Dog Training The American Male (10 page)

 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.”