But, let me tell you, shopping at Petco was not my idea of heaven. It was more like hell. Jen had insisted we stop at the one in Westwood before we drove home to pick up a few things for Scout. Reluctantly, I agreed, thinking we’d be in and out quickly. To pick up a bag of kibble and some bowls for his food and water. Boy, was I wrong!
We’d already been in the pet emporium for over an hour. I was charged with walking Scout on the leash the shelter had given us as we strolled down the aisles, Jen pushing a large red shopping cart, me trying to hold the dog back every time he saw a fellow canine. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to play with them or attack them. All I knew was that the sixty-pound beast was strong as an ox, and despite what good shape I was in, it took all my effort to hold him back. Worry gnawed at me. God knows what damage he could cause if he got loose. From tearing up the store to tearing off someone’s leg. My mother always said there’s no such thing as a bad dog, but I knew this was not true. Just think about Cujo! Need I say more?
My wife was not the shopaholic I was, but I swear she was like a kid in a candy store, grabbing everything in sight. Our cart was filled to the gill, the items including two twenty-pound bags of kibble, several giant bottles of puppy vitamins, a variety of treats (Jen wanted to experiment), a large dog bed, an even larger pillow he could rest on, a red felt dog coat in case the weather grew cold or we took him with us to Sun Valley (fat chance!), plus a gazillion toys, ranging from squeaky plush ones to exercise balls.
The cart must have weighed a ton, and I saw that my petite tiger was straining to push it.
“Jen, why don’t I push the cart and you hold Scout?” She might as well get used to it because there was no way in hell I was going to walk this animal. And with me in charge of the cart, the faster we could get out of here. My tiger agreed and I was shocked by how nicely Scout walked with her.
“Blake, there’s just one more thing we need.”
Seriously? Like a hole in the head?
“We should get Scout a new collar and leash. His look kind of worn out.”
I glanced down at the ones he was wearing. Truthfully, they were rather hideous . . . synthetic, all chewed up in a grungy, faded shade of blue. Plus, they were likely filled with germs. The germaphobe I was, I made a mental note to apply some hand sanitizer as soon as we got out of this joint. Fortunately, I kept some Purell in my glove box.
As luck would have it, we were by the collars and leash section, the matching sets hanging on several racks. The collars hooked, the leashes dangling, ranging in size to accommodate the smallest dog to the largest one. By the size of Scout’s neck, he was somewhere in the middle.
“What about this red leather collar?” I said, pointing to it. It looked simple and sturdy. There was no way I was going to have this dog wear some frou-frou collar with rhinestones like those my mother’s poodles wore.
Jen smiled. “I like it. Do you think it’ll fit him?”
“Try it on for size.”
Slipping it off the rack, Jen bent down and put it around Scout’s neck. I was surprised by how submissive he was with her. He sat patiently as she buckled it and wagged his tail like a metronome.
“It fits great, Blake.” She tucked her hand inside it. “And there’s even enough room in case he grows.” Scout lifted his head and made goo-goo eyes with my wife, giving her the goofiest look I’d ever seen. His mouth parted wide, his tongue dangling. With a smile that could light up the sky, Jen cupped his jaw and planted a loud kiss on the top of his head.
I bristled. What about me? Don’t I get a kiss? Hello! I’m your husband and the schmuck who schlepped here.
“Baby boy, you look so handsome in your new collar!”
Baby boy? So handsome? Give me a frigging break!
Jen’s eyes darted back to the rack of collars and leashes. “Which type of leash should we get?”
There were two different types. The retractable kind and the regular kind. I opted for the latter, thinking my wife would have more control over it. There was no doubt in my mind that Calamity Jen, as her best friend Libby aptly called her, would get all tangled up in the long retractable leash, trip, get dragged a mile, and end up in the emergency room. Not wanting that to happen, I told her to get the six-foot leather one that matched the collar.
“Are we done?” I asked as she attached the leash to Scout’s new red collar, leaving the price tags on.
Unfazed by my blatantly irritated tone, Jen surveyed the piled up cart. “Yup, I think so. On the way out we’ll get him a new name tag with one of our phone numbers inscribed on it.”
An evil thought crossed my mind. Maybe I’d offer to do that while she was at the check out counter and “accidentally” forget to include a phone number or screw up a digit so this beast couldn’t be traced back to us if he ran away. Unfortunately, Jen beat me to it, leaving me to unload the cart and swipe my credit card. The bill came to over five hundred dollars . . . and that wasn’t counting his new leather collar and leash, which would likely add another hundred bucks. Jen returned quickly, with Scout proudly wearing his new red bone-shaped identification tag.
“All done,” she beamed, as the cashier added in the cost of the collar and leash and then bagged all the items, except the dog bed, pillow, and kibble.
“Good.” As I snatched the receipt from the cashier, I felt a warm liquid saturating my jeans and sneakers. Bristling, I lowered my eyes and I swear I wanted to toss the beast out the door. Or wring his neck, new collar and all. The goddamn dog had peed on me!
“Fuck!” I couldn’t contain myself.
“We’re sorry,” murmured Jen, apologizing more to the cashier than to pee-soaked me. In addition to drenching my new Diesel jeans and twelve hundred dollar Air Jordans, the dog had left a golden puddle around my feet.
The nose-pierced cashier laughed. “No need to apologize. It happens all the time.”
My blood bubbled as Shelter Girl’s words whirled in my head. And I was also told he’s housebroken.
A new unsettling thought zipped into my head. What if he wasn’t?
The thought didn’t last long. There was a new pressing problem. How the hell were we going to fit all this shit into my two-seater car? Plus Jen and the goddamn dog?
Thankfully, I learned from the cashier that Petco had just launched a delivery service, free to anyone who spent more than twenty-five dollars. I’d gladly pay them anything they demanded to deliver the dog too.
To anyone’s place other than mine.
The further away the better.
Chapter 7
Blake
An excited Scout gallivanted through our two-bedroom apartment. Going from room to room, sniffing everything. He even checked out the terrace.
“Aww, Blake! He’s so cute, making himself at home,” cooed Jen, hanging his leash around the front door handle. “I wish Petco would get here already. I bet he’s hungry and I’m so eager to get everything set up.”
“I’m sure they’ll be here any minute.” We’d told the doorman to let him up. He’d likely need to borrow a dolly with all the stuff we’d bought. Then, a moment later the doorbell rang.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
At the sound, Scout went berserk. Running around the living room in circles. Then barking at the door like crazy! Growling! Snarling! Bearing his large, canine fangs!