Chapter Eleven
DAY FOUR
THURSDAY
The day of the second training class rolled around much faster than expected.
Clara reminded me of it at the dog park.
Yes, I made it this time. It wasn’t fair to put that all on Clara.
When Clara brought up training class, I started and said, “Today?”
“Yes. I’ll pick you up. And I’ll call you before I come.”
“Okay.” At least I think I said that. The right phrase to describe my lead character’s reaction to her nemesis itched at the tips of my fingers . . .
I don’t remember getting home from the dog park.
Next thing I knew, Clara was at my elbow as I typed away in my office. “Time to go.”
“Wha—?”
“Training. Class. Dogs. Remember?”
Clearly, I hadn’t. “I haven’t changed since the dog park.”
“If there’s any group on earth that will overlook that, this is it. C’mon.”
“But . . . But I haven’t fed Gracie and Murph yet.”
“She’ll be more food-motivated during class.”
There was that.
Clara added, “I’ll feed Murph while you go wash your face and comb your hair. After class, I’ll come in and make sure you feed Gracie before I leave.”
My stomach growled.
“Feed you, too,” she added.
* * * *
While I continued to feel as if I were coming out of anesthetic, Clara chatted on the drive to Zepke’s about how my behavior gave her useful insight into the writer mind that she didn’t get from her clients, since they communicated with her when they were in business mode, not writing mode.
Glad I could help. I guess.
I was back in the real world enough by the time we reached the training room to note that, sure enough, no human gave me a second look, though two told Gracie that she was gorgeous.
As for the dogs, they were extremely interested in me.
Even Gracie was more attentive than usual, despite having hours and hours to sniff my outfit for traces of other dogs, not to mention being on hand when I’d encountered those dogs.
I fully acknowledge her interest most likely resulted from failing to feed her, combined with treats secreted about my person.
I suspected starving your dog was not a recommended training method, but it did improve her focus.
We went through drills for sit and lie down with the dogs in front of their beds.
A note here. Many people say lay down. Gracie does not respond to that, because she is a grammatically correct dog and knows it’s lie down, because she’s doing the action, not being acted on. Either that or she’s accustomed to me saying lie down. And doesn’t recognize the sound of lay down.
Gracie, perhaps thanks to the aforementioned inadvertent strategy that made her super interested in treats, was nothing short of spectacular.
The other dogs improved, too. Except the Bostons.
If there’s a contest for how many times a human can say sit in ninety seconds without a dog complying, Berrie Vittlow would win. Sitsitsitsitsitsitsitsitsitsit.
Heck, a few other dogs, released from their owner-induced sits, sat again for one of the dozens of sits Berrie spit out like a machine gun.
Though they looked confused when the command kept coming after they’d sat .
. . except for the two Bostons, who wandered, crossed their leashes, huff-barked at other dogs, and otherwise ignored Berrie.
Had to admit I experienced schadenfreude at Berrie’s performance. The Germans nailed it that some people’s failure could provide a bit of pleasure.
For me, the schadenfreude was because Berrie arrogantly dispensed unwelcome critiques to others.
What took shine off the schadenfreude was, even now, she appeared to have no clue that she’d failed.
As the machine-gun sits resumed, Gracie looked up at me with a question in her eyes. I said, “You’re fine.” And she remained standing, ignoring Berrie’s sit bullets.
More proof I have a discerning dog.
Leo moved in, took one of the leashes from Berrie. “If your dog doesn’t obey, give a correction. A quick pop of the leash, to get their attention.” To the dog, he said, calmly and clearly, “Sit.”
The dog sat.
So did the other Boston terrier.
The rest of us bit the insides of our cheeks to keep from laughing.
Except the two couples I thought of as the Gang of Four.
I easily remembered their dogs’ names — Lucifer and Izolde. It took a second to reapply Damon and Pammy Swindell and Bryon and Zoley Georger to the humans.
Again, the women sat next to each other. Their dogs bracketed them. The men sat beyond the dogs, maximizing the distance between them without interrupting the Gang of Four’s lineup. The men capped the implication of coolness by looking in opposite directions.
The bloom appeared to be off that friendship rose.
While Leo worked first one of the Bostons, then the other, Berrie watched, standing with arms crossed and lips pursed, blocking most of my view of the two women.
I could, however, see Zoley Georger’s outfit, a form-fitting sleeveless top over tight capris and high-heeled sandals that triggered my eye-roll reflex.
Possibly, to some infinitesimal degree, I reacted from insecurity aroused by my dog park attire.
But even for a non-writer, her outfit was over the top and way early in the season. Especially for our current chilly spell.
Barricade Berrie stepped forward to take a leash back from Leo.
Before I could shift attention to what would happen with the Boston, my gaze focused on Zoley, abruptly unshadowed by Berrie.
From the low neckline of her top, my gaze rose to her face. And stopped.
“Clara,” I murmured without taking my eyes off the woman across the room.
“Yeah,” my friend said in a similar under-her-breath voice.
Zoley wore thick makeup, concentrated on her right cheek, noticeable across the room.
Beauty gurus said makeup should be enhancing without being obvious.
This was obvious without enhancing.
Leo precluded further observation, much less consultation with Clara, by saying, “Okay, we’ll have more opportunities to work on that later. Let’s try heel now. Everybody up.”
That provided plenty of opportunities for corrections as we worked on walking our dogs in a heel.
Gracie had issues with the temptation of LuLu in front of her and Bernie behind her, not to mention the new dogs and people in the room.
I received the Give her a correction order from Leo a couple times and tried not to glow at his Good pop after the second.
No one was immune, but Berrie got the most corrections and no Good pops.
I might OD on schadenfreude.
“Let’s do something fun for the last exercise.” The trainer sounded less enthusiastic than at the beginning of class. Berrie had that effect on people. “Pup tic-tac-toe.”
He placed a white plastic grid that looked like an oversized grill for windows in the center of a large painted circle on the floor.
“Each owner will bring your dog up. Once you enter the circle, you’ll have eight seconds to get him or her to sit inside one of the boxes created by the grid.
A sit in the box earns your team that square.
” He passed out plastic-covered sheets with a large X or O, alternating as he made his way around the perimeter.
“First team to complete a straight- or diagonal-line wins, same as regular tic-tac-toe. X starts.”
“That gives X an unfair advantage,” Bryon Georger spun the O sheet he’d been handed for Izolde.
He’d seemed fairly mellow at the first session. Not tonight.
“What are you? A tic-tac-toe expert? Unfair,” Damon Swindell mocked, taking the X sheet away from his wife sharply enough that Pammy recoiled slightly.
“Tic-tac-toe’s a classic entry-level coding task, so, yeah, I was an expert way back when I entered my profession.”
I doubted anyone listening thought Bryon Georger’s superciliousness was limited to an entry-level coding task being beneath him. His leftover superciliousness could drown Damon Swindell.
As much as Damon tried for a full-on sneer, his face stiffened at Bryon’s emphasis on profession.
Before he could speak, Leo said, “It’s a fun exercise for the dogs.”
“And for people who don’t take themselves so seriously,” Zoley Georger inserted. Inserted being the appropriate word, because Bryon jerked as if a needle slid into his skin.
“No reason to let it be rigged,” he said. Superciliousness gone, he sounded pouty.
“An expert in tic-tac-toe,” Damon said. “Like that ever pays off in real money.”
The trainer firmly cut across whatever response Bryon might have made. “Let’s lead off with Bernie.”
“Why let her start?” Damon demanded.
“Damon. Please—” Pammy tried to smooth the waters, though I caught a faint tremor in her voice.
His head snapped around to her.
She flinched.
Could that explain why she smoothed, while Zoley poked?
The trainer said, “She has an X. As you pointed out, they usually start. Donna?”
She nodded, but it wasn’t in response to Leo. It was directed at her granddaughter to take Bernie.
The girl made a face. Everyone could see that, but I’d guess no one farther away than me heard her say to Donna, “You do it. It’s complicated and I’m awful with him.”
Donna raised one commanding eyebrow.
With a gusty groan, the girl gave in, as everyone at the dog park did to that eyebrow.
She took the leash and released Bernie from his place on the bed. He bounced up with full puppy enthusiasm, turning toward Gracie and LuLu with such delight you could see the thought bubble Finally! Fun!
Gracie and LuLu tensed, poised to respond in kind. Clara and I each raised a hand with the stay command. Neither dog relaxed, but neither leapt up, either.
We take our victories where we find them.
“Bernie. With me.”
He ignored Layla.
“Make yourself more exciting than his temptation to ignore you,” the trainer said. “Try high-pitched, lots of excitement.”
“C’mon, Bernie! Let’s go!”
She was too self-conscious to go full falsetto, but Bernie’s puppy-sized attention snapped around to her.
Both of them trotted toward the grid.
At the edge, Layla paused, waiting until Leo nodded to indicate he was timing them.
She stepped forward, tugging at Bernie’s leash, then said with enthusiasm, “Bernie, sit.”
He looked around, perhaps checking if there was another Bernie she might be talking to, and, seeing that she was looking at him, wriggled with pleasure.
Then an expression came into his eyes that reminded me of what I felt like when I was absorbed in writing and wandered into a room only to wonder why I’d gone there. It was that I know there’s something I meant to do, but what was it? feeling.
Then, unlike me, his expression shifted to Oh, yeah, I remember.
He sat.
“Just in time,” Leo said with pleasure.
Layla gave a little hop. “Yes!” Her high pitch came naturally, and Bernie’s wriggle intensified.
Damon Swindell said, “He’s over the edge.”
From what I could see, Bernie’s butt was within the central square, though his fluff did overflow the edges.
“That works. Some dogs fit better than others. Besides, Bernie’s young. It was a good sit.” Leo focused on Layla. “Good job. Get Bernie back to his place.”
Even with the praise, the girl’s bounce wasn’t as pronounced. Bernie’s, however, was unimpeded.
As the girl and dog left the grid and started across the open area, Damon Swindell growled, “So, he sat. Big deal. It doesn’t help, because it was stupid to take the center square.
Doesn’t take an expert—” Disdain dripped off the word.
“—to know that. Now we’re going to lose.
Don’t you know you’re supposed to play a corner? ”
Layla slowed and looked over her shoulder at him. “I thought—”
“You’d take the hardest one first,” Leo inserted. “Good for you. Good for Bernie.”
He quickly called up the gray-haired man and his little black dog, who had an O card. Despite continued muttering emanating from the two guys from the Gang of Four, man and dog — Oscar and Quasar, according to what Donna told us earlier today — performed admirably, claiming one corner.
“Damon, come up with Lucifer,” Leo said.