Dog Training The American Male (23 page)

After a minute the door opened,
revealing Anita Goodman. She was wearing a short black leather dress, her
bulging cleavage held together between the plunging neck-line with a leather
string. The matching leather boots rose clear up to her knees.

Spencer’s eyes widened. “Major
Botchin Spencer Sergeant . . . I mean, Spencer Botchin.
I’ll be your blind date for this evening.”

“Anita Goodman.”

“I’ll do my best. I mean, happy
to meet you.” Spencer’s mustache twitched as he imagined Anita in her bra and
thronged panties on all fours while he inspected her body like a dog show judge . . .

“Are those flowers for me?”

“Flowers? Yes.”

She took them and tossed them
inside. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Perhaps you might want to put
them in water?”

“Nah. I’m not big on flowers. I
appreciate the effort – you get one gold star. Next time try candy.”

“Plain, or with peanuts?”

“Surprise me.”

Spencer led her down the stairs
and across the parking lot to his van. He held open the door, then hustled to
the driver’s side and climbed in.

Anita sniffed the air. “Smells
like dog in here.”

Spencer started the van. “Not
just a dog, madam, but eighty-two pounds of sinew and muscle, possessing
bloodlines that trace back to 18th century Europe.”

“Very impressive.”

“Indeed. So, I thought we’d start
with dinner at Ruth-Chris Steakhouse, and then catch the 9:30 showing of
Avengers-2
.”

“Let’s do Thai. And I wanted to
see
Eternal Love
; it’s playing at the Regal.”

“Thai food and a chick-flick? Not
in this lifetime.”

Anita rubbed her left hand along
the inside of Spencer’s thigh. “Eighty-two pounds of sinew and muscle, huh? Is
that when it’s angry?”

Spencer’s eye’s fluttered. “You
know . . . I haven’t had good Asian food in quite some
time.”

* * * *
*

While Spencer was
on his blind date, Nancy
found herself in Mr. Cabot’s three-bedroom suite, helping him on with his cummerbund.
The millionaire was dressed in a classic white dinner jacket, white shirt,
black trousers and a matching bow-tie . . . what the quirky
retiree referred to as his “James Bond pick-up attire.”

Arm in arm, she led him out of
the apartment to the elevators. They rode downstairs to the rec room, which had
been converted into a senior citizen’s rendition of “Casino Royale.” There were
blackjack and poker tables, roulette, and a Wheel of Fortune. Several hundred
residents, dressed in evening wear and dinner jackets were gambling with fake
money provided by the staff, with prizes promised to the top twenty earners at
the end of the night.

Mr. Cabot signed in at the registration
desk and received his envelope of fake money.

Nancy spotted Helen dealing cards
at one of the poker tables. “There she is, dealing cards at Carmella’s table.
The moment you approach, my friend’s arranged for one of the players to give up
their seat. Are you ready to dazzle C. C. Rider with your card-playing skills?”

“Not yet. Give the Viagra another
few minutes to kick in.”

“You took Viagra? I thought you
were here to play poker?”

“I’m here to poke her all right—
poke
her
with my one-eyed trouser snake. Last time Carmella saw it, it was
hiding beneath my two rocks. This time . . . watch out,
sister.”

Why do men get more disgusting
as they age?

“Go on over, Dr. Nancy, I’ll be
there in a two shakes.”

Nancy headed over to the table
where Helen was dealing cards from a shoe. Seated around the green felt from
left to right were Sol Rabinowitz and his hearing-impaired wife, Esther, Morty
Goldman and Carmella, Janie Honeywell, a three-hundred pound red-head
giggle-puss, and Bill Blackmon, a retired cardiologist from Des Moines, Iowa.

“Hi, Helen. How’s it going?”

“Good, Nancy. Are you my relief?”

“Looks that way.”

Carmella watched the two women
suspiciously as they traded places. “What’s
she
doing here?”

“Nancy’s a volunteer, just like
me. Watch out for my mother-in-law, Nance. I think she’s looking at Janey’s
cards using the reflection from her lapel pin.”

The heavyset red-head reached for
her shiny silver
Weight Watchers
pin, causing the lump of jiggling fat
beneath her arm to knock over Carmella’s stack of chips.

“Easy, Rush Bimbo.”

“C.C., have you been looking at
my cards?”

“Of course I’ve been looking at
your cards. So has Doc Blackmon.”

“Actually,” the retired
cardiologist grinned, “I’ve been looking at her breasts. Professionally, of
course.”

Helen glanced over Nancy’s
shoulder to see Mr. Cabot approaching from across the room. She nodded at
Blackmon, who pocketed his chips. “Think I’ll check out the big wheel. Janey,
why don’t you bring the twins over to my apartment later and I’ll raise the
stakes,
heh-heh
.”

“Oh, behave.” She slapped him
playfully on the back, the powerful blow sending him stumbling into Mr. Cabot’s
erection.

“Aww!” Cabot dropped like a sack
of potatoes.

“Oh no!” Nancy rushed over to
him, in full panic. “Mr. Cabot, what’s wrong? You’re turning red. Just stay
calm and breathe. Can you tell me what hurts?”

“My . . . hard . . . my
hard—”

Sol Rabinowitz leaned over and
listened. “He said his heart. My God, he’s having a heart attack! Quick,
somebody get the number for 911!”

Janie Honeywell grabbed Dr.
Blackmon by his arm, tearing the fabric of his jacket as she dragged him over.
“He’s having a heart attack, Doc. Do something!”

“And be sued for malpractice?
Forget it. Allow the man to croak in peace.”

Helen leaned over Nancy. “Hang in
there, Mr. Cabot, an ambulance is on the way.”

“Where’s . . . Carmella?
Must . . . show her—”

Nancy rushed over to Jacob’s
mother’s side. “He’s asking for you.”

“Do I look like a priest?”

“Stop being so selfish!” Nancy led
Carmella by the elbows to Mr. Cabot—

—as whirling scarlet lights
illuminated the rec hall. Seconds later, two EMTs were making their way through
the jittery crowd of seniors, wheeling a crash cart on a gurney.

“Out of the way, folks, give us
room. What seems to be the problem, sir?”

“He says it’s his heart,” Nancy answered.

The EMT stared at the pretty petite
blonde. “Don’t I know you?”

“Yeah,” Carmella said. “She’s
your whore.”

The other Emergency Tech worked
on Mr. Cabot, getting his vitals. “Blood pressure’s 145 over 80, pulse 92.
Where’s it hurt, big guy?”

“My . . . dick.
I took Viagra . . . he hit me in the groin.”

All eyes focused on Mr. Cabot’s
hard-on, wedged painfully beneath his cummerbund.

“What did he say?” squawked
Esther Rabinowitz.

“He said it’s his
schmeckle
.”
Sol yelled back.

“His pickle?”

“Exactly. Play your cards.”

The EMTs loosened Mr. Cabot’s
cummerbund, then strapped him down onto the gurney, his erect penis pitching
tent beneath his trousers.

Nancy stopped them. “Wait. If
it’s not his heart, why are you taking him?”

“His blood pressure’s elevated; it
could be a Viagra overdose. We’ll admit him overnight and keep an eye on it.”

“I don’t understand,” Janie said.
“They’re going to watch his hard-on all night?”

Morty snickered. “
Die Hard 5:
Viagra Stakeout.
”

Carmella leaned over Cabot as
they wheeled him away. “Nice try, Truman, but that’s not the kind of saddle I
ride. Maybe they can fix you while you’re in the hospital.”

DOG
TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

Lesson Seven: EXERCISE

“I have a
dilemma, listeners. A friend of mine—an older gentleman—seeks the company of a
controlling, egotistical woman who won’t give him the time of day. I’m asking
all you dog lovers out there for a solution; give me a call at 561-222-WOWF, or
you can text a solution to star-WOWF on your mobile phone.

“Looks like we have our first
caller; Eric from Lantana. Talk to me Eric.”

“Dr. Beach, life is like a
penis—simple, relaxed, and hanging freely. It’s women who make it hard.”

“Well said, Eric. And if it
wasn’t for women, men would spend their entire day flaccid on the couch,
drinking beer. Next caller: Felicity from Weston. Felicity, do you have a
solution for my hard-up older gentleman?”

“I was just wonderin’ if this
older guy knows how to mow a lawn. ‘Cause if he does, I’ll let him do me doggy
style.”

“He doesn’t mow lawns,
Felicity
.”

“What about Eric? He sounds like
a guy who could trim a mean hedge.”

“Good-bye, Lynnie. Stacey from
Wellington, one of our regulars. Help me out here, Stacey.”

“Nancy, it sounds to me like
you’ve got two Alpha dogs in the mix. My advice is to have the male take on the
role of the submissive partner.”

“How does he do that when the
female refuses to engage him?”

“Does she engage in other
male-female relationships?”

“In fact, she’s allowing two
other males to hump her leg, if you catch my drift.”

“So you have a bitch in heat, but
she’s particular. All your friend has to do is figure out what these other two
males have that he doesn’t have and get it.”

* * * *
*

The white K-9
van was already parked by
the curb when Nancy arrived home from work. Spencer Botchin greeted her with a
limp, a band-aid covering the bridge of his nose.

“My God. What happened to you?”

“Your friend, the English
Springer Spaniel. She doesn’t need a man, she needs a muzzle.”

“Spencer, I am so sorry.”

“Ah, no worries. I’ll be in full
assault gear when we reconvene later tonight. Meanwhile, I’ve brought along a
few accessories to help rid your dog of his separation anxiety. Exercise is the
key to keeping your pet mentally and physically fit, Nancy, and Sam could
certainly stand to lose a few pounds.”

“Isn’t walking exercise?”

“Walking is bonding time, and
with your schedule I suspect you skimp on that, too. Face it, Nancy, your dog
is lethargic. He sits at home all day lacking stimulation, surrounded by a
sensory-blanketing wood fence while he yearns for his pack. What Sam needs is
something to jolt him out of his sedentary ways. Exercise can do that, provided
we make it both fun and challenging.”

Spencer opened the van’s rear
doors. The cage holding Tilda was gone, the space now occupied from floor to
ceiling with a variety of equipment.

* * * *
*

At precisely 6:13
p.m., Jacob Cope parked
his Volkswagen van in the driveway. He felt tired and depressed, stuck in a job
that kept him Just Over Broke, his new career dependent for the moment on a
woman more interested in having sex with him than promoting his act. He
envisioned himself as a hamster on a wheel—perpetually running but getting
nowhere.

The idling van began to heat up,
forcing him to engage reality once more. Shutting off the engine, he pushed
open the rust-encrusted door and slid off the torn seat cushion. Sleepwalking his
way up the driveway, he ignored the newspaper lying on the front stoop and
keyed in.

Jacob wiped the bottom of his
sandals on the new door mat and entered his home. He bypassed the bathroom and
trudged into the kitchen, surprised to find the sliding door’s drapes closed.

Seated in the dark was Nancy.

“Nance? What are you doing?”

“Shh. Listen.”

The two of them listened to the
dog barking out back. “Doesn’t he sound happier?”

“I don’t know. I guess. Why are
the drapes closed?”

“It’s a surprise.” She opened the
curtains, revealing a yard filled with colorful plastic equipment.

“What’s all this? Looks like you
robbed a McDonald’s play area.”

“It’s a doggy obstacle course.
Let me show you.”

He followed her outside,
wondering what the elaborate set-up would tally on next month’s expense ledger.

Nancy yelled, “Sam, come!”

The German Shepherd hustled over
to her right side.

“There’s a good boy. Let’s show
Daddy what we can do.”

“Daddy?” Jacob grinned. “I like
that.”

“We begin with the doggy crawl.”
Nancy directed Sam through a three-foot-high, six-foot-long porous plastic
tube. “Good boy! Then it’s a quick run around the zig-zag.”

Sam raced after Nancy, following
a serpentine pattern created using bright orange cones.

“Then it’s the Rover Jump-Over,
set at beginner’s height.”

Sam leapt over the two-foot-high
soft plastic hurdle.