Stop was obviously not in my dog’s repertoire of commands. I didn’t blink once as Katrina’s dog jumped out of her bag. With a yap, he scampered away as her eyeballs ping-ponged between my incoming dog and her outgoing one.
“Gucci!” she cried out. “You bad dog! Get your furry butt back here! Right now!”
It was futile. The little dog kept running as if its ass was on fire and the nearest water was a mile away. Yipping gleefully. As it had never left the confines of Katrina’s purse before and experienced freedom.
“Get back here!” she repeated before frantically turning to Martha and then to the class. “Do something! Anyone!”
No one budged. Though Scout kept going. But rather than chasing after the white bouncing ball of fur, he pounced upon Katrina, knocking her to the ground. Flat on her back, spread out like a starfish, she let out another ear-piercing shriek. Pinning her down with his weight, Scout began to gnaw her pebbled leather bag.
“Oh my God! Get this savage beast off me! He’s destroying my twenty-five thousand dollar Birkin!!”
Rawhide! I silently chortled, almost laughing out loud. Haha! One slut’s treasure is some other’s mutt’s treat! Go for it, boy! I silently cheered him on.
“Let go, you ugly beast!” Katrina screamed, now playing tug of war with the bag, which only made Scout more determined, more playful, more aggressive. He was having fun!
“Someone, call this beast off!” she implored, having no regard for her little fuzzy dog who was now frolicking in the grass like it’d never had fun or playtime.
Call me a sadist, but I was enjoying every second of this spectacle. Finally, after a few minutes, I strode over to her. Her frantic eyes shot up at me, glinting with recognition.
“Blake, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are. Enjoying the ‘fall’ weather.” Adjusting my baseball cap, I paused for a beat. “Have you met my new dog, Scout?”
She looked down, her eyes crossed, and then her expression grew horrified. Scout was chewing off the handle of her bag. It was tethered only by a leather sliver. She shrieked again.
“Oh my God! He’s totally destroyed my Birkin! Do you know how rare this bag is? How long I waited to get it!?” With every word, her voice grew shriller, more enraged.
Before I could respond, another familiar voice thundered in my ears.
“OFF!” commanded Martha. She gave Scout’s hind side a firm but gentle whack and he bounded off. I managed to grab his leash before he leapt away.
“Thank God.” Slowly, Katrina sat up and rose to her feet, grabbing what remained of her Hermès bag. The leather tattered; the handle dangling by a thread. Then, she glanced down at herself. Her all-white designer duds were covered with dirt, grass stains, and paw prints. Her face again went crimson, her voice ballistic.
“You! You!” she barked at Martha. “Not only have you ruined my Birkin, but you’ve also ruined my new Armani outfit!”
Martha stood steadfast, unfazed. “So sue me.”
“Just wait and see.” Her face growing redder with rage, Katrina stomped off, gathering her little white fur ball in her arms.
In the background, I heard cheers from Cocker Spaniel Girl, Puglady, and Boyd.
Martha stood her ground, ready to get back to work. I looked at her earnestly.
“I’m sorry Scout cost you a client. And if she tries to sue you, I’ll take care of it.”
“Don’t worry. She won’t. She’s more concerned about that obnoxious bag.”
I offered to pay for it if needed. A twenty-five thousand bag was a small price to pay to get Katrina back out of my life.
“Thank you, but I hope you won’t have to.” Martha’s voice softened while my posture remained stiff.
“At ease, Mr. Burns. That sweet little dog wasn’t the problem. Nor was yours. That shrew was. Dog ownership doesn’t come with entitlement. No dog, like no child, is born perfect, but an owner can work hard at making him or her the best they can be.”
“How do you know that?”
“Years of training them. And life experience.” She paused, her expression growing reflective. “My husband and I gave birth to a son. A highly autistic one. He was a challenge, a great one, but we were patient. And we worked with him. Painstakingly. Gave him all the socialization tools he needed. Today, at the age of twenty, Noah is enrolled in an intensive program that will enable him to become a film editor.”
“Wow! That’s amazing. When he graduates, let me know. I work in broadcasting and can help him find a job.”
For the first time, she gave me a smile. Small but nonetheless genuine. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.” Our eyes stayed locked. The connection growing deeper.
“Remember, Mr. Burns, there are no bad dogs.” Her eyes dug into me. “Only bad owners. Flummoxed, wavering, weak-willed masters. Or those who don’t give a damn and shouldn’t own a dog in the first place.”
Her words stung me. I was all of the above. Feeling glum, I half-heartedly participated in the rest of the training session. Without a choke chain, it was futile getting Scout to heel. To walk beside me at my pace. Tugging at his leash, he had his own agenda. Sensing my frustration, Martha came up to me as the class dispersed, and Scout and I were about to head back to my car.
“Don’t give up, Mr. Burns. Scout has a lot of potential. He’s a good dog. And a very handsome one too. I hope to see the both of you back here next Sunday.”
Feeling utterly defeated, I marched back to my car. The fricking dog tugging at the leash so hard my arm hurt. He was a flunky. A dog school flunky.
The dog sergeant’s words resonated in my head. Screw her! I was no weak-willed ninny. I was That Man . . . master of my universe. I’d show this dog who was the boss. Who was the alpha.
On the way home, we made one stop. Petco. And one purchase.
Three laps around the parking lot with his new choke chain around his neck . . . And Scout knew how to heel.
Ha! I was the boss. And he was a genius.
I’d show her.
Scout was on his way to being the best dog in the world.
Chapter 15
Jennifer
This was my second session with Krystal Clare, the head of the company that bore her namesake—Krystal Clare Communication. The woman Conquest Broadcasting had brought on to help me improve my public speaking skills. As a rising star within the company as the Director of My Sin-TV, Blake and his CEO father Saul Bernstein along with our Publicity Department all agreed I needed to hone my skills. I was good in front of a crowd, on a panel, and in a one-on-one-interview, but I needed to be great. Good is the enemy of better, preached my brilliant father-in-law and I believed him. I wanted to go far. And make both him and my husband proud.
Krystal was an attractive, fit-looking woman about my height. Probably in her late thirties, maybe early forties. It was hard to tell. Her blow-dried bobbed hair was a vibrant shade of auburn and framed her taut face like a helmet, not a strand out of place. Though it was a Sunday, her makeup was impeccable, and she wore a smart pair of black slacks and a cream silk blouse along with three-inch leather heels that matched her belt. I studied her as she set up the video equipment that would allow the both of us to observe what I was doing right. And doing wrong. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.