Provide comic relief for the rest of the class.

Neither of us breathed a word. We just retreated

to the car in humiliation and drove home in si-

lence, the only sound Marley’s loud panting as he

tried to come down from the high of his first

structured classroom experience. Finally I said,

“One thing you can say for him, he sure loves

school.”

The next week Marley and I were back, this time

without Jenny. When I suggested to her that I was

probably the closest thing to an alpha dog we were

John Grogan

going to find in our home, she gladly relinquished

her brief title as master and commander and

vowed to never show her face in public again. Be-

fore leaving the house, I flipped Marley over on his

back, towered over him, and growled in my most

intimidating voice, “I’m the boss! You’re not the

boss! I’m the boss! Got it, Alpha Dog?” He

thumped his tail on the floor and tried to gnaw on

my wrists.

The night’s lesson was walking on heel, one I

was especially keen on mastering. I was tired of

fighting Marley every step of every walk. He al-

ready had yanked Jenny off her feet once when he

took off after a cat, leaving her with bloody knees.

It was time he learned to trot placidly along by our

sides. I wrestled him to our spot on the tarmac,

yanking him back from every dog we passed along

the way. Miss Dominatrix handed each of us a

short length of chain with a steel ring welded to

each end. These, she told us, were choker collars

and would be our secret weapons for teaching our

dogs to heel effortlessly at our sides. The choker

chain was brilliantly simple in design. When the

dog behaved and walked beside its master as it was

supposed to, with slack in its lead, the chain hung

limply around its neck. But if the dog lunged for-

ward or veered off course, the chain tightened like

a noose, choking the errant hound into gasping

Marley & Me

submission. It didn’t take long, our instructor

promised, before dogs learned to submit or die of

asphyxia. Wickedly delicious,I thought.

I started to slip the choker chain over Marley’s

head, but he saw it coming and grabbed it in his

teeth. I pried his jaw open to pull it out and tried

again. He grabbed it again. All the other dogs had

their chains on; everyone was waiting. I grabbed

his muzzle with one hand and with the other tried

to lasso the chain over his snout. He was pulling

backward, trying to get his mouth open so he

could attack the mysterious coiled silver snake

again. I finally forced the chain over his head, and

he dropped to the ground, thrashing and snap-

ping, his paws in the air, his head jerking from side

to side, until he managed to get the chain in his

teeth again. I looked up at the teacher. “He likes

it,” I said.

As instructed, I got Marley to his feet and got

the chain out of his mouth. Then, as instructed, I

pushed his butt down into a sit position and stood

beside him, my left leg brushing his right shoul-

der. On the count of three, I was to say, “Marley,

heel!” and step off with my left—never my

right—foot. If he began to wander off course, a

series of minor corrections—sharp little tugs on

the leash—would bring him back into line. “Class,

on the count of three,” Miss Dominatrix called

John Grogan

out. Marley was quivering with excitement. The

shiny foreign object around his neck had him in a

complete lather. “One . . . two . . . three.”

“Marley, heel!” I commanded. As soon as I took

my first step, he took off like a fighter jet from an

aircraft carrier. I yanked back hard on the leash

and he made an awful coughing gasp as the chain

tightened around his airway. He sprang back for

an instant, but as soon as the chain loosened, the

momentary choking was behind him, ancient his-

tory in that tiny compartment of his brain dedi-

cated to life lessons learned. He lunged forward

again. I yanked back and he gasped once more. We

continued like this the entire length of the parking

lot, Marley yanking ahead, me yanking back, each

time with increasing vigor. He was coughing and

panting; I was grunting and sweating.

“Rein that dog in!” Miss Dominatrix yelled. I

tried to with all my might, but the lesson wasn’t

sinking in, and I considered that Marley just

might strangle himself before he figured it out.

Meanwhile, the other dogs were prancing along at

their owners’ sides, responding to minor correc-

tions just as Miss Dominatrix said they would.

“For God’s sake, Marley,” I whispered. “Our fam-

ily pride is on the line.”

The instructor had the class queue up and try it

again. Once again, Marley lurched his way mani-

Marley & Me

cally across the blacktop, eyes bulging, strangling

himself as he went. At the other end, Miss Domi-

natrix held Marley and me up to the class as an ex-

ample of how not to heel a dog. “Here,” she said

impatiently, holding out her hand. “Let me show

you.” I handed the leash to her, and she efficiently

tugged Marley around into position, pulling up on

the choker as she ordered him to sit. Sure enough,

he sank back on his haunches, eagerly looking up

at her. Damn.

With a smart yank of the lead, Miss Dominatrix

set off with him. But almost instantly he barreled

ahead as if he were pulling the lead sled in the Id-

itarod. The instructor corrected hard, pulling him

off balance; he stumbled, wheezed, then lunged

forward again. It looked like he was going to pull

her arm out of its socket. I should have been em-

barrassed, but I felt an odd sort of satisfaction that

often comes with vindication. She wasn’t having

any more success than I was. My classmates snick-

ered, and I beamed with perverse pride. See, my

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 789