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!
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 definite
ly 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.
Breathless and frantic, I dashed off the walkway as it came to an end and hurried onto the Pier. With the glorious weather and it being a Saturday, the boardwalk was dense with visitors of all ethnic backgrounds and ages. My heart was palpitating and I was sweating like a pig. I bent over for a few seconds, hugging my thighs and catching my breath. Then straightening, I spun around like the carousel, my eyes darting in every direction. He was nowhere in sight. Dammit. The crazy mutt could be anywhere! At a fast food stand! Waiting in line for a ride! Maybe on a ride! Or he’d bolted down the adjacent Venice Boardwalk. And even worse, jumped off the wharf and gone for a swim in the ocean which was about fifty-feet below and only separated by a narrow railing. I knew a little bit about Labs, and they loved to swim. But me diving into the chilly ocean to retrieve him was not a likelihood. Maybe I should just let him swim out to sea, and he’d be picked up by some nice fisherman.
Who was I kidding? I needed to find this frigging dog and get him back home. Jen would be devastated if I told her he ran away. The birthday from hell. And she might hate me forever. Taking one more deep breath, I persevered and raced down the Pier, bumping into pedestrians and dodging kids in strollers, my eyes shifting left and right in hopes of finding him.
Heaving, I was breathless, my heart sinking faster than the Titanic. Where the hell could he be? A debilitating mixture of hopelessness and despair poured through my veins. What was I thinking to have adopted a young, crazy dog? You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. You can’t teach a dead one any. If we’d adopted an older, on-his-way-to-dog-heaven one, I might have been spared this insanity. After his demise and a brief mourning period, my life and Jen’s would be back to what it was. Normal.
Stopping for a moment to collect myself, I blinked once. Twice. Then spotted him! Oh Jesus, how was I going to handle this?
Steadying my breathing, I jogged up to the brawny man in uniform. He was holding Scout tight on his leash. “Hi, officer, um, uh, that’s my dog.”
Scout didn’t acknowledge me as the middle-aged cop shot me a stern look. “You’re lucky the City of Santa Monica allows dogs on the Pier, but they have to be on a leash. There’s a two hundred dollar fine for having a dog off leash. Can you read the sign?” He pointed to it.
Yeah, I can read, asshat! “I’m really sorry, officer,” I mumbled in my most humble voice. “As you can I see, I had him on his leash, but he bolted from me. He’s a rescue; my wife and I just adopted him this morning. This is his first walk.”
The cop’s face lightened up. “Me and the missus have adopted many strays over the
years.” He handed me the leash, and I grabbed it as he continued. “I’m not going to write you up this time, but here’s a word from the wise. Get him into training. The next time this happens you may not be so lucky and he’ll end up back at the pound. And the fine will be double.”
I profusely thanked the officer and told him I’d make a contribution to both the Policeman’s Fund and our local pound.
To my great relief, Scout walked back calmly with me to my car, but I gripped his leash tightly, not taking any chances. Almost there, he stopped for a moment, squatting down. I watched him as he took the biggest dump ever. This was nothing like the little turds my mother’s toy poodles left behind. It was giant and steaming. A flaming torpedo. Reluctantly, I picked up the stinky, hot deposit with the plastic bag I’d brought along and tossed it into the nearest trash receptacle. My eyes caught sight of a nearby sign. Please pick up after your dog. Violators subject to a five hundred dollar fine.
You’re fucking welcome. I sneered.
We arrived at my car. Waiting for me was another stinkin’ surprise.
A fricking ticket. Plastered under my windshield wiper. God knows how much it was going to cost for going over the one-hour only parking limit. And just by a lousy five minutes.
I cursed.
Life with this beast wasn’t going to be easy.
Chapter 9
Blake
Jen was seated cross-legged on the couch when I returned with Scout, her MacBook on her lap. I managed to take off Scout’s leash and hang it around the door handle before he went barreling into the living room to greet her.
A megawatt smile bloomed on my tiger’s face as he sat down on the floor beside her. She affectionately stroked his head as he adoringly looked up at her with those deceptive big brown puppy eyes.
THAT MAN 8 Page 3
