Нора Робертс - The Search

“It takes about ten seconds for a puppy to get bored. Bored puppies chew. Happy puppies chew. Sad puppies chew.”

“Tell me about it,” Simon said bitterly. “I bought him a mountain of chew deals, but he goes for shoes, furniture, freaking rocks and everything else—including my new truck. Here.” He shoved the puppy at Fiona. “Do something.”

She cradled the pup, who immediately bathed her face as if they were reunited lovers. She caught the faintest whiff of leather on his warm puppy breath.

“Aren’t you cute? Are you a pretty boy?”

“He’s a monster.” Simon snarled it. “An escape artist who doesn’t sleep. If I take my eye off him for two minutes, he eats something or breaks something or finds the most inappropriate place to relieve himself. I haven’t had a minute’s peace in three weeks.”

“Um-hmm.” She snuggled the pup. “What’s his name?”

Simon shot a look at the dog that didn’t speak of returning sloppy kisses. “Jaws.”

“Very appropriate. Well, let’s see what he’s made of.” She crouched down with him, then signaled her dogs to release. As they trotted over, she set the puppy on the ground.

Some puppies would cower, some would hide or run away. But others, like Jaws, were made of sterner stuff. He leaped at the dogs, yipping and wagging. He sniffed as they sniffed, quivered with glee, nipped at legs and tails.

“Brave little soldier,” Fiona murmured.

“He has no fear. Make him afraid.”

She sighed, shook her head. “Why did you get a dog?”

“Because my mother gave him to me. Now I’m stuck with him. I like dogs, okay? I’ll trade him for one of yours right now. You pick.”

She studied Simon’s sharp-boned, stubbled face. “Not getting much sleep, are you?”

“The only way I get so much as an hour at a time is if I put him in the bed. He’s already ripped every pillow I own to shreds. And he’s started on the mattress.”

“You should try crate-training him.”

“I got a crate. He ate the crate. Or enough of it to get out. I think he must be able to flatten himself like a snake. I can’t get any work done. I think maybe he’s brain-damaged, or just psychotic.”

“What he is, is a baby who needs a lot of playtime, love, patience and discipline,” she corrected as Jaws merrily humped Newman’s leg.

“Why does he do that? He’ll hump anything. If he’s a baby, why does he think about humping everything?”

“It’s instinct—and an attempt to show dominance. He wants to be the big dog. Bogart! Get the rope!”

“Jesus, I don’t want to hang him. Exactly,” Simon said, as the black Lab dashed for the porch and through the open door.

The dog came out with the rope between his teeth, bounded to Fiona and dropped it at her feet. When she reached for it, he lowered on his front paws, shot his butt in the air and wagged.

Fiona shook the rope. Bogart bounded up, chomped down and, snarling and pulling, engaged in a spirited tug-of-war.

Jaws abandoned Newman, made a running leap for the rope, missed, fell on his back. He rolled, leaped again, little jaws snapping, tail a mad metronome.

“Want the rope, Jaws? Want the rope? Play!” She lowered it so he could reach, and when his puppy teeth latched on, she released.

Bogart’s tug lifted the puppy off the ground and he wiggled and clung like a furry fish on the line.

Determined, she mused, and was pleased when Bogart dipped down so the pup hit the ground, then adjusted his pull for the smaller dog.

“Peck, Newman, get the balls. Get the balls!”

Like their packmate, Peck and Newman dashed off. They came back with yellow tennis balls, spat them at Fiona’s feet. “Newman, Peck! Race!” She heaved the balls in quick succession so both dogs gave chase.

“Nice arm.” Simon watched as the dogs retrieved, repeated the re turn.

This time she made a kissing sound that had Jaws angling his head even while he pulled on the rope. She tossed the balls in the air a couple times, studying his eye line. “Race!” she repeated.

As the big dogs sprinted off, the puppy scrambled after them.

“He has a strong play instinct—and that’s a good thing. You just need to channel it. He’s had his vet visits, his shots?”

“Up-to-date. Tell me you’ll take him. I’ll pay room and board.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” As she spoke, she took the returned balls, threw them again. “I take him, I take you. You’re a unit now. If you’re not going to commit to the dog, to his training, his health and well-being, I’ll help you find a home for him.”

“I’m not a quitter.” Simon jammed his hands in his pockets as once again Fiona threw the balls. “Besides, my mother would... I don’t want to go there. She’s got this idea that since I moved out here, I need companionship. It’s a wife or a dog. She can’t give me a wife, so...”

He frowned as the big yellow Lab let the pup get the ball. Prancing triumphantly, Jaws brought it back.

“He fetched.”

“Yes, he did. Ask him for it.”

“What?”

“Tell him to give you the ball. Crouch down, hold out your hand and tell him to give you the ball.”

Simon crouched, held out his hand. “Give me—” Jaws leaped into his lap, nearly bowling Simon over, and rapped his ball-carrying mouth into his face.

“Tell him ‘off,’ ” Fiona instructed, and had to bite the inside of her cheek as obviously, from his expression, Simon Doyle didn’t see the humor. “Set him down on his rump. Hold him down, gently, and take the ball away. When you’ve got the ball, say, ‘Good dog ,’ repeat it, be enthusiastic. Smile.”

Simon did as he was told, though it was easier said than done with a dog that could wiggle like a wet worm.

“There, he’s successfully fetched and returned. You’ll use small bits of food and lavish praise, the same commands, over and over again. He’ll catch on.”

“Tricks are great, but I’m really more interested in teaching him not to destroy my house.” He shot a bitter look at the mangled headrest. “Or my truck.”

“Following any command is a discipline. He’ll learn to do what you ask, if you train him with play. He wants to play—he wants to play with you. Reward him, with play, and with food, with praise and affection, and he’ll learn to respect the rules of the house. He wants to please you,” she added when the pup rolled over to expose his belly. “He loves you.”

“Then he’s an easy target since we’ve had a rocky and short relationship.”

“Who’s your vet?”

“Funaki.”

“Mai’s the best. I’ll want copies of his medical records for my files.”

“I’ll get them to you.”

“You’ll want to buy some small dog treats—the sort he can just chomp down rather than the bigger ones he’d need to stop and chew. Instant gratification. You’ll want a head collar and a leash in addition to his regular collar.”

“I had a leash. He—”

“Ate it,” Fiona finished. “It’s common enough.”

“Great. Head collar? Like a muzzle?”

She read Simon’s face clearly enough and was unsurprised when she saw him considering the idea of a muzzle. And was pleased when she noted his rejecting frown.

“No. It’s like a halter, and it’s gentle and effective. You’ll use it during training sessions here and at home. Instead of putting pressure on the throat, it puts pressure—gentle pressure—on calming points. It helps persuade a dog to walk rather than lunge and pull, to heel. And it’ll give him more control as well as put you more in tune with your pup.”

“Fine. Whatever works.”

“I’d advise you to replace or repair the crate and lay in a very big supply of chew toys and rawhide. The rope’s pretty much no-fail, but you’ll want tennis balls, rawhide bones, that sort of thing. I’ll give you a basic list of recommendations and requirements for training. I’ve got a class in...” She checked her watch. “Crap. Thirty minutes. And I didn’t call Syl.”