After tossing the Shitstick into the nearest trash bin along with a bagful of dog shit, we walked back to our condo, me holding Scout’s leash in one hand, Jen’s hand in the other. Our fingers were threaded.
“Tiger, maybe he’ll poop out the broach tomorrow after we give him another dose of the laxative.” I knew I didn’t sound convincing as I didn’t believe my own words.
Jen squeezed my hand. “Blake, it’s not that important. I know the broach means a lot to you, but that’s not what matters to me. Scout’s alive. You’re alive. We have each other—that’s all we need. I love you so much and I know you love me.”
Her heartfelt words resonated deep inside me. I stopped in my tracks, holding a boisterous Scout back with all I had.
“Look at me, baby.” She turned to face me, and on my next breath, I curled my free arm around her waist, drawing her close to me. The full moon shining upon us.
“Happy Birthday, tiger.” Maybe it was already the next day, but who gave a shit, no pun intended. “I do love you. So fucking much.” Then, I tilted up her chin so I could swoop down and give her a hot, passionate kiss. The gnawing, sucking, lip-bruising you-are-mine kind. She moaned against my mouth just as Scout tugged at the leash. I had no choice but to let go of her and head back to our condo. Despite how much I hated this dog, I felt better. My tiger’s lips had healing powers. Like a balm.
Scout was happy to be home. Bypassing the night doorman, he burst inside our building, sliding across the marble floor to the elevators as if he was speed skating on ice. Jen and I were running an Olympic six-meter race to keep up with him. The elevator doors pinged open and we followed a panting Scout inside it.
Breathless, we reached our apartment and I undid the deadbolt with my key.
“Baby boy, we’re home,” breathed Jen, glancing down at Scout the Jewel Thief.
I pushed the door open, but the beast just stood there. Like he was suddenly unsure if he wanted to go inside. And then he squatted.
“Oh no!” shrieked Jen, her face aghast.
That familiar awful stench drifted up my nose and then I looked down.
Christ. He’d made a deposit, this one gross and liquidy. Diarrhea. But lo and behold, diamonds glittered in my eyes.
Holy shit! No pun intended! He’d at last pooped out the broach!
“Way to go!” I commended, patting him as I bent down to retrieve it from the steaming puddle of poo. I didn’t give a flying fuck that shit was all over my fingers. The broach was in my possession!
“Oh my God! The broach!” Jen was as excited as I was and kept up with me as I hurried to the kitchen sink to wash it off. Along with my fingers. First with some dishwashing soap and warm water, then with a non-abrasive scouring pad. Using a soft clean dishcloth, I dried it off. Wow! The unicorn broach was more beautiful than I remembered. With its platinum body, emerald eyes (the color of Jen’s), and sparkling pave diamond cone.
All cleaned up, I held it in the palm of my hand as Jen gazed down at it. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened with awe.
“Oh, Blake, it’s so beautiful!”
I reflected on its significance as I pinned it onto her hoodie.
On our tour of Edinburgh, we’d passed a famous bronze statue of a unicorn, and our personal guide had explained that while the animal is mythological, the ideals it represents made it the perfect choice, fit to be the national animal of Scotland. And because like this proud beast, Scots would fight to remain unconquered. While I was finger-fucking Jen beneath her tiny kilt, half listening, something had sunk in. I identified with unicorns. Their fearlessness was much like the That Man I was. Plus, they were a symbol of good luck. Unicorns made dreams come true. Perhaps one would bring us a baby. So, when I saw this antique jeweled one in the window of a small shop in the city’s charming West End district, I knew I had to have it despite the exorbitant price. The kind, elderly proprietor told me that the previous owner had given it to his infertile wife and she subsequently produced three heirs. That sealed the deal. When I left the shop, the box was in my pocket.
Without getting into details, I told Jen what unicorns symbolized. She kept her eyes on the broach. “It will bring us good luck, Blake. It already has.”
“It has?”
“It’s brought us the best fur baby in the world.” She paused reflectively. “And I know, just know, our dream of having a child will come true.”
Scout, who had followed us into the kitchen, barked twice.
Perhaps, he was seconding her wish.
Jen looped her arms around my neck.
“Thank you, my love, for the best birthday ever.”
There was a mess to clean up by the front door, but I was going to let it go.
And make my tiger’s birthday even better.
Chapter 14
Blake
The Royal Canine Obedience School was held in Roxbury Park on Pico close to Conquest Broadcasting and a mere fifteen minute drive from my condo, given there was little traffic on a Sunday morning. I’d wanted Jen to come along, but she was meeting with her new speech coach. A rising star at Conquest Broadcasting with many important presentations and interviews ahead of her, it was suggested by both my father and our head of Public Relations that she consult with one and embellish her public speaking skills. Wanting to go far in the company, she agreed to their suggestion.
I found parking easily and marched Scout through the grass. Or should I say he marched me, tugging at his leash. The ground muddy, we left footmarks in our tracks.
“Hey, bud, sorry you have to go to school on a Sunday,” I muttered out loud, thinking about all the weekend detentions I’d had to endure as a kid, all the way through high school. Scout didn’t seem to mind one bit. Sniffing everything, he chugged ahead, stopping only to lift his leg a few times until we reached our destination.
I followed the signs. The school was located in a shady area just outside the adult community center. In the near distance, there was a children’s park filled with swings, a sandbox, seesaws, and benches. It was already crowded with kids and their parents. Close to the community center, older men and women, dressed in all white, were playing a leisurely game of bocce ball. Lawn bowling as it was called here.
I recognized the instructor from the school’s website. Her name was Martha Churchill. She was a stout, middle-aged woman, with cropped gray coarse hair, a square jaw, and handsome features, and outfitted in khaki Bermuda shorts, hiking boots, and a sweatshirt with a silhouette of a crown-bearing dog—the school’s logo. A wide-brimmed hat that resembled a drill sergeant’s hung from her bullish neck along with a whistle suspended from a lanyard. She looked like the no nonsense, militaristic type and reminded me of my pickle-up-her-butt homeroom teacher, Mrs. Aston (aka Mrs. Asshat), who followed me through high school and threatened to have me expelled for being perennially late and throwing spitballs. Lucky for me, too bad for her, my parents were major donors of the posh private school I attended. Every morning she was reminded when we did our daily convocation in the Saul and Helen Bernstein Auditorium.
“Welcome. I’m your instructor, Miss Churchill.” Her pitchy voice was clearly British and I’d have to say rather snooty. She gave Scout and me the once-over. “Please introduce yourselves.”