Below The Fold

First day of class

The…Trainer? Teacher? Trainer. The trainer seems nice enough. She’s a heavy woman who’s always smiling, so much so that you get the sense her cheeks hurt by the end of the night. She’s very hippy and well into her 40s, and she wears pants that are too short for her. There’s a little pouch of treats hooked onto her belt like a carpenter’s hammer, or a cop’s gun.

We picked a space next a young Jewish couple. I don’t know how I know, but it’s just this thing Jews have. Jewdar. Whatever. They had a friendly cocker puppy with the softest golden coat ever.

There was another cocker next to them, black fur and bloodshot eyes, but friendly enough. The owner wore a black leather coat and a black turtleneck underneath. He had his hair combed forward to cover his receeding hairline.

Next to him was George and George. George was a lummoxy chesapeake bay retriever who’s owner looked like he should be named George. He was portly and balding and smiled a lot. He also made weird sounds when he was just standing there, listening to the trainer.

Next to him was Margie and Piggles—I don’t know their names either, but this is what I think they should be.

Piggles was a cross-eyed yapppy, retarded Lhaso-mix. Margie was a short, fat woman, missing all the teeth from her upper set on the left side. She had short hair, and thought she had something funny to say all the time. I immediately hated her, and envisioned George (the dog) ripping her throat out and then eating the yappy lhaso-mix.

Then there was the Bradens and their vicious mutt Hank. The Bradens drove a Subaru Forrester and wore matching North Face vests with white turtlenecks underneath. They had hiking boots on. Hank was still a puppy, but raged at all the other dogs, so he had to be sequestered outside of the circle. They talk about how they can’t take him to doggy day care. Doggy day care.

I hated them too.

“We have 13 dogs in this class, but I only have five dogs in the class on Tuesdays at 6 pm, if anyone’s interested,” the trainer said.

Our hands shot up.

Class is tomorrow now. I’m never going to see George or Margie or the Bradens again.

That doesn’t bother me at all.