I've been through and fixed the glaring continuity stuff-up in the previous chapter – the Winchesters are of course using the surname Page. It's one of the pitfalls of having two plot bunnies pestering you at once. Sometimes they cancel each other out, or one bullies the other, but little Randolph is doing his best with this one. We're struggling with it a bit, but he's cute for a plot bunny, so please be patient with us, and we'll see where it goes.
Chapter Eleven
The exchange only lasted for a couple of seconds, as such things mostly do. The other dog handlers were watching their own puppies' adorably cute antics with the treat balls, so it was only Dean and Polly who saw the whole thing.
Miss Polly blinked, and decided that it was some trick of the light and shadows, because for a moment, there had been a strange optical illusion: Lemmy was only half the size of Max, who quite possibly had a bit of mastiff in him somewhere, but he must've taken exception to the older dog getting to close to his treat ball, because for a moment, he seemed to have a shadow-self that loomed over Max, rippled like smoke, and had angry red crackles of light flashing across its glowing eyes...
"Mr PAGE!" gasped Polly, her face a picture of shock that quickly changed to dudgeon so high that it risked oxygen deprivation, "Control – your – dog!"
"Uh, right," stammered Dean, reeling Lemmy in and hoping that nobody noticed the residual crackling of red streaks across the pup's eyes. "Come on, Lem, don't do that."
"Grrrrrrr," went Lemmy, glaring at Max, who had taken refuge behind Miss Polly's tartan skirt. The overall effect was now more adorable than threatening – definitely "Awwwwww," rather than "Aaaaaaaaargh!" – but Polly was having none of it.
"Mr Page!" she barked, "Food defence aggression is exactly the kind of behaviour that we must not tolerate!"
"Er, we must not?" blinked Dean, thinking about how he'd react if he thought somebody was trying to muscle in on his cheeseburger and fries.
"We must not!" she reiterated. "The Rottweiler is one of the breeds, such as Pitbulls, Ridgebacks and German Shepherds, that entertain undeserved reputations for savageness, based on sensationalist press and lack of training by people who wish to use them as offensive weapons!"
"They do?" mused Dean.
"Very much so!" Miss Polly insisted. "These are intelligent breeds, Mr Page, which must be given firm, fair, consistent leadership!"
"They must?" echoed Dean.
"If you do not give that brain something to do, Mr Page," she continued ominously, "He – will – improvise!"
"Oh," responded Dean, getting a mental picture of what a three-quarter Hellhound might do if it started to 'improvise' its own amusement. "He's, uh, he's a good boy, though, he's friendly, and he's obedient, well, he comes when he's hungry, and he doesn't get into trouble, if you don't count that thing with the cop car..."
"Mr Page," Miss Polly gazed at him with a look that made his knees wobble – if she'd barked 'Sit!' at that moment, he would've done it – "This dog has the makings of a show champion, but he will not get there if he cannot learn to control himself, and you must be the one to teach him! He requires discipline, Mr Page! And, incidentally," her voice dropped to a lower, more dangerous tone, "He does NOT need the fried chicken that I observed you feeding him last week."
"But he loves wings!" protested Dean.
"They are not GOOD for him, Mr Page!" Polly said sternly. "Part of being a good dog owner is doing what is best for your dog, no matter what he likes! Would you let a child live on nothing but the things they like? What would that do for a child's physical and intellectual development, do you think? Would you feed a child nothing but Pop Tarts, Lucky Charms and Mac & Cheese?"
"Er, well," began Dean, glancing at Sam, who was watching him being upbraided.
"Of course not!" she snapped. "You are the responsible adult here, Mr Page!"
"Right, right," agreed Dean, deciding it was safest just to go with the flow.
Lemmy gave his treat ball another good chomp, and with a brittle crack, part of it caved in, and the pup began to use his practically prehensile tongue to snuffle up the treats.
"Yeah, he is smart!" chirped Dean with a winning smile, "That's problem-solving, that is!"
Miss Polly gave him a look that would make a Hellhound wet itself. Dean wilted.
"I shall expect improvement from you in your next class, Mr Page," she told him. "I shall expect you to comport yourself in a fashion befitting the handler of a champion in the making!"
"Er, yes, Miss Polly," Dean replied, suitably chastened; somehow, he was sure he could hear the unspoken words 'Or else' hanging in the air.
The treat balls were all emptied by the time Polly called for the separate classes to reconvene.
"You behave yourself, Mr Page," tutted Sam at his brother as he and Kelly followed Polly, Max still hiding behind her skirt. Dean flipped him off, and went to join his own class.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Teaching a dog of any age to start tracking is not ostensibly very difficult – you start by laying a short, straight trail of scent objects, interspersed with treats, perhaps, with a favourite toy at the end, then let them use their noses. It's amazing to humans how they take to it, even breeds that are recognised as sighthounds.
It's probably so impressive to humans because scent is not their strongest sense; if there was a planet somewhere where a race of canoids kept sub-sentient humanoids as pets, there would probably be clubs and associations where you could learn to compete in getting your human to follow trails of coloured spots, and it would make terribly impressive footage on the news every time a police person tracked an escaped felon after a gunfight, just by following the splashes of blood.
(On such a planet, there might even be a couple of denbrothers, the Woofchesters, who Prey upon evil things after their dam, who had also Preyed when she was younger but had tried to leave the life behind, was murdered by a demon when they were only pups – they would roam around fighting the good fight, accompanied by their humanoid Jimi, who was in fact a half-Hellman and as a consequence had some unusual traits…
"Oh, no, he's wearing lavender again! Gah! It's my least favourite colour in the entire universe! It gives me a headache!"
"Shut up, Dean, it's free colour therapy. Most dogs find it relaxing."
"Seriously, Sam, it makes me feel sick just looking at it!"
"Well, pull over, and we'll find some grass for you to eat. I wouldn't mind stretching my legs."
"It's your own fault for being such a freak – Mom must've had a fling with a Wolfhound, or something…"
"Shut up, our paternal grandfather was a Great Dane, and you know it."
"All right, Fluffy, don't scoot your ass on the carpet. Yeah, I'd like some grass, and I need to lick my balls. Maybe we can find you something dead to roll in, seriously, that shampoo you use stinks. It's no wonder you don't mate – a bitch would have to have her nose in your crotch the whole time just to avoid being overwhelmed by the stench of the stuff."
"Throwback." Sam gave his brother the expression that Dean had long ago catalogued as Womanscowl™ #5 (My Mating Habits Are SO None Of Your Business, Throwback).
"Runt."
In which case, you would be reading about how the instructor called Miss Cookie had upbraided Dean by insisting "Do NOT let him play with his tablet while you're talking to him, Mr Buster! Juvenile humans should NOT be allowed to play with electronic devices whilst they are in a learning environment! Would you let your pups chew on their squeaky toys while they are in school? Of course not!")
Socks are a common training aid; they are small and cheap and light, and easy to wear inside your shirt for half an hour or so to scent them, and easy to wash when they become muddy or replace if they become too badly damaged. It is also possible that a long time ago, around the time socks were invented, dog owners have realised that dogs have a definite fondness for seeking socks out wherever they may be – laundry hamper, washing basket, under the bed, inside boots, or in the dryer – so using them for tracking training is just utilising this instinct to find socks to good advantage.
Lars' sire Jimi Junior once tracked a dead man across fifty years, following nothing but the faint cosmic signature of an individual left on a photograph. His dam fought her way clear of the Infernal Pack, and located Jimi Jr on the earthly plane when it was time to whelp her pups, following a scent that she had encountered, in the fluid and shifting 'time' of the Pit, nearly 1,000 years previously. So really, thought Sam as the pup made his way unerringly along the trail baited with socks, it would've been more surprising if Lars hadn't shown such aptitude.
"Well done, Mr Page!" Miss Polly beamed, while Max waved his tail and whuffed as if congratulating the youngster, "He is an exceptional animal, just exceptional!"
"Well, I think it's because he's clearly having fun," Sam demurred, "And it's something of a novelty – usually, he gets told off for going sniffing for socks. Speaking of which," he reached down and took the final sock from Lars, who was having a surreptitious chomp on it, and corrected him firmly.
"You have great potential as a handler too, Mr Page," Polly told him, and Sam blushed slightly, "What a team the two of you will make!"
She had them let Lars and Morgan off their leads for some play, and Sam used the break to ask about the dog for adoption.
"It's just that my uncle lost his dog recently," he said, turning on the sad puppy eyes, "And I think he's nearly ready to look for a new four-legged best friend. He prefers intelligent dogs," Sam went on, reading her expression, "He's a widower, and he'd be looking for a dog to be his constant companion, but not a lap dog, so it will have to be a people dog who likes to be active…"
"Oh, that would be Giselle," sighed Miss Polly, frowning slightly. "I would of course want to meet your uncle, and speak to him – I would want to satisfy myself that he was a fit and proper person to look after her, and appreciate her for what she is…"
"I'm sure that your uncle would want to talk too," prompted Kelly, "He'd be keen to meet the dog, and hear about her background, and know why she was being put up for adoption."
"Well, it's one of those situations where I think the dog will be better off in another home," confided Miss Polly. "Some people just don't take their responsibilities to a living, feeling companion seriously! Barbara was unhappy with her, just because she wasn't coming up to showing standard quickly enough! It's not the first time she's done that, you know – I won't have her back again, either. Not that that will be a problem, anyway," she added, with a small vicious stab of satisfaction.
"Oh, has, er, Barbara given up on wanting to show?" Sam asked conversationally.
"Barbara has decided to travel to Norway to become a camel trainer. And good riddance. Giselle will be better off without her. Some people just don't deserve to have dogs," Miss Polly finished with a disdainful sniff.
Sam and Kelly made suitably shocked and agreeing tutting noises, then Miss Polly suggested that they try a turn in the tracking trail.
When the training session had finished, they were headed back to rejoin the other classes, when an instructor approached Miss Polly and told her something in a low voice.
"Er, is something wrong?" asked Sam solicitously.
"It's your brother, Mr Page," sighed Polly, with the resigned look of a kindergarten teacher who has found one of her more boisterous charges eating the Play Doh again, "The Showing class all had a try at tracking too, just for fun. Apparently, when it was your brother and his pup's turn, there was some… misunderstanding."
"Oh, uh," stuttered Sam, "Did Lemmy, er, not get the idea?"
"Well, yes and no," Miss Polly explained. "Yes, in that he got the idea that he was supposed to look for the socks."
"Well, that's good, isn't it?" asked Sam.
"Yes, that is the aim of the basic exercise," Polly nodded. "Unfortunately, the socks he enthusiastically went looking for turned out to be the ones your brother was wearing. He attacked his feet, and tangled him in the lead, so your brother is now in the sick bay with a twisted ankle."
The tracking prowess of the pups' parents takes place in 'Best Of Breed' (for their Hellhound dam) and 'Pregnant Pause' (for Jimi Junior, their sire).
Reviews are the Adorable Puppies Tracking You Along The Line Of Socks Of Life!*
No. You cannot have Winchesters in a harness, on a lead. Just… no.