Randolph has been hiding under a pile of Risk Assessments for more than a week, but I dug him out. He's been traumatised, poor little thing. It's not easy, dictating your story when your older brother keeps trying to shout you down.
Chapter Ten
The Winchesters arrived well before puppy classes started, and sat watching the instructors arrive for work in the Impala's mirrors.
"So, how did it go last night?" Dean's eyebrows were apparently determined to set some sort of waggling endurance record.
"It felt like it took forever," Sam replied with a yawn, watching the mirror on his side.
"That's my boy!" chirped Dean. "Because in the bedroom, nice guys really do finish last, and I'd hate to think you were a selfish asshole between the sheets, I taught you better than that."
"When you texted me with another one of your totally inappropriate messages, I was trying to find the beagle lady!" snapped Sam.
Dean looked puzzled. "Well, that's new," he mused. "I've heard it called 'the little man in the boat' before, but..."
"Dean!" yapped Sam, with a scorching Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual), "I was trying to track down one of the vanished dog owners! The one who suddenly told people that she intended to move to Maine to open a manscaping salon for island-dwelling lobstermen! We were comparing notes!"
"Is that what kids are calling it these days?" Dean smirked irritatingly. "Is that what you called it at college?"
"Seriously, we were cross-checking each other's searches," insisted Sam.
"Informed consenting adults, Sam," nodded Dean judiciously. "What you do with a like-minded lady is up to you, bro. Provided there's no knitting involved."
"Jerk," muttered Sam. "That's the last of the instructors – none of 'em look fugly in a mirror, so we can rule out a siren. So let's go in to class. Did you bring your socks?"
"Right here, Sam," Dean indicated his feet as he climbed out of the car.
"No, your scent socks," Sam corrected, "You were supposed to wear a couple of socks under your shirt, to get your scent on them. For tracking."
"Well, I can just use the ones I'm wearing," Dean shrugged.
"Oh, gross!" grimaced Sam. "The idea is to give a pup a strong smell to follow – not to suffocate him with your dirty laundry! How long have you been wearing them, anyway?"
"They were clean on last week," replied Dean dismissively. "It'll give the little guy extra clear signals to follow. Won't it?" He bent down to hook up Lemmy's lead, and the puppy butted against his leg for more pats.
"I got this job all wrong," griped Sam, "I shouldn't be worrying so much about Lemmy – you're the one who should be kept on a leash and taught some basic civilisation."
"Funny you should mention that," the Living Sex God's divine eyebrows went into overdrive again, "Because last night, Mandy suggested something very similar, and..."
"AAAAAARGH!" squawked Sam, Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk) manifesting instantaneously, "Too! Much! Information!"
"Okay, okay," sighed Dean, as they headed into the Canine Academy, "You and Kelly better just stick to you, ahem, cross-checking."
"Jerk."
As they made their way past the office, Sam noticed a large poster on the notice board; it had a large picture of a show-clipped poodle being offered up for adoption.
"That's new," mused Sam, "It wasn't here on Friday."
Dean scanned the poster. "That's Giselle," he said, "She's in my class. She's a really friendly dog – Lemmy likes her. Can't say the same for her owner, though."
Sam thought back to the previous week. "Was she the kind of large lady who wore an expression like a cat's ass while you and Lemmy were strutting your stuff?"
"There's always one sore loser," smirked Dean, "And she was totally jealous of Lemmy's effortless awesomeness. Giselle's been having some trouble learning the stance – she just needs more practice, Mrs Blackman says, she's actually pretty bright..."
"Hey guys," they heard Kelly's voice behind them. Lars and Lemmy bounded to exchange greeting-sniffs with Morgan.
"Hey, Kelly," Dean's grin could only be described as shit-eating, while his eyebrows could only be described as gymnastic. "So, did Sam manage to FIND THE BEAGLE LADY for you last night?"
"No," she answered somewhat bemused, as from behind her Sam deployed Bitchface #10™ (Tonight, You Die In Your Sleep). "He spent at least an hour, with three completely different approaches, but nope, no good. I had a go after that, with the same result. Not a squeak."
Dean looked at them both pityingly. "It's not right," he said softly, "Two young people like you, it's just not right, where did I go wrong, Sam..."
"If we could just get back to the job here," Sam muttered through clenched teeth.
"Er, yeah," Kelly eyed Dean dubiously, "You see anything in your mirrors this morning? I got nothing."
"Nope, siren's a bust," Sam told her, "But one of Lemmy's classmates is up for adoption."
"Yeah?" Kelly studied the poster. "Why?"
"It doesn't say," Sam replied. "It does seem kind of sudden, though. She was getting pretty intense about it last week."
Kelly looked thoughtful. "I wonder if it's got something to do with..." her expression changed to one of annoyance. "Shit! Shit!"
"You wonder if it's got something to do with shit?" Dean sounded bemused.
"No!" she snapped, "It's just occurred to me that we missed something with our interviews over the weekend."
"I'm pretty sure we talked to everybody," Sam said.
"We missed something, not somebody," Kelly clarified. "We asked about the people who disappeared – what about their dogs? What happened to their dogs? I kind of doubt that you could take a dog with you to go and study pasta in Italy, or cheese-making in England. All those people had brought their dogs to Polly's Canine Academy, right? So, when their owners disappeared – what happened to the dogs?"
Sam stared at her. "Damn," he said finally, eyeing the poster and following her train of thought, "So... whatever is responsible is disposing of the people, but... trying to find better owners for the dogs?"
"It's a possibility," shrugged Kelly, "And if that's what's happening, Giselle's owner could be the latest victim. I would guess already disappeared, probably dead, if the dog is up for adoption right now."
"Well, let's just see if she turns up with a different dog," Dean cautioned, "I heard some of the class talking about Giselle's owner – apparently, this isn't the first time she's changed dogs, just because the one she had wasn't doing well in the show ring. Amongst people who take it really seriously, it's depressingly common."
"We can ask Miss Polly about it, when we split up for training later," Sam suggested, "And you can go try to visit Giselle's owner. If she's in, tell here you're not really sure if you want to do the whole show thing, and, ask for her opinion, the benefit of her experience. She looked to me like the kind of person who'd respond to ego-massaging."
"Women do tend to react positively to the presence of the Living Sex God," conceded Dean with a smirk, "And we don't need any more practice at running around looking awesome, because it comes so naturally, right Lem?"
At the sound of his name, Lemmy looked up and wagged his tail.
"The Living Sex God, and his Living Sex Godlet," nodded Kelly, "Just promise me you two will let her down gently, okay?"
Sam was not entirely successful in stifling his snort of amusement as Dean glared at him.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
The first session of the morning was a massed class socialisation exercise, in which all the puppies from each group mingled. Lemmy immediately sought out three female pups for a group wrestling bout, whilst Lars peered in confusion down at the Teacup Chihuahua that strained on the end of its leash, snarling and slavering at him (under the pretence of reassuring Lars, Sam crouched down and surreptitiously exorcised Alejandro, whereupon the little dog stopped attempting to dismember Lars, and settled for a happy tug of war with a squeaky chicken instead).
"Oh, well done, Lars!" trilled Miss Polly, beaming indulgently, "Notice how the pups can learn from each other – unwanted behaviour results in the pup being ignored by the others, hence no fun! You can use the same tactic with your pup – if he's doing something you don't want him to do, try ignoring him."
"Er, Miss Polly," asked one of the other pups' owners tentatively, "What about if your dog is doing... that?" She pointed reluctantly to Lemmy, who was enthusiastically humping her leg.
"Make sure you get his number?" grinned Dean brightly. Miss Polly frowned at him, and he sighed. "Okay, come on Lemmy, leave it. Leave it. Leave it!" He grabbed Lemmy's collar, and prised him from the unfortunate lady's leg. "Sorry about that, sometimes he just... er," he finished, as Lemmy yapped happily, and transferred his racy reciprocations to Dean's leg. "Aaargh! Not cool, little dude, we do not bat for our own team, so to speak..."
"Correct him at once, Mr Page," instructed Polly. Dean reached down to pull Lemmy off his leg. The pup scooted around in a small circle in excitement until he bounced off Sam, and began to hump his leg instead.
"Dean!" snapped Sam, his face coming to the realisation that he was going to have to come up with a bitchface specifically to use on his brother's dog, "Slight PROBLEM here!"
"Well, you can't blame him for being confused," Dean shrugged, "With that hair, and those clothes, you do look kinda girly, and with that shampoo, you probably smell kinda girly, too."
"No!" snapped Sam, scowling down. Lemmy left off his humping with a happy expression of good-natured confusion. "Seriously, dude," Sam glared at Dean, "You need to pull this little guy into line."
"He is in line," Dean sniffed dismissively, "A nice straight line, thank you very much. That's better," he added as Lemmy went back to growl-wrestling with two female pups, then turned a winning smile on Miss Polly, who gave him a look that bordered on infringement of the Sam Winchester Bitchface™ trademark.
"Now, as you know, everybody will be having a try at tracking today, regardless of which class you are in," Polly announced a few minutes later, "And there's one preliminary exercise that every pup loves." She gestured to one of the instructors, who stood by with a large box. "This is all about following a scent that's right in front of your nose. It's called... follow the treat ball!"
The instructor distributed the balls amongst the handlers as they called in their pups. "Now, show the ball to your pup, and encourage him or her to push it along, and follow it," she told them, calling Max the demo dog to heel and putting the ball in front of him. Max obligingly demonstrated, rolling the ball with his nose and picking up the kibbles that erratically fell out of the holes in the ball. "Keep an eye on your leash length, and keep their attention on their own ball – don't let them try to take anybody else's. Then, just watch their little faces when the treats fall out!"
"What's this, Lars? What's this?" chirped Sam, as Lars bounced in the spot in excitement at his Alpha's tone. Sam put the ball down; the pup sniffed it, then nosed at it. The ball rolled, and as it did so, a treat fell out of one of the holes. Lars snuffled it up, yipped happily, and butted at the ball to make it roll again. "Good boy!" praised Sam, "Clever boy!"
All around him, the other puppies started to do the same thing. Max followed his own ball around through the crowd, patiently letting some of the puppies follow him to see how the ball worked. "They're just adorable!" Sam exclaimed, pulling out his phone, "I gotta get some pictures of this!"
"Hey, Lemmy, look, treats, man!" Dean waggled the ball in front of the larger Winchester pup. Lemmy looked confused, sniifed at it, try to glare it into submission, then growled suspiciously when the mysteriously wonderful-smelling new toy refused to spit out any treats.
"Give it a push for him, Mr Page," instructed Miss Polly.
Dean rolled it away with one toe, and it left a treat behind. Lemmy dived for the treat, then pounced on the ball, yapping at it enthusiastically. "No, chase it, Lem! Track it! Track it!" tried Dean.
"Coming through!" called Sam breezily – Lars was giving a demonstration to Alejandro the newly-exorcised Chihuahua, and together they pushed the ball along to extract the goodies inside. They cut between Dean and Lemmy, who was getting more and more annoyed with the unco-operative toy. Dean could see other owners, including Kelly, snapping away with phones or cameras as the puppies followed their treat balls.
"Get your smartass and his rat-dog friend out of my way!" yapped Dean.
"Can't talk, too busy tracking!" beamed Sam, still taking pictures and exchanging smiles with the Chihuahua's owner as Lars and Alejandro's prey veered off to the side, the two pups nudging it along. "Oh, God, I think my brain might explode from the cute."
"Or possibly from contact with a blunt instrument," grumbled Dean, "Come on, Lem, your runt brother can teach a rodent to do it, you can do it! Track it! Track it!"
With a final growl, Lemmy launched a full frontal assault on the treat ball, held it between his front paws, and began to gnaw at it determinedly.
"Don't do that!" instructed his bewildered Alpha, bending to grab at the ball. "Here, drop it! Drop it!" He tugged on it again. "Drop it, you little asshole!"
"The command is 'Give', Mr Page," Miss Polly reminded him. "You must assert your authority, calmly but firmly. A confident, capable Alpha figure is absolutely essential for the optimum development of a dog of this breed into a happy and healthy individual!"
"Uh, yeah, right," Dean mumbled. "Give, Lemmy, Give! Give! Give! Give me that!"
"Grrrrrrrrrr," went Lemmy, redoubling his efforts.
Dean looked at the expression on the pup's face, and resignation washed over him – Lemmy was in The Zone.
It's not at all uncommon for dogs, especially young dogs, to have a prey instinct so developed that, once they get hold of something that they want, they become for that moment completely focused on hanging on to it, with a strength and determination that seems impossible for such a young animal. It had happened to Lemmy before – he would get his teeth into something highly desirable and dig in like a tick on a prairie dog. It could've been Oinker Stoinker. It could've been a rope tug toy. On one memorable occasion, which resulted in Bobby using the work 'idiot' in no fewer that eleven languages and dialects, it was most of a dead skunk. On another, it was the rear fender of a police cruiser. No power on Earth could make him let go if he didn't want to. It was as if he took all the intelligence he sometimes didn't seem to have, and channelled it into hanging on to whatever highly desirable item he had in his jaws at the time.
Dean supposed it wasn't entirely surprising. Hellhounds had been bred to chase down evil souls, and not let go until the wailing, writhing Damned had been dragged to Hell. Lemmy's expression was eloquent; it clearly said, I may only be three-quarters Hellhound, and I may only be a puppy, but I most certainly am NOT going to let an ordinary not-even-dead-yet human take away my frigging treat ball.
"Come on, Lem," pleaded Dean, "This is embarrassing, dude..."
"He' so cute when he does that," grinned Sam, still wielding his camera.
With a distinct sniff of disapproval, Miss Polly called Max. The demo dog trotted over to Lemmy, and tried to roll his own ball past by way of demonstration, as he'd done for some of the other puppies.
And that was when three-quarters of all Hell broke loose.
Reviews are the Adorable Puppies Bumbling Along Following Treat Balls Across The Loungeroom Floor Of Life!*
*If you want a Winchester following a treat ball, you'll have to find a way to fill it with beer for Dean, or carrot sticks for Sam, I suppose.