2. Bruce
CHAPTER 2
brUCE
The tiny creature—and I’m not talking about the puppy—raises one of her impressively fluffy eyebrows. “I’ve got the job?”
“Yes.”
She will be my first-ever tardy employee, but between Colossus liking her and the bacon diatribe, she’s the best candidate I’ve seen thus far. As ridiculous as it is, this position has been harder to fill than that of my CTO.
“Just like that?” she asks as she gently picks up the puppy, who, to my shock, lets her do so without a single biting attempt.
It took an entire week before he allowed me to reach for him without chomping on my fingers—and none of my staff have yet achieved this feat.
I open the door wider to let her step inside. “One of my trade secrets is my ability to choose the right person for every job.”
The other fluffy eyebrow joins the first. “Are you sure your trade secret isn’t your modesty?”
I pretend not to have heard. I have no idea why Colossus likes her. He’s clearly a horrible judge of character. I bet it was something stupid, like the fact that she’s the tiniest human he’s ever met, which makes him feel like a bigger dog. Or it could be as simple as the fact that she smells nice. As she passes by, I detect notes of cherries and incense in her perfume, along with something floral.
She waits until I close the front door before setting Colossus down on the floor—an attention to detail that I appreciate. We don’t need the dumb puppy running out.
“What on Earth are those?” She points at the pee pads that span the whole house, like a blue carpet.
I grimace. “Colossus is not housebroken.”
She wrinkles her dainty nose. “I prefer the term ‘domesticized.’”
Though my eyebrows are vastly inferior to hers, I arch one anyway. “Is there a practical difference between a ‘housebroken’ and a ‘domesticized’ Chihuahua?”
She narrows her hazel eyes at me. “Is there one between ‘abrasive’ and ‘jerk?’”
If that’s an attempt to insult me, it’s as weak as her attempted lesson in linguistics. “‘Domesticize’ makes it sound like we’re taming a wolf.”
As usual, my mind boggles at the idea of Colossus sharing 99.9% of his DNA with a fierce killing machine. Then again, the puny human in front of me and I share even more DNA, which just proves how much difference that tiny percentage can make.
Her nose wrinkle spreads to her forehead. “I don’t like the word ‘tame’ either. I associate it with training methods that use coercion and abuse.”
My teeth clench involuntarily. “Are there people who use such methods?”
Dumb puppy or not, if I caught anyone coercing or abusing Colossus, it would be the last thing they ever did.
She looks at me like I’ve asked her if the tooth fairy is real. “There are even people out there who organize dog fights.”
Such people are lucky I’m only in charge of a banking empire and not the whole world. Otherwise, the fuckers would be dog food.
“Tell me about your methods,” I demand.
“Positive reinforcement all the way.” She kneels next to Colossus and scratches under his chin—which he seems to enjoy disproportionally, judging by the mad wagging of his tail. “I find something the dog likes and provide that something whenever I see a behavior I want repeated.”
I get that. In essence, it’s not all that different from year-end bonuses—which I excel at providing. Or praise—something people claim I’m bad at.
“I’ll have to arm you with the oatmeal cookies that he goes crazy for,” I say gruffly.
The puppy likes the ones my chef makes, but he loves my own recipe as if it were laced with opiates.
She rises to her feet. “Does he like peanut butter?”
“He’d sell his soul for it. Then again, he likes anything edible—and many inedible items as well. So far, I haven’t come across anything he doesn’t like.”
She cocks her head in a way that reminds me of Colossus. “Even citrus?”
I snort. “He adores oranges. Begged for a lemon too, but I heard they can cause stomach upset, so I didn’t give him any.”
She glances at the puppy in disbelief. “What about vegetables?”
“Cucumber seems to be his favorite food.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “What about greens?”
I feel illogically proud as I say, “I’ve given him arugula, spinach, and kale—and he’s chomped it all down.”
“With no stomach upset?”
“None.”
“Wow,” she says. “That’s great. Food-motivated dogs make a trainer’s life easier.”
Before I can warn her about overfeeding Colossus, my housekeeper runs in, my ringing cellphone in her hands.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Roxford,” she says. “This thing keeps going off.”
Judging by the ringtone, it’s someone from the office, and they wouldn’t dare bother me if it weren’t something to do with the cryptocurrency we’re developing—my passion project at the moment.
“I’m going to take that.” I snatch the phone and look at my new employee. “In the meantime, you can decide when you’re going to move in.”