asking me?”

  “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

  “Mission accomplished. Now please take it back.”

  “I can’t do that. Sam’s owner abandoned him. If I bring him back to the pound, they’ll gas him.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “It sort of is. The pound closed twenty minutes ago.”

  Exasperated, Nancy stood, her cramps returning. Doubled over, she hurried back inside the house, slamming the front door.

  Sam circled Jacob, wanting to play.

  “Now what am I going to . . . owff!” Jacob dropped to his knees in pulsating agony, the dog having shoved its long wet nose into his groin, flicking his balls up to his belly like a pinball lever.

  * * * * *

  I AM THE keeper of my own fate, emancipating myself from the self-imposed bonds of my gender . . .

  Four Advil and forty minutes later, Nancy emerged from the master bedroom, her psyche re-composed, her temper cooled. To his credit, Jacob had dinner delivered and laid out on the kitchen table—the aroma of the eggplant parmesan momentarily replacing the overpowering scent of a kennel.

  Jacob was already seated, her boyfriend’s facial expression and body language showing submission. The dog was lying on its side on the linoleum floor by its metal water bowl, panting hot, humid tongue-laced breaths across the room.

  Nancy stepped over the smelly animal and took her usual seat—only Sam’s bulk was preventing her from pulling out the chair. “Can you do something about this?”

  “Here Sam, here boy! Sam, come here!”

  The dog refused to move.

  Jacob shrugged. “Maybe he only understands German?”

  Refusing to switch places, Nancy wedged herself into her chair. Still unable to move the dog, she pushed the table into Jacob’s stomach, forcing him to surrender territory. “What time does the pound reopen?”

  “I don’t know. Tomorrow’s Monday, I’m guessing nine a.m.”

  “You’ll take him back in the morning.”

  “Which means he’ll be gassed by noon. I’m Jewish, Nancy. Gassing innocent beings doesn’t sit well with my people.”

  “Then drop the dog off at the nearest synagogue, I don’t care. This smelly animal is not staying in my house.”

  “What if I bathe him?”

  “No.”

  “If I bathe him, he’ll smell just like a Bichon.”

  “When he’s as small as a Bichon then he can stay. Tonight he sleeps in the garage.”

  “It’s gotta be a hundred degrees out there.”

  “Then let him sleep outside, or in your van. I don’t care, as long as he’s out of my house.”

  “Our house.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said it was your house. Technically, it’s our house. My name’s on the lease, too. I pay half the rent—that makes it our house.”

  “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.