Scooter sniffed around the tile floored room, then sat a firm sit before a stack of shelves holding treat bags, harnesses, collars, toys, and miscellaneous items of interest to dog owners. Across the room on the floor sat the trainer, watching Scooter.

 

“Not that stuff.” Scooter sniffed. He held his chin intentionally high, his eyes focused on the tippy top shelf. He sat stock still.

“What?” I asked.

 “Those!” he answered with a flick of his nose.

On the top shelf, very near the ceiling, bully sticks filled a French bread bucket like baguettes stand in Paris boulangeries. It was not fault with his nose that brought us to this room.

 

“We’re here for those?” 

“No,” I said.

“What then?” he asked, looking around the room.

 

It was a perfect place for dogs. A few armless upholstered benches for people, baskets of toys on the floor for the pups, plenty light from a wide front window, glass in the door for seeing* people passing by. And bully sticks.

            

“Look!” said Scooter finding a Small Ball in one of the toy boxes. “It’s like mine at home. We’re here to play with this Small Ball?”

“Not exactly, Scooter,” I said, tossing the ball across the room.           

 

But the ball wasn’t “just like” Scooter’s Small Ball. It didn’t bounce. It thumped. It landed with a thud. Scooter ran for it once then dropped it.

“That’s no Small Ball.” He made that clear.

 

“It looks like your Small Ball,” I said. “It’s the same size, and it’s orange, like yours.”

 

“Don’t mess with me,” said Scooter. “I know Orange. You peel it. I get some. I know the smell, the texture, the taste of Orange. That Small Ball was no orange.”

 

“Ah, Scooter, you’re right. You see blue, yellow. It’s that dichromatic vision of yours. Millions of nerve cells captured in Cones, photoreceptors for creating color. But while people have three types of Cones, dogs have only two types. You see tones of yellows and blues.”

“And grey. I see grey.”

“Right, and grey. You taste but don’t see Orange.”

 

“Shall we talk about my superior night vision?” Or, how about my superior nose? Who detected bully sticks on the top shelf? It’s all in the nose. Which, by the way, if you wondered, I smell the elephant in the room.”

“You do?”

 

“I do. It’s over there, by the woman holding turkey meatballs made with basil.”

“Her name is Ann. She’s a dog trainer.”

“If you must know,” said Scooter, “my elephant’s name is Trouble, and it has been my buddy lately.”

“Right you are.”

“That’s why we are here?”

“It is. I recently had to apologize for your behavior to a bunch of dog owners.”

“You did? What did you say?”

“I wrote an email, and said, 

            ‘I don’t even know where to begin, except maybe here: Scooter has made himself less that everyone’s favorite lately, and we are working on righting the wrong. He has acted aggressively toward some dogs, even familiar ones.’”

 

“That’s why we’re here? Not the bully sticks, not the Small Ball, but to let the woman with the turkey meatballs made with basil meet my elephant?”

“That’s it.”

 

“Scooter!” The trainer called. Energy and fun carried her voice.

He hesitated.

She put her hand in the treat bag.

He hesitated no more.

 

“Scooter,” she said, rubbing his fuzzy back. “Your elephant’s name is not Trouble, it is Fear. I happen to know that it would be much happier romping in a field of tall grass with other such elephants than tied to your leash, and stuck in your small apartment. Would you like for me to help you free him?”

“For another one of those meatballs?”

“For as many as you’d like.”

Lesson one had begun. We will see her again in a month.

~~

*for barking at