Scout takes the lead, p.1
Scout Takes the Lead, page 1
Scout Takes the Lead:
A Veteran with PTSD Dog Training Healing Romance Novella
COPYRIGHT 2023 NEIL S. Plakcy.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
1: Scout: Alex
Because I couldn’t sleep, I walked. Up and down the night streets of Hollywood, Florida. Past palm trees with hanging fronds, darkened houses, and old-fashioned glass-fronted streetlights that glowed blue with bulbs that were supposed to be calming.
I stopped at intersections even if there wasn’t any traffic, waiting for the green light, for a signal that things were going to be better. I was circling past the back side of the Publix at Young Circle when I heard a loud crash. Metallic. Like cymbals.
I hit the ground. My face pressed to the dirt. Grass blades poking up my nose. A twig jabbing my neck. My hands grabbing for my gun, a knife, any sort of weapon.
But I wasn’t in the desert. That wasn’t enemy fire. It had been the clatter of the cargo door on a truck, unloading stock.
That’s all. Just a stupid door on a stupid truck doing a stupid daily errand.
Then, in the matter of a second, I was awake, the nightmare still lingering in the back of my mind. I was covered in sweat from my shoulders to my balls. And still the sound continued. I was safe. The war was over. For me at least.
Rolling onto my knees, I waited. Panted. Got my wits about me.
I couldn’t go on like this.
“Alex Dow, you are going crazy,” I said to the empty street. I had renewed my prescription for tranquilizers the day before, even though they weren’t working. I got up and stretched, my arms and legs creaking like I was sixty instead of thirty. Too much time spent in hospital beds without enough exercise.
As dawn began to spread pink fingers of light against the sky, I hurried home. I made my bed, as I did every day. One of my platoon mates once questioned a commander why bed-making was so important in the military. “It’s not like the Ali Babas are going to strike harder because our bunks are a mess,” he said.
“I learned something from a very wise man once,” the commander said. “Life is very hard, and a sense of structure can make everything more manageable. If you start your day by making your bed, you’ve completed one task effectively, and that gives you the desire and motivation to continue as you started.”
Who was I to question a commander? I’d only ever been a grunt. So every morning I made my bed, though sometimes my hospital corners weren’t perfect.
I trudged to the bathroom where I stared at my grizzled face in the mirror. Every day I seemed older and yet less prepared for the world. I rinsed my straight razor, then began shaving the way my father had taught me, following the curves of my face. It was times like that when I could almost feel him over my shoulder, watching me, sometimes shaking his head.
I gargled with mouthwash and brushed my teeth, though I had no plans to get close enough for anyone to notice. My hair was short enough that it didn’t need a comb, so I walked back into my combination bed-living room. I raised the shades and let the sunshine in, but that only pointed out how pitiful the space was.
I sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of granola. My Army buddies called it sticks and roots, but I couldn’t imagine making myself a full breakfast. The effort of buying the ingredients, scrambling the eggs, and frying the bacon, was too much for me.
I took a pair of anxiety pills with a shot of orange juice. I had a whole bottle of them in the medicine cabinet. Could I just swallow them all, chase them with a bottle of whiskey, and go to sleep forever? No more nightmares, no more waking up in a cold sweat, no more flinching at every loud noise and unexpected contact.
It was the coward’s way out. But I had spent so long being brave that my reservoir was empty. I had no friends, no close family, no girlfriend. Who would care if I lived or died? D’eriq, my therapist at the VA, had suggested I get a dog. That maybe a dog could keep me grounded, calming me when I got anxious, requiring me to engage with the world.
I’d read a lot about wounded vets getting service dogs, but my problems were all in my head, and I didn’t want to take a dog from someone who might need one for mobility.
A brochure about service dogs sat on the coffee table. D’eriq had told me about this organization, and how they trained service dogs for vets. But they had a long wait list and required a four-week training commitment in Virginia. Could I wait that long? I doubted it.
Maybe I could train my own service dog, though.
The idea was enough to spur me to move over to my desk, where my laptop hummed in sleep mode. I pulled up a couple of websites and figured that if I got a puppy with the right characteristics, I could do the training myself. It wouldn’t be as good as what the organization provided, but maybe down the road, once I felt a little better, the dog and I could go in for some formal training.
In the meantime, at least I’d have a companion to keep me company—and keep me from taking all those pills. I showered and dressed, feeling more energized than I had in a while.
I used the app on my phone to map out a route to the Broward County Animal Shelter that avoided the interstate or any major roads likely to be too crowded, with too many aggressive drivers blowing their horns and darting around like pinballs on a track.
It took longer to get to the sprawling, low-slung building near the Fort Lauderdale airport than it might have if I’d been brave enough to take the short route, but I didn’t mind. Better to be safe than crazy was my motto.
I stepped out of the car and was assailed by noise. A cacophony of barking from the building, and the sound of a jet taking off at Fort Lauderdale airport, only a few blocks away.
I looked at the back seat of my car. There was no way I could keep it clean if I got a dog. The habits of cleanliness instilled by the Army were going to war with dog hair everywhere.
But I’d come this far. I opened the glass door and the smell of all those dogs and cats assailed me. I was about to turn around but the girl behind the counter said hello.
She was barely out of her teens, with long dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She pulled one of her earbuds out and asked me what kind of pet I was looking for.
“A dog,” I said.
“The dog enclosures are to the left,” she said. “If you want to take one out and play, let me know.”
The first dogs I saw were either pit bulls or mixes. They were tough dogs, and if they weren’t well-trained they could be violent. I needed a breed that I could take places, and pit bulls could make people jumpy if they snarled and threatened to attack. I didn’t want a dog that could cause me trouble.
A family was considering what looked like a Yorkshire Terrier that yipped wildly but licked the little girl’s face. The dogs around them were small and noisy, variants on chihuahuas. I’d seen women carrying little dogs in purses, and that wasn’t for me. I also needed a dog who’d be quiet when I had to work.
At the end of the row of pens stood an enclosure with two puppies that looked like a mix of golden retriever and something else, probably collie, if their pointed noses were any indication. One of them was a real fireball, jumping and twirling around, while the other was quieter and came up to the wire to sniff my hand.
From what I’d seen online, either breed would be a good choice for a service dog. But which one of the two? I went back to the earbud girl and asked to see them. She brought a plastic lead and led me back to the enclosure.
“Let’s try this one first,” she said, picking up the bouncy puppy by the scruff of his neck and slipping the lead around his neck. He wiggled and wriggled, trying to get free, and just looking at him made me anxious.
“Maybe the quieter one instead,” I said.
“If you want.” She put the bouncy boy down and picked up his brother, who looked right at me with soulful brown eyes that pierced something inside me.
Right then, I knew he was going to be mine, but we walked outside and she handed the puppy to me. He licked my chin, and I kissed the top of his head. I put him down on the grass and he immediately began to sniff, tugging me forward.
“Just pull lightly on the lead to remind him who’s in control,” the girl said, and I did.
The dog immediately stopped pulling. He sniffed the ground, lifted his leg and peed. I knelt down to pet him and said, “Good dog!” He leapt up into my arms, and the deal was settled.
“I’ll take him,” I said. After I filled out the adoption application and paid the fee, the girl gave me a checklist of things I’d need, along with coupons from a pet store in Hollywood, Florida, where I lived.
“I have to let you know that this is a conditional adoption,” she said. “We require all dogs adopted here to be neutered. Because he’s not old enough for the procedure, you’ll have to have it done when he’s ready, and then we’ll finalize your paperwork.”
“I have to do that?” I had already bonded with the puppy and I didn’t like anyone telling me what I had to do with him. “What, or you come to my house and repo him?”
“It’s our policy,” she said. I frowned, but she continued. “He’s already had a full physical exam and all the necessary vaccinations. Here’s his rabies tag and the paperwork for his microchip.”
I had had enough of being under government control, and I didn’t like the idea that my dog had a chip in him. “Can you trace where he is through that?”
She shook her head. “It’s only an identification. In case he gets lost.”
Or you try to take him away from me, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
“Have you got a name for him?” she asked. I’d already thought of it while we were walking, him on point as if he was looking out for me.
“Scout,” I said. He looked up at me, as if he already recognized his name.
2: Trouble: Grace
I knew right away the guy was trouble. He was handsome, of course, but in a haunted way, like an El Greco Jesus, with dark hair and bags under his eyes. And his dog was adorable, a golden retriever-collie mix with a pointy snout that sniffed everything in the pet store like it was his first time away from his mama.
He was older than that, of course. Not the guy, but the dog. As a dog trainer, I tend to make a canine connection first, then move on to the human.
I got my first dog when I was seven, a stray my father found by the side of the road and brought home. I still remember Dad walking in the door, carrying the scrawny mutt who needed a bath and a couple of good meals. He handed him to me.
“You said you wanted a dog, Grace. Here you go.”
My father wasn’t big on gifts, so this was very special. I called the dog Buddy, and the first thing my mother made me do was give him a bath in the big farmhouse sink in our garage. It was so tall and deep that I had to pull up a box to stand on.
I put Buddy in the basin and sprayed him with water, and he immediately shook all over me. That was my first experience with training a dog. I lowered the volume of the water, and massaged shampoo from my bathroom into his fur, talking to him in a low voice the whole time.
“You’re a good boy, Buddy,” I said. “You’re going to be so handsome when I get you clean.”
Of course he wasn’t handsome at all, with three different colors of fur, one ear that bent over, and a grizzled snout, but he was everything I wanted. He was already housebroken, which meant he was someone’s abandoned pet.
I empathized with him because most of the time my parents ignored the fact that my sister and I were there, especially when they fought. Meeting my best friend Becca helped. She had an Australian terrier who needed a lot of exercise. She and I used to take Piper out to the park and run with him after school, and through trial and error I began to teach him things Becca’s family had ignored, like how to lie down, fetch a ball and catch a frisbee.
Once we were older and started to notice boys, things changed. Becca decided that Buddy and Piper had shaped my attitude toward the males of any species. She believed that I looked for guys and dogs who needed to be rescued.
Her key example was Garrett Lam, my most recent ex. He had a lot of issues, starting with his identity as a first-generation Chinese-American, balancing out the filial piety and obedience his parents expected with the freedom available to him here and ending with his inability to see a woman as his equal. He also had an adorable Pekingese who was jealous of any woman. Throw in a bad temper and you’ve got a toxic stew I sampled for way too long.
By then I had completed the education I needed to be a licensed dog trainer, so I defended myself to Becca. “Garrett was ignoring Lily and I had to teach him how to be good to her. Dating him was just a sideline.”
But I knew that wasn’t the whole truth.
I was shopping for training treats for the class I teach on Saturdays when I noticed that the handsome guy had a big bag of puppy chow in the wagon. “Has he tried that food yet?” I asked, flashing a charming smile.
The guy shook his head.
"Can't waste money on food that'll make your little guy sick. Believe me, cleaning up dog vomit is not my idea of a good time." I gestured for him to follow me. "I'll show you what I do with all my new puppy buddies."
“Do you go through puppies often?” the guy asked.
"Well, as a trainer, it's kind of my thing. Working with owners and their pups until they become inseparable besties." I extended my hand. "Grace de Windt, at your service."
He looked reluctant to touch me, like someone with ADHD who’s just got finished washing his hands eight times. But eventually, he took my hand. His was huge, and the size of it gave me a sense of security, like he could take care of me.
“Alex Dow,” he said. “I just got Scout from a rescue about an hour ago. Maybe you could help me out.”
Of course I know it’s wrong to expect a guy to take care of me. I’ve been seeing a therapist off and on, and Dr. Altman agrees with Becca and says I’m dealing with my childhood issues by working with dogs. I can turn their lives around, while mine alternates between being out of control and wobbling on training wheels.
“Skip that food,” I said, pointing to one bag. “I had a client who swore that food put the shit in shih-tzu.” I blushed. I wasn’t usually that crude.
Alex laughed.
“Yeah, it’s funny until it’s your four-thousand-dollar couch that needs to be reupholstered.”
“That won’t be a problem for me,” Alex said. “The furniture in my apartment came with the place, and none of it is worth anything.”
I nodded. Yeah, that’s what a lot of guys said.
Scout was absolutely adorable. I know, most puppies are, but he had a sort of gravitas mixed with his puppy charm. His eyes were big and brown and his nose was black, but the rest of him was a lovely golden color. His nose was long and when you looked at him straight-on his head had the shape of a lightbulb.
Alex headed to the toy aisle, and I wanted to tell him that there were more important things to focus on with a new puppy, but instead I followed. He picked up a rubber dachshund and squeaked it in front of Scout. The dog’s eyes opened wide and he lunged for it.
“Not until I pay for it, boy,” he said.
I grabbed a tennis ball off the shelf and tossed it at Alex. He grabbed it immediately, though he looked startled. “Good reflexes,” I said. “Try that with Scout.”
“Oh.” He did, and Scout tried to get the ball, but it fell to the ground. The dog scrambled after it and we both laughed. We played with a few more toys after that in a kind of three-way play date, and Alex seemed to be warming up to me, and learning how to interact with Scout at the same time. At one point I caught his eye and blushed, and he looked away.
Alex and I walked around the store together and I showed him the kind of all-natural treats to buy for Scout. “Be careful of anything made in China,” I said. “They don’t have the same safety standards we do.”
I pulled one bag off the shelf. “I know it’s goofy, but I like the ones that look like people food,” I said. “These tiny T-bone steaks are the right size for training. When you’re teaching a dog a command, you don’t want to give him a huge treat that he’ll chew on for a long time because he’ll forget what he’s learning and focus on the treat.”
Scout eagerly sniffed the bag as Alex leaned past him to put the T-bone treats in his cart. “Good advice,” he said. “What about one of these rawhide bones? It says on the package it can help clean his teeth.”
I shook my head. “There are a lot of problems with rawhide. They can harbor bacteria, or chunks can get caught in Scout’s digestive system. I suggest these sweet potato chews instead. Try this package of small ones. His jaws aren’t strong enough yet for the big ones.”
Alex was impressed. “You sure know a lot about dogs.”
“It comes with the territory,” I said. “I teach an obedience class on Saturdays here at the store.”
I pulled a card out of my pocket. “You should bring Scout. I’m starting a new class this week.”
He took the card, and I felt a warm tingle as his fingers touched mine. But once again, he backed away quickly.
We circled the toy aisle again, it was so cute to watch the big tough guy playing tug with the little puppy. Scout planted his paws on the floor, grasped the end of the rope in his mouth, and leaned backward. He lost his grip and fell back on his butt, but he bounced right back up again. Alex twirled the rope in front of the puppy, and he jumped for it.
That happened twice more.
“Alex, you don’t have to win every time,” I said, laughing. “You’re training him to lose.”
