Give the Dog a Bone

This was astonishing. According to the figures on my computer screen, my finances were in the black for the first time since I'd opened my dog-psychology business four months ago. "Yes!" I pumped my fists, then pushed off against my desk to whirl my chair in a circle across the linoleum floor. Too energized to stay seated, I rose and dashed to my glass door, weighing the notion of rushing outside to do my Happy Dance on the sidewalk. Boulder being the Exercise Capital of the World, chances were that I would accidentally trip a jogger or collide head-on with a skateboarder or roller-blader. From this angle up the concrete stairwell, I could view the sharp, angular peaks of the Flatirons. Above this small section of the Rockies, the azure sky was cloudless. I smiled at the glorious sight, aware that this sunny weather was unlikely to last through the day. Storm clouds would brew by late afternoon. Thunderphobic dogs would quake and eventually go wild with fear, and my phone would ring with new clients needing my services. Maybe I could even afford to take Russell, my officemate and boyfriend--although he was thirty-three and I was thirty-two so the "boy" designation was a misnomer--for a celebratory lunch. I returned to my chair and scooted back to the computer screen to recheck my finances and calendar. Financially I could swing it, provided we went to a fast-food restaurant and split the fries and cola. Schedule-wise, however, my day was booked solid from ten-thirty on. From somewhere just beyond my open windows, a man shouted, "Maggie! You come back here this minute!" I turned. The man was standing directly in front of my window, the limitations of its view such that I could see only his brown pants from the knee down. Those pants, too short to be fashionable, revealed a pair of mismatched socks--one blue and one green--and Hush Puppy suede shoes. I could not see Maggie's shoes. "Come here, Maggie! Get your furry little butt over here!" That order got me out of my chair. Immediately deducing that "Maggie" was an off-leash dog, I shuddered at the thought of the busy intersection nearby. With a handler this inept at verbally controlling his dog, Maggie could run into traffic. "Hey, get back here!" the man cried. Just as I reached the door, a large, young-looking golden retriever came galloping down my concrete office stairs, too fast for me to swing the glass door out of her path. "Maggie, sit!" I automatically shouted, but it was too late. She clunked her head hard against the glass. The impact staggered her. She sat down and looked at me, wearing a dog's typical oops-silly me bearing: head slightly lowered on her shoulders, the tip of her tongue showing as she panted. The moment I pulled the door partway open to check on her, Maggie barged inside my office. By then the man with poor dog-handling skills and mismatched socks had reached the steps. While I attempted to hold the door for him, Maggie jumped up on me, her weight pushing me back from the door. Being only five-feet tall, I'm often outsized by my canine clients, so I usually arm myself with a noisemaker to distract ill-mannered dogs. Having been caught unprepared this time, I crossed my arms and rotated so that the dog was facing my back, while I said sternly, "Maggie, down!" Meanwhile, the large man, trying to enter, shoved the door into his dog and me, just when Maggie had dropped down on all fours. She was shoved into the back of my knees, and I was sent sprawling. "Oh, man! Are yous all right?" he asked as I got up and turned to face him, trying hard not to greet the question with obscenities. By no means was this the first time I'd been knocked flat by a dog, but it was the first time a dog had served as the owner's battering ram. Although he'd gotten down on his knees toO'Kane, Leslie is the author of 'Give the Dog a Bone', published 0009 under ISBN 9780449007204 and ISBN 0449007200.