Chapter Four
Leo walked to the center of the open area with a clipboard.
“Welcome to training. Let me make sure we’ve got you all registered and I have your dogs’ names correct.”
He started with the left-hand couple of the two who’d passed Berrie and the Bostons. The ones with the goldendoodle.
The woman said, “I’m Zoley Georger. Like Zoey—”
“With an ‘L’ in the middle,” inserted the other woman.
She smiled and the two men chuckled at what seemed to be an inside joke.
Zoley smiled, too, but it left doubt in my mind about whether she shared the amusement. On the other hand, her stiff expression might have been the result of injections.
If it hadn’t been for the look she’d exchanged with the other man — the one not her companion and presumably her husband — I probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to her.
I’m not drawn to her style.
She was overdressed and over made up in what Kit described as all gilt, no substance.
Kit maintains she has never met a woman — or man, because they’re not immune to fillers, procedures, fake tans — displaying those externals who didn’t lack some or all of the vital internals for a trustworthy and admirable person.
I’ve yet to find an example that disproves Kit’s assessment, but that doesn’t mean there couldn’t possibly be one.
The male half of that left-hand couple wore khakis and a regulation shirt. Nothing flashy. He self-identified as Bryon Georger.
“And your dog?” Leo asked.
“Izzy,” the man said.
The female half of the couple — Zoley — jumped in, “Izolde, with a z. Not Izzy.”
Their goldendoodle excelled at cute.
On the other hand, Izolde wasn’t on the bed, which is where we’d been told to direct our dogs.
Not that I felt smugly superior or anything.
Hey, at least four minutes into class and I hadn’t yet destroyed Gracie’s Lassie Syndrome image.
Leo continued around the large room counterclockwise, acknowledging those he already knew, including the black cutie named Quasar and the gray-haired owner, named Oscar, and, when he came to us, LuLu and Clara, Gracie and me, and Donna. Though he didn’t know Bernie or Layla.
A couple other human-dog pairs came before the other couple who’d come in with Izolde and her people, Zoley and Bryon Georger.
This last couple, the one from the left, consisted of the man whose eye communication with Zoley Georger clanged that note both Clara and I heard. And the woman I guessed was his wife.
Their actual names, the man announced in a way that said we should be impressed, were Damon and Pammy Swindell.
He was passably attractive, with a gym-maintained build, dark hair, and a carefully trimmed scruff beard. What offset all that for me was a mouth that appeared to be permanently tilted up on one side with self-satisfaction and down on the other with derision for everyone else.
His slicked-back hair resembled Gordon Gekko in those old Wall Street movies — the greed guy Michael Douglas played. Before Gekko went gray in the sequel.
Damon Swindell’s hair poofed too much. His sockless look beneath too-tight jeans was early for the season, and the arm bangle beneath his rolled-back right sleeve far too trendy for dog training at Zepke’s in Haines Tavern, Kentucky.
His wife, though, fit the occasion. She had easy-care short hair, a few extra pounds, and wore a practical hoodie over a plaid shirt.
Leo looked down at his clipboard. “This is—”
“Lucifer,” the man spoke over the trainer. “He’s a working-line Belgian Malinois.”
Donna didn’t make a sound, yet I’d swear I heard her amusement in the silence.
On the other side of me, I felt Clara’s surprise and doubt.
I don’t know a great deal about Belgian Malinois, except that they’re considered intelligent and athletic working dogs well-suited to law enforcement.
Also that the working lines — of Malinois and other breeds — are purposefully bred to emphasize those qualities and not the qualities that make for a low-key family pet.
Oh, and I know the -nois is not pronounced like the -noy end of Illinois, but more like -nwah.
Physically, they’re known for black muzzles and prick ears.
This pup had a dark muzzle and one large, prick ear. The other equally large ear flopped forward.
His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth in a thoroughly endearing way. I suppose it could be his puppyhood, but he did not seem the least bit Lucifer-like.
His owner on the other hand . . .
Leo said, “Okay, well, he’s going to need lots of good training, then. Let’s start with you and, uh, Lucifer. Come on out.” He checked his clipboard. “Damon, what training have you done so far?”
“Belgian Malinois are the smartest breed,” Damon Swindell said. “Hardly need any training at all.”
An instant mini-pandemic broke out in the room, with half the owners discovering a cough-inducing throat tickle. I noticed the gray-haired owner of Quasar, the man named Oscar, wasn’t among them. He stared blankly at the man and dog now in the center of the room.
Damon Swindell didn’t appear to have a clue the noises were a reaction to him.
Leo added to his saint points by not participating in the cough-go-round.
“Let’s see how he does,” he said neutrally.