Dog Training The American Male (12 page)

 The old man was breathing and
fiddling with the iPad, cranking up the volume.

 Using his plastic spoon, Nancy
attempted to fish his teeth and hearing aid out of the soup when she heard
Oliva and Peter approaching from down the hall. On the verge of a nervous
breakdown, she stuck her hand in the bowl, retrieving the two objects, hiding
them behind her back just as the female CEO led her boy-toy back inside the
conference room.

Olivia took one of her father’s
paper napkins and wiped lipstick from Peter’s neck. “It would seem Lady Luck is
on your side, Dr. Beach. We can’t syndicate Dr. Laura until April fifteenth,
and Peter feels it would be easier to keep you in your time slot than reshuffle
the deck again in three months.”

 “Oh God, thank you. Thank you,
thank you, thank you. I promise my next Arbitron numbers will kick ass.”

“Then getting a new job in April should
be that much easier for you.” Olivia turned to Peter. “Darling, I’m late for my
pedicure. Do me a favor and handle things with that wacko psychic and the vegan
yoga instructor, then see to it that my father is dropped off at his new
retirement home.”

“Of course.”

Olivia Cabot slung her purse over
her shoulder and left.

Nancy quickly followed her out.

Peter Soderblom used the
conference table intercom. “Lynnie, you can send the gypsy in.” He turned to
Mr. Cabot. “This shouldn’t take long . . . Oh, geez.”

Old man Cabot’s dentures were
hanging upside-down in his mouth, his left ear oozing gobs of green pea soup
and a chocolate mint.

PATEL

It was after
eleven by the time Jacob arrived at work, having spent the morning cleaning up
doggy diarrhea.

His supervisor, Sanjay Patel
intercepted him on his way to his desk. “My uncle wishes to see you in his
office right away.”

Great. Can this day get any worse?
Leaving his thirty-two ounce soda and chocolate doughnut on his desk, he followed
a short corridor past the supply room to a closed door bearing a brass name
plate:

PATEL

Amir Patel was the senior manager
of
i-Guru USA.
Jacob had met the man only once, when he interviewed for
the job. He had never been invited into his supervisor’s office.

He knocked, then entered.

The rectangular office was more
Buddhist monastery than office, its walls covered by purple velvet drapes, its white
marble floor clustered with enormous colorful pillows. The only office
furnishings were a curved glass desk and wicker chair which occupied the near
right corner of the room. The desk was barren, save for a laptop and an emerald-shaded
brass banker’s lamp.

“Remove your shoes, please.” Amir
Patel was seated with his back to Jacob on an Indian rug, facing the front wall
curtain. Incense burned from a glass holder by his feet.

Jacob shrugged. Kicking off his
sandals, he approached the short, balding brown-skinned Hindu, his moist bare
feet squeaking on the marble floor.

The middle-aged Indian was
dressed in a black tennis warm-up. “Sit and pray with me, Jacob.”

“What are we praying for?”

“Enlightenment.”

Jacob flopped into a seated
position. “Sorry I was late. Domestic problem. See, I brought home this dog and—”

“Apologize with your silence.”
Patel pressed a small remote control by his left foot, causing the front velvet
curtains to part—revealing an altar and the five foot high statue of a Buddha-bellied,
four-armed human possessing the head of an elephant.

Jacob took one look at the Hindu
deity and expelled a blood-curdling scream.

“What is it? What is wrong?”

“Shut the curtain!”

Patel hit the switch.

Jacob rolled onto his back,
hyperventilating.

“Are you in need of medical attention?”

“I . . . don’t . . . like . . . elephants.”

“Ganesha is not an elephant. He
is one of the five prime Hindu deities.”

“Dude, I’m not praying to Babar
the Elephant or any other pachyderm.”

“Who do you pray to?”

“Geez, I don’t know. God, I
suppose. I’m not very religious.”

“One can be spiritual without
being religious. Spirituality is the act of connecting with the Creator. We do
this through prayer. Prayer itself is the perfect belief in a higher power.”

“I’m not into praying.”

“Perhaps this is why you are so
consumed with fear.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Jacob said,
sitting up. “So I’m a little uneasy around elephants—big deal. Amputees rattle
me—can’t help that. The hydrophobia comes from nearly drowning in a sprinkler
when I was eleven.”

“Is that everything?”

“Yes. Actually, no. I was beat-up
in seventh grade by Gertrude Mulder, which explains the Dutchphobia, but again
that one could have led to a fear of women which, thank God, I don’t have.
Batman was afraid of bats, so we have that in common. And I happen to think my
fear of constipation helps me to maintain a balanced diet, so that’s a good
thing.”

“Your logic is baffling. Your
diet would kill half of Jakarta.”

“I used to suffer from Lachanophobia
which stemmed from my mother threatening to home school me if I didn't finish
my veggies. That passed when I was sixteen.”

“Are you on drugs?”

“I was on Thorazine after the whole
deal at Lehman Brothers, but I stopped using it after it led to a fear of
leprosy.”

“Enough!” Patel grabbed Jacob by
his wrist. “None of these fears are real, they are symptoms. This morning I
prayed to Ganesha, asking him if I should replace you. Ganesha helped me to
recognize the true cause of your fears.”

“Who’s Ganesha?”

Patel motioned to the curtain.

“You asked a statue of Babar the
Elephant if you should fire me?”

“Ganesha is the Lord of success
and destroyer of evils and obstacles, things you are clearly lacking in your
life.”

“What’d the elephant say?”

“Please stop calling Ganesha an
elephant!” Patel drew a soothing breath. “Anger is the cause of your fear.
Anger causes heat. Heat rises to the head. Tell me about your upbringing. What
were your parents like?”

“My father died when I was
young.”

“And your mother?”

“She lived.”

Patel stood, standing before him.
“Jacob, do you know why so many American companies outsource their I.T.
departments to India?”

“Because it’s cheaper?”

“Yes. But it is also because
Indian culture promotes tranquility while American culture thrives on being
reactive. In order to succeed, a computer tech must know how to deal with
irate, irrational customers. When it comes to analyzing and fixing computers
there is no one better than yourself. When it comes to dealing with people you
are a hothead. Therefore, you will either learn to control your anger or you
will find another job. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

* * * *
*

Jacob’s cell phone
rang the moment he left
his boss’s office. “Nancy?”

“Did you have the floor cleaned?”

“It’s clean.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I cleaned it.”

“What about the dog?”

“I left him in the garage with
the door cracked open.”

“So you’ve decided to keep it?”

“I’m putting an ad in the paper
to give him away.”

“Have it your way.”

“What does that mean? Hello?
Nancy?” Jacob hung up.

BITCH
SESSION

Monday’s
broadcast crawled into its third and final hour. Nancy remained at the
microphone—a captain sinking her own ship.

 She had spent her first hour
discussing the recent assault in Deerfield Beach, but with few details and no
practical experience of her own, the topic had dead-ended rather quickly. In
hour-two she had opened the phone lines to discuss any topic on the listeners’
minds, but there were only three callers – one being Lynnie, who was pushing
for a blind date show with her gardener as the top prize.

Heading into the last hour, she
decided to come clean with her audience.

 “So that’s the story, guys. Dr.
Beach is officially beached unless I can get my ratings up. I’m willing to talk
about anything, so give us a call at 561-222-WOWF, or you can text star-WOWF on
your mobile phone. Trish, do we have any callers on the line?”

Trish was in the control room,
reading the
Help Wanted
ads. She shook her head then returned to the
newspaper.

Nancy groaned. “Hour number
three, and still no callers. Is there anybody out there with a pulse? I realize
it’s Monday . . .want to know how my Monday started? It started
when my live-in boyfriend’s two thousand pound German Shepherd tore apart my brand-new
throw-pillow, chewed the heel off of my new
Tory Birch
flats, and
diarrhea’d all over my hallway. Want to join the bitch hour, call me at
561-222-WOWF, or you can text star-WOWF on your mobile phone. Woof, woof, woof.”

Trish knocked at the glass
partition.

“Will wonders never cease, we
actually have a caller. This is Dr. Beach, what’s your bitch?”

“Hi, Dr. Beach. I’m a first-time
caller. Actually, I’ve never listened to your show before. I happened to be
flipping thru the dial when I heard you say something about a German Shepherd.
We breed Shepherds. They’re wonderful dogs.”

“Yes, well I don’t plan to keep
ours very long. In fact, when I get home tonight I’m telling my boyfriend he
needs to choose which bitch he wants to live with.”

Trish held up another sign.

“Line two from Boca. Speak.”

“Hi, Dr. Beach. It sounds to me
like the problem’s your boyfriend, not the dog.”

“Very astute, Boca. Actually,
it’s not my dog, it’s
his
dog and they have a lot in common. Neither one
of them listens, they’re both slobs, and they both smell like wet carpet. Line
three from Wellington, you’re on the air with Dr. Bitch, er . . . Beach.”

“You’re not a dog lover, are
you?”

“Not true. I like small foofie
dogs. Big dogs poop big turds and chew up the furniture. Then again, so does my
boyfriend.”

“Well, you have to train them.”

“The dog or my boyfriend?”

“Both.”

* * * *
*

The human brain
processes 400 billion
bits of information a second, and yet we only allow an infinitesimal percentage
of that data to breach our stream of consciousness.
How do we select what to
focus on? Which random thoughts should be flushed and which harvested? Where do
the seeds of inspiration that yield the oak trees of success come from?

The answer: They often come when
you least expect it.

* * * *
*

“Well, you have
to train them.”

“The dog or my boyfriend?”

“Both.”

Nancy’s heart pounded in her
chest as the epiphany seeded a thought in her mind’s eye that quickly sprouted
roots. “My esteemed caller from Wellington is right! It’s not the dog’s fault
it crapped all over my house -- Sam needs to be trained. Sam, by the way, is my
German Shepherd, not my boyfriend. If you’re a dog trainer, or you know of an
experienced dog trainer, call me right away at 561-222-WOWF, or text me at
star-WOWF on your mobile phone. The first caller recommending a qualified dog
trainer will receive . . . Trish, do we have anything to
give away?”

Trish shook her head, no.

“Nothing? Hold on, how about a
free massage at the Lifestyle Revolution Spa? No? What if I pay for it? Yes?
How much does an hour massage run?”

The producer wrote down a number
on a flash card.

“A hundred and fifty dollars? Are
you for real? Does that come with an anal bleaching? It does! Okay, listeners,
the first caller providing me with the name and phone number of a qualified dog
trainer receives an hour massage and the optional anal . . . and
it looks like we have a winner! Who’s this?”