Dog Training The American Male Part 19

"You are the alpha."

"Please stop saying that." Nancy gripped the leash. "Sam, heel!" She walked, praising the dog while keeping him close. She ended the drill as Spencer did, placing the canine in a sit position.

"Very good. Now that we've a.s.sociated a voice command with the desired behavior, we'll test the animal, using discipline to correct any independent thoughts . . . or, as I call it, separating the peas from the corn."

From his utility belt, Spencer removed a thirty-foot nylon leash, swapping it out for Sam's short chain leash. "Take a break is the command we'll use to allow Sam to wander off. When we want him back we use the heel or come command."

"What's the long leash for?"

"Retrieving the dog. You don't expect him to learn without any corrections. Sam, heel!"

Spencer walked, Sam keeping pace on his right. When they reached the next mailbox Spencer said, "Sam, take a break" and stopped walking.

The dog looked back . . .and continued walking, its pace increasing.

Spencer allowed him to wander away a good twenty feet before yelling, "Sam, heel."

The spell broken, Sam continued to sniff the neighbor's lawn.

"Sam, come!" Spencer yanked hard on the long leash as he reeled the dog in, forcing Sam to double-time it back to his side. "Good boy. Sam, heel."

They returned, then repeated the drill several times until Sam came back to Spencer on his own.

"All right, Nancy, now it's your turn. Always remember, you are the Alpha dog."

DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE.

LESSON FOUR: THE STAY COMMAND.

The two-tone Volkswagen van idled roughly through the neighborhood, the sound muted from its driver by the 8-track ca.s.sette blaring the Beatles' The Ballad of John and Yoko.

"Drove from Paris to the Amsterdam Hilton, talking in our beds for a week. The newspaper said, say what you doing in bed? I said, we're only trying to get us some peace . . ."

Jacob lowered the volume to answer his cell phone. "h.e.l.lo?"

"You're a bad boy, Jacob."

"Ma?"

"It's Ruby. Why did you run out on me Friday night?"

"Run out? I didn't run out . . . did I?"

"Yes, you did. We were in my suite raiding my snack bar while I was in the bedroom, changing my clothes. When I came out you were gone."

"Mrs. Kleinhenz-"

"Ruby."

"Ruby, you're a stunning woman, but I have a girlfriend."

"Which I totally respect."

"You do?"

"Absolutely. My interest in you is strictly business-I want to manage your career."

"Then why were you changing into a see-thru leopard teddy?"

"I think best when my t.i.ts are exposed. My investment banker and I meet every first Wednesday of the month at the topless beach in Miami. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, Jacob. Using my G.o.d-given attributes is how I maintain an edge."

"I thought they were implants?"

"That's not important. What is important is that we meet tonight to discuss your next booking. Be at the Improv Comedy Club at City Place at seven-thirty, I have a meeting set up with the manager."

"You do? That's great. Should I bring the George Bush dummy?"

"That won't be necessary. The owner's a personal friend of mine."

"Ruby, I don't know what to say."

"Do you own leather pants?"

"What?"

"Never mind. I just thought your a.s.s would look good in leather. See you in a few hours."

He rode in silence for a moment, then turned up the volume on the 8-track in time to hear: ". . . the way things are going, they're gonna crucify me."

"If Nancy finds out I'm meeting with Ruby tonight, she'll crucify me."

AT PRECISELY 6:14 p.m. Jacob Cope entered his home. "Nance, I'm home."

He placed the newspaper on the shelf by the hall mirror and kicked off his sandals . . . retrieving the shoes and the newspaper as Nancy approached with the dog, only the dog was walking calmly by her side.

"Sam, heel. Good boy. Sam, take a break."

The dog darted to Jacob, wagging its tail.

"Sam, heel!"

The dog hurried back to Nancy, circling her until it sat, statuesque, on her right side.

"Wow. How did you do that?"

"Lots of practice."

"That was amazing." Jacob kissed Nancy pa.s.sionately on the lips. "Gotta change. I promised my mother I'd come by and see her tonight. You don't mind, do you?"

Nancy's reaction was unexpected his girlfriend in his face, backing him up against the door. "Actually, I do mind. We've been together three months and the woman still refers to me as the s.h.i.+ksa wh.o.r.e who stole her son. I also mind that you come home every night and still leave your smelly shoes on my floor."

She ripped the sandals from his hand and tossed them down the hallway.

"Finally, I mind that the only time you're interested in me is when you're h.o.r.n.y." She grabbed his Johnson, squeezing it. "You want to visit your mother tonight? Fine. But this time you'll bring me with you."

Sweat dripped from every pore on Jacob's body. "You really want to meet Ma?"

"Absolutely. Now put those toe-jam festering shoes away and wash up for dinner."

"Yes, ma'am." Jacob fetched his sandals and hustled into the master bedroom.

Nancy looked down at Sam, the dog still seated by her right leg. "Let that be a lesson: n.o.body messes with the Alpha dog."

THE ALPHA DOG.

Carmella Cope was in the rec room, watching television from a wheelchair. Not because the seventy-two year old's sciatic nerve was bothering her (it wasn't), or because she wanted to give the kibitzers another opportunity to spread her C.C. Rider nickname to the new arrivals (okay, partially true), but because her most faithful son had just called her out of the blue to announce that he was on his way, and Carmella believed an infusion of Jewish guilt was a B-12 shot for the soul.

Nancy followed Jacob through the lobby of the senior citizen complex into the rec room, immediately registering a musty "old people" scent.

"There she is, in the wheelchair. Ma, what's wrong? Did you fall?"

"It's my sciatic nerve, Jacob. It's been bothering me all . . . who's the h.e.l.l is this?"

"Ma, this is my girlfriend, Nancy Beach. Nancy, this is-"

"You brought the hooker?"

"Stop it. Treat her with respect or I'll leave."

Carmella grumbled, her mind flipping through a mental Rolodex of responses. Start with tears, the pain and suffering from the sciatica unbearable . . .

Nancy pulled over a chair, refusing to be intimidated. "It's so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Cope. I must say, this is a beautiful facility."

"What do you know? The food's horrible, and you should see how small the portions are. So fancy Nancy, what do you think of my Jacob? Hung like his father, no doubt. Little Sammy Cope, I used to call him. I've ridden saddles that went deeper."

"That's it, Ma. Come on, Nancy, we're leaving."

"It's okay, Jacob. Your mother's just upset because she has to share you. We have to help her learn to finally cut the umbilical cord. Mrs. Cope, there's two things you should know about me. First, it's not about the size of the saddle, it's about the fit, and your son fits me just fine."

Jacob smiled-his grin quickly chased away by his mother's glare.

"Second, I'd never do anything to come between you and your son. I happen to believe that-" Nancy paused, her eyes locking onto an old man watching them from across the room, his face familiar. "Would you excuse me a moment?"

Jacob watched as his girlfriend made her way across the room.

Carmella blew her nose in a Kleenex. "I take it back. She's not a wh.o.r.e; she's a conniving, manipulative witch."

"She's not a witch, Ma. Why do you have to be so rude?"

"It's my nature, Jacob. Your mother's old. Every day I feel death's cold fingers creeping up my . . ." Carmella s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably in her wheelchair. "Oh my."

"What is it? Is something wrong?"

"Suddenly my hootie feels as cold as ice. Jacob, be a good son and tell these cheap b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to turn up the heat."

"Ma, it's ninety degrees in here."

Selma Krawitz joined them. The silver-haired senior and queen of the women's gin rummy league pointed beneath Carmella's wheelchair. "Good grief, C.C., you dropped trou again. Your giggle flower's buck-naked to the vinyl."

Jacob looked beneath the chair. "Jesus, Ma. How'd you manage to lose this?" His face contorted involuntarily as he retrieved the adult diaper.

"Don't be a drama queen. I didn't soil it. I wear them to keep my bare a.s.s warm."

The men turned like tumbling dominoes to stare at Carmella.

"Look at 'em, dirty old men. Hey, Selma, watch this!" Carmella lifted both legs in the air, offering the men an un.o.bstructed three second beaver shot. "First one's free, boys. The rest'll cost you next month's social security check."

"Jesus, Ma-stop!"

"Relax, I'm performing a civic duty; the old farts' hearts can use the exercise."

Across the room, Truman Cabot was seated at his private table. The retired millionaire and founder of Cabot Enterprises was dressed in a bathing suit, bathrobe, bathing cap, and swim goggles, having just completed his evening walk in the pool. Saliva oozed from the old man's open mouth as he stared at the wheelchair flas.h.i.+ng vixen.

"Mr. Cabot?"

"Look at that h.e.l.lcat. G.o.ddam, she makes my blood boil."

Nancy glanced over her shoulder at Carmella Cope, who was spinning around in her wheelchair, her spread legs held high to catcalls.

Oh dear G.o.d . . . "Sir, would you like to meet her?"

Mr. Cabot looked up as if seeing her for the first time. "You know the G.o.ddess?"

"She's my boyfriend's mother. I'm Nancy . . . Dr. Beach."

"You're my doctor?"

"No, sir. I work at your daughter's radio station. My show used to be called Life's a Beach. I recently switched it to Dog Training the American Male. I'm the host, Nancy Beach."

"You host the doggy show?"

"Actually, sir, it's a relations.h.i.+p show. I use dog training techniques to empower women . . . and men. I could teach you how to begin a relations.h.i.+p with the G.o.ddess."

"One million dollars."

"Excuse me?"