“Welcome. I’m your instructor, Miss Churchill.” Her pitchy voice was clearly British and I’d have to say rather snooty. She gave Scout and me the once-over. “Please introduce yourselves.”
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.
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.
&nbs
p; “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.
Krystal had insisted we work from the condo I shared with Blake. According to her, it made clients more relaxed, more responsive to be in a safe, familiar environment. And it was best if no one else was around. “Distractions,” she said, “are deadly.” I agreed to let Krystal come to the apartment and decided that Sunday mornings when Blake went to the gym to workout would be best.
This was our second session. The first took place just before Blake and I traveled to Scotland. And before we got Scout. She had thoughtfully brought over croissants and coffee from Starbucks and seemed nice enough though rather buttoned up. Very professional, with her hot pink pantsuit and leather briefcase. I’d managed to go on to her website, and her credentials were rather impressive. There wasn’t much personal info about her like her childhood or marital status, but it did mention she was born in a small town outside of Vegas and had a dual degree in public relations and drama from the University of Nevada. It also listed many high-level executives, none of which I knew, as her clients. Their endorsements were outstanding, with most saying that she’d brought their public speaking skills to the next level and helped them become confident, dynamic speakers whether it be before a crowd
of hundreds or in an intimate interview with a business watchdog. All attested to her clever play-on-words motto: Make it Krystal Clare. Confidence begins with you!
Over the Starbucks goodies, Krystal had laid out what she wanted to accomplish with me. She was straightforward, blunt, and to the point. She’d viewed my upfront presentation from last April, a keynote speech given at the annual Women in Hollywood’s luncheon, as well as a YouTube interview with one of Variety’s top reporters. While she thought I sounded articulate and intelligent, my problems could be summarized as follows: 1) I relied on the teleprompter too much and didn’t make enough eye contact; 2) I spoke too fast (probably because I was nervous), and 3) I sometimes sounded flat and needed to put more energy into what I said via body language, be it dramatic hand gestures, facial expressions, or even punctuating certain words. Together, in our first session, we viewed the tapes and what she said was all true. Though my shortcomings made me a little glum, by the end of our time together, I was looking forward to working with Krystal and reaching my potential as a public speaker. She’d won my confidence.
Usually on Sundays, I wore casual sweats or an old baggy pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Or just lounged around in Blake’s polka dot boxer shorts, which I loved to wear. But today, like Krystal, I was dressed in formal business attire—a new navy blue pantsuit and pumps—because Krystal firmly believed form equaled meaning. While I might feel more relaxed in jeans or sweats, she wanted to work with me wearing what she deemed essential for success. A powersuit. Early on in her career, she’d allowed her clients to wear casual clothes when they trained with her, but she’d noticed that when it came to doing a real-life presentation in public with more formal attire, they stiffened. And often froze. “Jennifer, you are what you wear,” she told me, insisting that I invest in some designer pantsuits in time for our next session.
She was as much an image coach as she was a speech coach.
While Krystal set up the equipment for today’s session, a small video camera on a tripod and a lectern, my mind drifted. I wondered how Blake was doing with Scout on his first day of obedience school. I hadn’t heard from him, so I assumed no news was good news. In my heart of hearts, I knew my adorable fur baby was going to be a stellar canine student. Maybe the best in his class!
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