Free Strays by Jennifer Caloyeras Page B

then a whole lot of nature TV. Dad would no doubt be working late. I was happy to learn that his date with Janet had been a bust.
    Talbot shrugged. “Well, maybe another time. My dad’s always riding me about bringing home a ‘decent and respectable’ friend.”
    â€œUm, don’t forget you met me at juvenile community service,” I said.
    â€œHey, it’s better than some of the other people I’ve been hanging out with, believe you me.”
    Kevin interrupted us. “Okay, gang. You’ve taken in a lot today: met your dogs, learned about leash leading. And,” he said, glancing over at me, “some of you were even educated on the various methods of picking up canine excrement. All in all, a full afternoon. If you could bring your dogs to the van and then take their leashes off, I’ll see you all again tomorrow.”
    I had made it through day one. Only twenty-nine more to go.
    Not that I was counting.

six
    D oug Loggins, my court-appointed therapist, didn’t get much out of me that first day. He kept waiting for me to speak, as if I had anything to say. Somehow, we ended up chatting about my favorite juice combinations that Dad had brought home, as though the medley of beet-carrot-apple juice contained some deep commentary about my psyche.
    â€œWell, this was good,” Doug said when our time was up. “But next time, let’s focus less on vegetables and more on your anger.”
    I left embarrassed and dreaded my next office visit.
    That first week of dog training inched forward. Because summer school didn’t start until Thursday, I was able to sleep in a few days more (once Dad was done puttering around the house early in the morning).
    I wore my running shoes every day to work with the dogs so I’d be armed and ready to bolt as fast as my legs would take me if things got scary. Within the first couple of days, I had successfully taught Roman how to walk and stay on a leash, always exercising caution. He had a habit of bringing his nose to my hand when I praised him, which made me uncomfortable, so as soon as he’d perform a task successfully, I’d lift my hand to mess with my hair, scratch my face—anything to have it unavailable for Roman’s wet-nose press. He’d look at me with his sad eyes.
    â€œLet’s stick to the lesson,” I’d tell him.
    By Wednesday, it seemed as though everyone had become best friends with their dogs, except for me. Even Randy and Tinkerbelle were hitting it off, playing tug of war with a stick. It was a hot day, and Kevin brought out some spray bottles. The dogs were having fun getting wet. When I sprayed water in Roman’s face, he tried to bite it. Go figure.
    â€œHang out after this?” asked Talbot from across the grass, rolling around on the ground with her dog.
    â€œI can’t. I have plans,” I lied.
    I couldn’t manage the friends I had (if they still considered themselves my friends), let alone forge ahead with a new friendship. Yesterday afternoon I’d caught a glimpse of Ashley when I rode by Pergolesi after dog training. She was bringing someone an iced coffee drink on the wraparound porch. I’m pretty sure she saw me because she started to lift her hand up to wave, but then, as though her instincts got the best of her, her hand froze at waist level, and I turned the corner.
    â€œSuit yourself,” Talbot said, turning her attention back to her dog. “You’d hang out with me this weekend, wouldn’t you, Garrett?” She was lying on her back as her dog stood over her, and she rubbed his belly. The dog loved it and started kicking its hind leg repeatedly in pleasure.
    I walked Roman to a shady spot and tried my best to imitate Talbot’s body position and laidback attitude. From my vantage point on my back, Roman looked even bigger and more intimidating, but if this is how one played with a dog, I was going to give it a try. He