Her tone curt, I did as she asked.
“Very well. Please take your places by one of the remaining yellow triangles. Our class is going to be delightfully small. Only five students. We’re expecting just one other.”
All but one of her clients, including me, was already there. A shaggy-haired surfer type with his equally scruffy mutt . . . a twenty-something Valley-girl type who childishly wore her sandy-blond hair in pigtails and looked a lot like her floppy-eared cocker spaniel . . . a middle-aged, pug-faced woman who bore a close resemblance to her snorting pug. And lastly, a buzzed-cut, tattooed forty-ish dude wearing a U.S. Marines wife-beater and holding his ferocious looking pit bull tight on a thick metal link chain that looped around his powerful neck. It looked like it belonged on a high-security barbed wire fence. The dog was also wearing a black leather collar with gunmetal spikes that resembled bullets.
Holding Scout tightly by his leash, I hesitantly took my place next to the duo.
“Hey, dude! Welcome to the class. I’m Boyd.”
“Cool. I’m Blake.”
“Nice lookin’ dog you have. What’s his name?”
I introduced Scout as I studied his dog. Built just like his owner. Big and brawny, the size of his balls rivaling that of his jaw. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Attila.”
“Like in Attila the Hun?” From my vague recollection of ancient history, he was a ruthless barbarian who stopped at nothing.
With a proud shit-eating grin, Boyd reached down to give his barbarian beast a firm pat. “Yup, that’s my boy! A pure bred American Staffordshire Terrier.”
Terrier my ass. This dog was a deadly assault weapon. Ready to launch.
On cue, the beast returned the shit-eating grin, bearing his monstrous fangs. A shiver ran through me as Boyd ordered his “boy” to sit.
On command, Attila did as his master asked. Better than sic me, right?
“He seems very obedient,” I observed nervously. “Why are you taking this class?”
“Oh, it’s just a refresher course. Attila’s done it a dozen times. It keeps him in check. He had a small setback this week and bit the mailman. The dude had to get six stitches. No biggie, but better safe than sorry, right?”
“Right.” I glanced down at my feet. I was wearing Nikes and sweats. A plan of self-defense formulated in my head. If this ankle-biting beast dare try to attack me, I’d kick him hard in the face, and then get the hell out of here as fast as my legs would let me. With Scout or without him, though it would make sense to have him close by for protection.
A loud harrumph cut into my thoughts. My gaze jumped to our instructor, who was standing with her legs straddled and arms folded. She was glancing down at her watch. Yup, she was for sure a by-the-book type. Anal as anal could be. I’d bet big money she was a drill sergeant in her former life. Whip and all.
She scrunched her face. “It’s five minutes past the hour. Let’s not wait for our other student and begin.” Her steely eyes zoomed in on Scout and me. “Mr. Burns, please put Scout’s choke chain on him.”
Huh? What was she talking about? Scout had on his nice red leather collar that matched his leash.
My new pal Boyd elbowed me, pointing to Attila’s intimidating metal link collar. “This kind of thing.”
I met Churchill’s fierce gaze. “Um, we don’t have one.”
Scowling, she narrowed her eyes at me and planted her hands on her matronly hips. “Mr. Burns, didn’t you read the prerequisites for the course? It clearly states that all dogs and owners are required to come with a choke chain.”
I gulped while oblivious Scout wagged his tail. “I must have missed that.” Fearing a lash of her whip, which I was sure she was hiding in a pocket, I dared not tell her I never went beyond the website’s home page.
Martha eased her stance, relaxing her dour expression just a bit. “Very well. You’re here, but just know that without a choke chain, this lesson is basically a waste of your time. And mine.” She paused, checking her watch once again. “Let’s begin.”
For the next twenty minutes, we ran through a series of commands: sit, down, and stay. Despite not wearing a choke chain, Scout did well with sit and down. But for the life of him, he couldn’t master stay. Every time I walked twenty feet away from him and shouted stay which was accompanied by a stop-sign like hand gesture, he sat there for a moment, his head cocked in confusion, then sprung into action, charging toward me, never giving me the chance to say one of my favorite words: “Come!” To my dismay and embarrassment, the other pet owners and their dogs had no problem mastering this command.
Drill sergeant Martha looked at me disapprovingly. Kill me now. “Mr. Burns, I’d like you to try the stay and come commands one more time before we move on.”
Reluctantly, recovering my mojo and feeling all eyes on me, I did as she asked, distancing myself from Scout once again. I looked him straight in the eye, hoping he could read my mind. C’mon, boy. Show your stuff. Don’t be a dog school flunky.
“Stay,” I said affirmatively, holding my hand up. He did as I asked. I kept my hand up for a good thirty seconds, and to my amazement, he didn’t budge. Good boy! Pride rose inside me and then, as I parted my lips about to say “come,” a familiar indignant voice trilled in my ears.
“Ugh! How dare you call yourself the Royal Canine Obedience School? This place is for peasants!”
All eyes turned toward the shrill voice. Showing his teeth, Attila growled.
“Excuse me,” huffed Martha as my gaze veered too. “Who the hell are you? And how dare you interrupt my class in progress?”
Stumbling our way, as her six-inch heels sunk into the damp, spongy grass, was a tall, lanky, stylishly dressed woman, wearing a big floppy straw hat over her shoulder-length platinum hair. Despite her face being obscured, I’d recognize her anywhere.
Shitballs!
It was the psycho bitch! The last person I ever wanted to see again!
Katrina Moore! My bat crazy ex-girlfriend who had stalked me, drugged me, and tried to stop me from marrying my tiger. I hadn’t seen her since my wedding, the first and disastrous one, which landed Jen in the hospital with a life-threatening ovarian cyst. As my father always said: Out of sight, out of mind. What the hell was she doing here?
Though she didn’t notice me, my eyes stayed riveted on her as she staggered toward us, grunting and cursing with every unsteady step. A monstrous pink designer bag dangled from one arm, and as she got closer, I noticed something peeking out from inside it . . . a small white furry dog. It sported a frou frou pink bow on its head and a matching pink rhinestone collar.
Martha’s gruff voice jolted me. “Mr. Burns, please stop focusing on this riff-raff. Your dog is still sitting patiently and waiting for you to call him.”
Impulsively, turning my attention away from Katrina, I called out to Scout.
“Scout, come!”
Scout’s eyes lit up. Not wasting a second, he bolted my way, except he didn’t stop. He blew past me, not slowing his pace. I spun around and my eyes grew wide. Holy Moses! He was making a beeline for Katrina! And her little white dog!
“Scout, stop!” I hollered at the top of my lungs, trying to make myself heard above Attila’s now fierce, relentless yelps.