Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
Foaming at the mouth, the dog was a total nutjob! He’d turned into Cujo! Just as I’d feared.
Jennifer beamed. “Blake, he’s such a good guard dog! I’m so pleased!”
“How are we going to open the door?” I asked, having to shout over Scout’s loud, incessant yelps. “What if he attacks the delivery guy?”
My inner voice screamed lawsuit. The bell chimed again followed by several loud raps on the door. The beast grew more incensed, more vicious, but my tiger remained cool as a cucumber.
“Blake, hold him back by his collar.”
“But, Jen, what if he bites off my hand?”
“He won’t. He knows and trusts you.”
The problem was I didn’t trust him. Not one iota. “Why don’t we just have the Petco guy leave the stuff with the concierge and I’ll bring it up.” Or get someone to do it.
“Blake, that’s ridiculous! Just hold Scout back and I’ll put his leash on him.”
Reluctantly, my nerves buzzing like a swarm of bees, I hooked my right hand under Scout’s collar and as I gripped it, Jen clipped on the leash. With all the muscle power I could muster, I yanked Scout away from the door, holding him in place. He was still in attack mode, a runway of hair bristling on his back.
Jen opened the door. A gangly, pimple-faced kid, who looked to be no more than eighteen, stood at the entrance with a dolly piled up with all the pet supplies we’d bought. He immediately caught sight of I’m-gonna-have-you-for-lunch Scout, who was still growling and barking like mad. Terror filled the whites of his eyes, his body stiffening. Using both hands, I held Scout back, putting him on a tight leash.
“Um, uh, do you want me to bring everything in?” the kid asked nervously.
“If you could just push the dolly inside, I’d really appreciate it.” The pimply kid quickly did as he was asked and after Jen gave him a tip, he scurried off like his butt was about to be lit.
Thank the canine gods, Scout calmed down. I took off his leash and watched with Jen as he loped up to the dolly, sniffing the giant bags of kibble.
“Blake, he’s definitely hungry.”
“Yeah.” Especially since he didn’t get the opportunity to eat the delivery kid and suck the pus out of his pimples, I silently added, before offering to hump one of the twenty-pound bags into the kitchen. Scout followed me, along with my tiger, carrying his food and water bowls.
I ripped open the bag of dog food and using a scooper we already had, Jen filled up one of the large bowls. Scout made a beeline for the dog chow, scarfing it down. Every single morsel.
“Wow, Blake! Our poor baby was so hungry!”
I’d never seen a dog gobble up his food so quickly. Jen fetched him some water while I watched him clean his bowl. Thank goodness, he liked kibble, unlike my mother’s prissy poodles, and we didn’t have to prepare him homemade meals. Score one point for him, but I still wasn’t convinced this dog was a good idea.
Jen filled up his water bowl and set it beside him. He took several noisy slurps. Things seemed under control.
“Jen, I’m going to go out and do the stairs and when I come back, we’ll put everything away.”
“I have a better idea!” She bent down and affectionately stroked Scout’s slick, shiny head. “Baby boy, do you want to go out for a walk with your daddy?”
The dog happily let out a woof as Jen offered to put everything away.
Fuck me.
And fuck this Daddy shit.
Chapter 8
Blake
I took Scout to Santa Monica’s Palisades Park. The verdant stretch had a popular mile-long pedestrian path overlooking the Pacific Ocean that started at San Vincente, not far from the steps, and ended at the Santa Monica Pier. I knew it was dog friendly as I’d seen other dog walkers there before. Dogs, however, were not allowed to run free and had to be contained on a leash.
So far so good. The car ride had gone well, with Scout again behaving in the now towel-covered front seat, the top down. He even seemed to enjoy the music I played, running the gamut from Smokey Robinson to The Chainsmokers. He’d, however, better not get too used to my car; it was my favorite toy (not counting the deluxe five-speed vibrator I’d given Jen for Christmas) and had cost a fortune. I treated it like a baby. One bad move on the mongrel’s part and he might be dog chow.
The mid October air was SoCal mild and the sun was shining brightly. It was a beautiful day and as I briskly walked Scout down the grassy path, I took in things I generally didn’t observe when I was jogging or doing the steps. Below, the majestic white crested waves . . . the surfers . . . the wide sandy white beach . . . kids frolicking. Around me, artists painting at easels . . . parents picnicking with their children . . . tufts of flowers surrounding the tall palm trees . . . well-toned bodies practicing yoga . . . and sadly, the many homeless people camping out on the grass. Fortunately, Scout seemed unfazed by the latter, more interested in finding a good spot to pee. Or to take a dump.
“Good boy,” I commended as he lifted his long hind leg, ten minutes into our walk. One bowel movement to go and we could head back to the car, which I’d parked in a metered spot along Ocean Avenue. Along the way, many fellow pedestrians and dog walkers told me what a good-looking dog he was. I must admit I was a little taken back, their praises going to my head. Yup, Scout was a stud like me. And for the first time I noticed, how well endowed he was. He was built like a horse. And honestly could be a porn star. Being in the business, I’d heard of dogs fucking their mistresses. There was even a crazy producer who’d once pitched me a series called Fucking Lucky. It was about a bored suburban housewife, who got off on doing it with her dog, Lucky. Bestiality was not my thing. Needless to say, I passed on the idea and told him with a straight face to pitch it to Animal Planet.
Halfway down the promenade, a little Latino girl, accompanied by her mother, asked me if she could pet Scout. Por favor.
“Yeah, sure,” I replied. I regretted my words as soon as I said them. Despite Shelter Girl insinuating that Scout was good with kids, I wasn’t sure. I had no proof. Shit! What if he bit the kid?
As the child’s hand set down upon his slick back, Scout jerked away. Almost yanking my arm out of its socket and forcing the leash out of my hand. Before I could blink, he was charging down the path like a runaway train. Chasing after a stupid squirrel.
“Fuck!” I yelled. The girl’s mother fired me a dirty look and started to curse in Spanish.
Not excusing myself, I took off after Scout. I swear he was a freaking super dog, running at hell-bent speed, his paws barely touching the ground. Trying to catch up with him, I ran faster, my lungs and limbs burning, my breath coming out in short, heated pants. Everything was a blur and I almost knocked some people over in my hot pursuit. My thoughts wavered between losing this dog for good and disappointing my tiger forever. Though the scale was tipped heavily in favor of the former, guess what thought won?
Yup, retrieving him. I couldn’t bear the thought of my wife mourning her loss. Especially on her birthday. She seemed to love this beast as much as I loved her.
“Scout,” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Stop! Come back!”
Maybe the family who previously owned him spoke Spanish or Korean or some other language, but he sure as hell didn’t seem to understand English. Panic flooded me as he neared the always-crowded Santa Monica Pier. Home of Pacific Park, a world famous amusement park. The spinning Ferris wheel and whipping rollercoaster filled my vision. On my next blink, I lost sight of the scoundrel.