Dog Training The American Male (22 page)

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Suddenly my hootie feels as cold
as ice. Jacob, be a good son and tell these cheap bastards to turn up the
heat.”

“Ma, it’s ninety degrees in
here.”

Selma Krawitz joined them. The
silver-haired senior and queen of the women’s gin rummy league pointed beneath
Carmella’s wheelchair. “Good grief, C.C., you dropped trou again. Your giggle
flower’s buck-naked to the vinyl.”

Jacob looked beneath the chair.
“Jesus, Ma. How’d you manage to lose this?” His face contorted involuntarily as
he retrieved the adult diaper.

“Don’t be a drama queen. I didn’t
soil it. I wear them to keep my bare ass warm.”

The men turned like tumbling
dominoes to stare at Carmella.

“Look at ‘em, dirty old men. Hey,
Selma, watch this!” Carmella lifted both legs in the air, offering the men an
unobstructed three second beaver shot. “First one’s free, boys. The rest’ll
cost you next month’s social security check.”

“Jesus, Ma—stop!”

“Relax, I’m performing a civic
duty; the old farts’ hearts can use the exercise.”

Across the room, Truman Cabot was
seated at his private table. The retired millionaire and founder of Cabot
Enterprises was dressed in a bathing suit, bathrobe, bathing cap, and swim goggles,
having just completed his evening walk in the pool. Saliva oozed from the old
man’s open mouth as he stared at the wheelchair flashing vixen.

“Mr. Cabot?”

“Look at that hellcat. Goddam,
she makes my blood boil.”

Nancy glanced over her shoulder
at Carmella Cope, who was spinning around in her wheelchair, her spread legs
held high to catcalls.

Oh dear God . . . 
“Sir,
would you like to meet her?”

Mr. Cabot looked up as if seeing
her for the first time. “You know the goddess?”

“She’s my boyfriend’s mother. I’m
Nancy . . . Dr. Beach.”

“You’re my doctor?”

“No, sir. I work at your
daughter’s radio station. My show used to be called
Life’s a Beach.
I
recently switched it to
Dog Training the American Male
. I’m the host,
Nancy Beach.”

“You host the doggy show?”

“Actually, sir, it’s a
relationship show. I use dog training techniques to empower women . . . and
men. I could teach you how to begin a relationship with the goddess.”

“One million dollars.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hook me up with the goddess and
I’ll pay you a million dollars.”

Nancy’s pulse raced. “Stay right
here!” She crossed the room, her mind on fire.
Be nice. Flatter her. Show
her respect, build trust. And if that doesn’t work . . . drug
the bitch.

“Go on, Ma. Apologize to Nancy.”

Carmella averted her gaze.
“Sorry.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry,
Mrs. Cope. The mother-son bond is forever. I only hope you’ll allow me to get
to know you better so I can be a part of your life.”

Carmella looked up, suspicious.
“Who’s the old fart you were talking to?”

“His name is Truman Cabot. His
daughter owns the radio station where I work. It would mean the world to me if
you’d allow me to introduce him to you.”

“Not interested.”

“Ma—”

“I’m already seeing two men.”

“Nancy’s not asking you to date
him, just to say hello.”

“Eh . . .”

“Please, Mrs. Cope.”

“Fine. If it’ll shut you up.”

Nancy waved Mr. Cabot over.

“Jacob, help me sit up . . . I
think I may have pulled something in my gynnie. Might have to see your brother;
bet that would send him running back to brain surgery school.”

“Truman Cabot, I’d like you to
meet Carmella Cope.”

Mr. Cabot offered her a
denture-filled smile.

“What are you grinning at, you
old fool?”

“You look just like my beloved
Rachel, just before she died.”

“And you look like an enema. Take
off that ridiculous bathing cap, you’re embarrassing me.”

He peeled the rubber cap from his
silver-haired skull. “Go out with me and I’ll buy you a Mercedes.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in a
Kraut car. Besides, I’m already seeing Goldman and Schwartz.”

“You’re dating a law firm?”

“I’m a free-wheeler, Cabot. Only
you’re not my type.”

“I’m every widow’s type—an
eighty-two year old with a three-hundred million dollar bank account, a bad
heart, and a case of Viagra.”

Carmella reached for her
pincer-cane, using it to part Truman Cabot’s robe—revealing a sagging chest and
a paunch belly that obscured a red Speedo bathing suit and whatever lay
beneath. “Like I said, you’re not my type.”

Cabot panicked. “I was just in
the pool. You have to allow for shrinkage.”

“Looks like it’s been shrink-wrapped.
Now beat it, Richie Rich, before I use my gripper to check your prostate.”

Dejected, Mr. Cabot glanced at
Nancy and left.

DOG
TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

Lesson Five: DEALING WITH SEPARATION ANXIETY

Spencer watched approvingly
as Nancy walked Sam up and down the sidewalk using the long leash. “Very good. I
think that’s enough for today.”

“Thank God. How about an iced
tea?”

“That would be lovely. First,
let’s see if Sam remembers his new command.”

Nancy detached the leash from the
dog’s choker collar. “Sam, house!”

The German Shepherd sprinted
through the open backyard gate and entered his dog house.

Spencer followed Nancy into the
enclosed yard, locking the gate behind him.

The moment they were inside the
house, Sam went wild, sprinting around the yard before digging in the garden.

“Look at him, Spencer. He does
this every time I leave for work. Damn you, dog! I just planted those
Bromeliads!”

Spencer watched the German
Shepherd tear apart the row of colorful red plants. “I’d say Sam has a bad case
of separation anxiety.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“My dear, I never joke when it
comes to the welfare of a canine. Separation anxiety is the second most common
reason dogs are abandoned by their owners and eventually euthanized. Remember,
dogs are pack animals; being left alone is against their nature. A dog
suffering from anxiety will bark excessively, can become destructive, and, if
given the opportunity, will defecate in the house. The animal may become so
nervous that it will chew parts of their own body down to the bone. I knew of
one dog that chewed on its tail so much the appendage had to be amputated.”

Great . . . another
roommate suffering from panic attacks.
“Okay, Obi Wan, what am I supposed
to do?”

“For now, I’d suggest walking Sam
before you leave for work every day. Unfortunately, a dog of this size and
intelligence will need something more stimulating to fill your void—at least
until he accepts you as his pack leader. My wife and I had the same problem
with Tilda when we adopted her.”

“I bet your wife would have
preferred a small white foofie dog.”

“Actually, Kate liked the bigger
breeds. When we first met, she had a one-hundred-and-seventy pound
Newfoundland.”

“I’d love to meet her—your wife,
not the dog.”

“Unfortunately, she passed away a
few years ago. Breast cancer.”

“I’m so sorry. I lost my father
to stomach cancer.”

“It’s a frightful disease.”

“Do you have any children?”

“A daughter, she’s about your
age. Married an Aussie; now they live in Melbourne with my three-year-old
grandson. I suppose I’m suffering from my own separation anxiety.”

“Have you tried dating? My mother
was against it at first, now she’s on a senior single’s cruise—at least she
was. God knows where she is today.”

“No actual dates, though I’ve
attended a few social functions where I live. Sadly, the women tend to be
either hounds or terriers.”

“Where do you live? The American
Kennel Club?”

Spencer smiled. “Sorry, old
habit. I tend to segregate women into show categories. Terriers are your
yappers
,
women who drone on endlessly. Hounds are the
sniffers
; always prying
into your affairs, wanting to know everything from the place you were born to
the last time you had a solid bowel movement. Essentially they want to know if
you’re suitable for marriage. Sporting breeds are your Boca bitches—eye candy
relegated to young men or the eccentric rich.”

“I know I’ll regret asking, but
what am I?”

“Well, at first I assumed you
were a Toy—either a Shih Tzu or miniature poodle, but as I’ve gotten to know
you I see you more as a working bitch—someone who seeks her own independence. I
think a Doberman Pinscher suits your style.”

“Pretty profound. Just out of
curiosity, what was your wife?”

“Kathy? Definitely a Herder, like
your German Shepherd. Loyal to a fault, excellent with kids. But, as you can
see, my herding days are over. Truth be told, it would be nice to find a
sporting dog, certainly not an Irish Setter—God help me, perhaps a retriever or
better yet, an English Springer Spaniel, something with a little fight in her.”

“I know one! She’s single and
loves dogs. Her name’s Anita. What if I set you up on a blind date?”

“I don’t know. How physically
impaired is she? Can she see shadows?”

“No, no, she’s not blind. The
date would be the first time the two of you would meet—we call that a blind
date.”

“Smashing. You set me up with my
doggy date, and I’ll bring over the equipment you’ll need to help Sam with his
separation anxiety.”

DOG
TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

Lesson Six: BREEDING RITUALS

Nancy drove out
of the gated community, Helen Cope in the passenger seat. “Cabot really offered
you a million dollars if Carmella would date him?”

“Actually, he said ‘hook-up.’ I
wasn’t sure he meant a date or sex.”

“Either way, it’s like paying
someone to give you malaria. Does this guy even have that kind of money?”

“Enough to date a hundred
Carmella Copes.”

“And the old bat refused?”

“She took one look at the size of
his Johnson and sent him on his way. Poor guy just got out of the pool. But you
know what they say about first impressions. I asked Jacob to work on her, but
he refused to question
Mommie Dearest
.”

“What makes you think she’d
listen to me?”

“You’re her daughter-in-law, the
mother of her three grandsons. All you have to do is help me convince Carmella
to give Mr. Cabot a chance and we’ll split the bounty.”

“Let me tell you a little
something about my relationship with Carmella Cope. The first time we met, she
called me a whore. She finally stopped a year later when Vin asked me to marry
him and he threatened not to invite her to the wedding. A year later I was at
my baby shower, eight months pregnant with Wade when Carmella pulled me aside,
drunk as a skunk and said, ‘I know what you’re up to, Helen of Troy. After it’s
born, I’m having the baby’s blood tested just to prove to Vincent that it’s not
his kid.”

“My God, she actually said that?”

“Nancy, I was so pissed I refused
to allow her to see Wade until he was ten months old. She’s mellowed slightly
over these last few years, I think it’s because she’s getting laid, or whatever
it is these old people do in these senior cities of theirs.”

“I guess that means you’re out.”

“For half-a-million bucks? Oh, I’m
in. In a worst-case scenario, I can always use the money to hire someone to
kill her.”

* * * *
*

It was dusk
when Spencer Botchin assaulted
the two flights of concrete stairs to reach apartment 3-F, the bouquet of roses
held firmly in his left hand. He took a moment to wipe perspiration from his
brow, and then knocked on the door.