a stair tread, most of a bag of barbecue potato chips, two chairs and a mallet. And before you ask, yes, I corrected and replaced. He doesn’t give a damn.”
“Learn to puppy-proof,” she advised with no particular sympathy. “Jaws!” Fiona clapped her hands to get his attention, held them out in invitation and smiled. “Come. Jaws, come!”
He bounded over to scrabble at her knees. “Good dog!” She pulled a treat out of her pocket. “What a good dog.”
“Bullshit.”
“There’s that positive attitude and reinforcement!”
“You don’t live with him,” Simon muttered.
“True enough.” Deliberately, she set her trowel on the steps. “Sit.” Jaws obeyed and accepted another treat, more praise, more rubs.
And she watched his eyes shift over to the trowel.
When she set her hands on her knees, he struck, fast as a whiplash, and with the trowel in his teeth raced away.
“Don’t chase him.” Fiona grabbed Simon’s hand as he turned. “He’ll only run and make it a game. Bogart, bring me the rope.”
She sat where she was, the rope in her hand, and called Jaws. He raced forward, then away again.
“See, he’s trying to bait us into it. We respond, go after him, he’s won the round.”
“It seems to me if he eats your tool, he’s won.”
“It’s old, but in any case, he doesn’t know he’s won unless we play. We don’t play. Jaws! Come!” She pulled another treat out of her pocket. After a brief debate, the pup loped back to her.
“This is not yours.” She pried his mouth open, took the trowel, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.” And passed him the rope.
She set the trowel down again, and again he lunged for it. This time, Fiona slapped her hand on it, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.”
She repeated the process, endlessly patient, schooling Simon along the way. “Try not to say no too often. You should reserve it for when you need or want him to stop instantly. When it’s important. There, see, he’s lost interest in the trowel. We won’t play. But we’ll play with the rope. Grab the other end, give him a little game of tug.”
Simon sat beside her, used the rope to pull the dog in, gave it slack, tugged side to side. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for a dog.”
Willing to give some sympathy now, she patted Simon’s knee. “This from a man who takes showers with his puppy?”
“It was necessary.”
“It was clever, efficient and inventive.” And they both smelled of soap and . . . sawdust, she realized. Very nice. “He’ll learn. You’ll both learn. How about the housebreaking?”
“Actually, that’s working.”
“Well, there you go. You’ve both learned how to handle that, and he sits on command.”
“And wanders into the forest to roll in dead bird, eats my universal remote.”
“Simon, you’re such a Pollyanna.”
He sent her a narrow stare and only made her laugh. “You’re making progress. Work on training him to come, every time you call. Every time. It’s essential. We’ll work on some leash training, then give him a refresher on coming.”
As she rose, she saw the cruiser heading down her lane. “It’s a good time to teach him not to run toward a car—and not to jump on a visitor. Keep him controlled, talk to him.”
She waved and waited for Davey to pull up and get out of the car. “Hi, Davey.”
“Fee. Hi, guys, how’s it going?” He bent to rub black, yellow and brown fur. “Sorry, Fee, I didn’t know you had a lesson going.”
“No problem. This is Simon Doyle and Jaws. Deputy Englewood.”
“Right, you bought the Daubs’ place a few months back. Nice to meet you.” Davey nodded at Simon, then crouched to greet the puppy. “Hey, little fella. I don’t want to interrupt,” he said as he scratched and rubbed the exuberant Jaws. “I can wait until you’re done.”
“It’s okay. Simon, why don’t you get the leash, do a little solo work on heeling? I’ll be right there. Is there a
“Learn to puppy-proof,” she advised with no particular sympathy. “Jaws!” Fiona clapped her hands to get his attention, held them out in invitation and smiled. “Come. Jaws, come!”
He bounded over to scrabble at her knees. “Good dog!” She pulled a treat out of her pocket. “What a good dog.”
“Bullshit.”
“There’s that positive attitude and reinforcement!”
“You don’t live with him,” Simon muttered.
“True enough.” Deliberately, she set her trowel on the steps. “Sit.” Jaws obeyed and accepted another treat, more praise, more rubs.
And she watched his eyes shift over to the trowel.
When she set her hands on her knees, he struck, fast as a whiplash, and with the trowel in his teeth raced away.
“Don’t chase him.” Fiona grabbed Simon’s hand as he turned. “He’ll only run and make it a game. Bogart, bring me the rope.”
She sat where she was, the rope in her hand, and called Jaws. He raced forward, then away again.
“See, he’s trying to bait us into it. We respond, go after him, he’s won the round.”
“It seems to me if he eats your tool, he’s won.”
“It’s old, but in any case, he doesn’t know he’s won unless we play. We don’t play. Jaws! Come!” She pulled another treat out of her pocket. After a brief debate, the pup loped back to her.
“This is not yours.” She pried his mouth open, took the trowel, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.” And passed him the rope.
She set the trowel down again, and again he lunged for it. This time, Fiona slapped her hand on it, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.”
She repeated the process, endlessly patient, schooling Simon along the way. “Try not to say no too often. You should reserve it for when you need or want him to stop instantly. When it’s important. There, see, he’s lost interest in the trowel. We won’t play. But we’ll play with the rope. Grab the other end, give him a little game of tug.”
Simon sat beside her, used the rope to pull the dog in, gave it slack, tugged side to side. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for a dog.”
Willing to give some sympathy now, she patted Simon’s knee. “This from a man who takes showers with his puppy?”
“It was necessary.”
“It was clever, efficient and inventive.” And they both smelled of soap and . . . sawdust, she realized. Very nice. “He’ll learn. You’ll both learn. How about the housebreaking?”
“Actually, that’s working.”
“Well, there you go. You’ve both learned how to handle that, and he sits on command.”
“And wanders into the forest to roll in dead bird, eats my universal remote.”
“Simon, you’re such a Pollyanna.”
He sent her a narrow stare and only made her laugh. “You’re making progress. Work on training him to come, every time you call. Every time. It’s essential. We’ll work on some leash training, then give him a refresher on coming.”
As she rose, she saw the cruiser heading down her lane. “It’s a good time to teach him not to run toward a car—and not to jump on a visitor. Keep him controlled, talk to him.”
She waved and waited for Davey to pull up and get out of the car. “Hi, Davey.”
“Fee. Hi, guys, how’s it going?” He bent to rub black, yellow and brown fur. “Sorry, Fee, I didn’t know you had a lesson going.”
“No problem. This is Simon Doyle and Jaws. Deputy Englewood.”
“Right, you bought the Daubs’ place a few months back. Nice to meet you.” Davey nodded at Simon, then crouched to greet the puppy. “Hey, little fella. I don’t want to interrupt,” he said as he scratched and rubbed the exuberant Jaws. “I can wait until you’re done.”
“It’s okay. Simon, why don’t you get the leash, do a little solo work on heeling? I’ll be right there. Is there a
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