The Very Bad Dog Ch. 02

Bad little dogs ought to appreciate the sacrifice of their goddesses before seeking to shred their favorite shoes. But, you know, some dogs just cannot cope with the notion of an owner having more than one pet. And it's a thing you risk whenever you bring a dog into the home. Will he cope with me training others? Or will I be forced into so much unpleasantness?

Troy forces me into unpleasantness. You would think he likes the pain of correction.

He is nothing if not Pavlovian. He wakes and sees me looking down at my shoes, nestled in front of him as he curls into a fetal position on the floor.

"So destructive. What a shame. Perhaps I should get rid of my disobedient little dog. Find another. What do you think?"

"Please, goddess. No."

And then, at once, Troy reacts with a yelp, his body nearly vibrating. His eyes go to my hands, buried in the pockets of my nude silk robe. His hands go to his neck, feeling around it for the one thing he fears most: the shock collar.

Troy woke not because I was loud but because I was ready for him to wake. Drunk on his rebellion, he slept through the moment I woke and found him wrapped around my destroyed shoes. It felt almost like an invitation to change his collar over. It certainly cut through any bullshit.

The vicious bite zinging through him is well worth the surprise.

"Goddess," he tries again, and I shock him.

"I ..."

Zing. He halts, shutting his mouth. There it is.

"Little dogs do not think," I say.

But I'm watching him do just that. He's trying to decide in his small mind whether it is best to nod in agreement, to sit back as if on his hind legs, to give me hound dog eyes to express his tremendous sorrow at having displeased me, or simply stay frozen, waiting for me to call the next shot.

He freezes.

Not such a stupid dog after all.

I turn and walk swiftly to the living room, to Troy's cellphone where it is plugged in and charging. I unplug it and bring it back to the bedroom, where he hasn't moved so much as an inch.

"Call them."

"Yes, goddess. Thank you, goddess."

I am not imagining the hint of eagerness in his voice. He doesn't look up from the floor while he accepts the phone from me, hitting a few buttons while I turn and sit on the edge of my bed.

"Karen. Yes. This is Troy. I'm terribly sorry. I won't be able to make it to work today. I've a dreadful ..."

When he pauses, just for an instant, I know he's thinking of making reference to his pain in the neck. This would be a grievous error.

"Flu. Yes. I'm so sorry. Tomorrow? Oh, I can't say at this point. It's just hard to tell how these kinds of bugs evolve."

Troy imagines that he is not going to work today because I will be home and training him all day long. But little dogs should not let their imaginations get the best of them, either.

When Troy hangs up from the vilely effervescent Karen, he places the phone in my outstretched hand and I convey it back to the charger in the living room.

"Come, little dog."

Troy follows me out of the bedroom and through the living room. He hesitates when I push open the laundry door, but I'm quite finished with being a soft and benevolent goddess.

The door bounces against the door stop, revealing the usual trappings of a household: a washer and dryer, a dog bowl, a cage.

I make a single slapping motion with my hand and Troy drops down to all fours and crawls right into the waiting cage. I refill the water bowl for him.

The laundry has a chill to it that even I cannot abide for more than a few minutes. In the cage, Troy has only a horsehair blanket for warmth. I place the bowl inside and swing its door shut, then leave the laundry, closing the door with a soft click. Loud demonstrations are so rarely necessary.

I can hear Troy begin to howl as I shower and dress. Today, I wear the tallest heels. I shimmy into the most confining undergarments. I go to work with a smile. My bad dog will leave me no bedroom messes.

At lunch time, I call the house and wait for the beep of the answering machine. I do not need to hear him to know he's still mournful and sulking. And I know my voice is loud through the house and bold as a bell.

"Be quiet, now. Do you have any Doberman in you, little dog?" I smile. "No. You're a mousy, ratty-haired little gutter mongrel. A stray." I finger my nipple through my silk blouse, feeling it firm up through the lace. "A mongrel that everyone else would leave at the shelter."

I whistle through my work day. Alberto says, "You're in an awfully good mood."

I say, "I feel I might've solved a complex, multi-layered problem."

He stares at my legs. "With a client?"

"No. With a pet."

When Alberto stares openly at my legs, I am reminded of my rule: do not shit where you eat. I am disquieted by the realization that Troy is the nearest I have come to breaking this rule.