Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

  Yanking the leash, I began the arduous task of getting Hugo back into the SUV. He pulled, sniffed, and lunged to the point where my shoulders hurt, so did my throat from screeching at him.

  Just as I was about to lose it all together, a feminine voice said, "He doesn't trust you. You do realize that, right?"

  Standing on the sidewalk behind me was a tall brunette. She wore gym clothes and had a trim figure. In her hands was a stack of yellow paper covered with large, cheerful writing.

  "No offense," I said as Hugo lunged again, this time at a squirrel taunting him from a nearby stump, "but what do you know about it?"

  "Well," she drew the word out infusing it with smug satisfaction. I had a sick feeling where this was going as she drew near. "I'm a dog trainer. In fact, I'm affiliated with the shelter." She jerked a thumb in the direction of the shelter before switching her focus to the dog. "That looks like Hugo."

  I stiffened. Great. She knew my dog.

  "It is."

  "Your first pit bull?"

  Her voice had a disapproving tone and my hackles went up.

  "So?" I responded, hating that I sounded defensive.

  She stepped forward and extracted the leash from my death grip. I gave it to her without a fight and no one was more shocked than me by that. She saw it too and smiled. I rarely wanted to hit strangers, but she was pushing my buttons.

  "So," she mimicked me as she snapped her fingers at Hugo who immediately stopped trying to get at the squirrel. "You can't manhandle him like a purse dog when he doesn't obey. Though you shouldn't do that either. Anyhoo, what I'm saying is you have to gain his trust so that he'll want to obey you."

  She then proceeded to put Hugo through all his basic commands with such authority and crispness that she could have been showing at Crufts. Hugo, the traitor, obeyed her without argument.

  She put Hugo in a down-stay before handing the leash back to me. He didn't so much as twitch. I scowled at him only to get one of those smiles where his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth. I swear he was laughing at me!

  "Dogs respond to energy and tone, before they register vocabulary. When you get angry, all Hugo registers is 'unstable' and 'untrustworthy'. You have to be firm and consistent, not angry and volatile." She took one of her fliers from the stack and handed it to me. "Call me and we'll set up training for Hugo."

  She scratched Hugo and then waved as she got into a pea green Fiat 500; one of those cars that look like baby booties on wheels.

  I studied the flyer. It had lots of paw prints on it along with her contact info, and read:

  That Damn Dog

  Gloria Reese, certified dog trainer

  All breeds welcome.

  Work with me and I guarantee you'll never need to say that phrase again.

  First lesson free

  I laughed despite myself. We'd just see about that.

  8. Making an Ass out of U and Me

  I got the Escape back just in time, unloaded Hugo, and began the torturous trek back to the Closet. The temporary truce reached between rain and sun as we drove to the shelter had ended. However, instead of a misty warning shot across the bow, it was now a full on assault. I was soaked before we made it out of the parking lot.

  I hadn't brought an umbrella. Hugo--who appeared to be channeling the Wicked Witch of the West--bucked and dodged as if he had to avoid getting wet lest he melt. When that failed, he stopped every few feet and shook violently from head to toe while glaring at me as if it were somehow my fault.

  "What?" I snapped. "I don't control the weather."

  He made a low, whining noise in argument, but I jerked the leash to get him moving again. I wasn't exactly having a party here. He resumed his spastic bucking and jerking while I cursed the rain, my luck, and every bad thing that had ever happened to me.

  All I wanted was to get home, get dry, and get those posts down. Their presence sat like a festering wound under my skin. I wouldn't be able to relax until I deleted them.

  As if to thumb its nose at me, the rain stopped when we were a few blocks from the Closet. The late summer sun dispelled the gray gloom. It wasn't long before my clothes were stuck to me like glue, my hair clung in semi-dry strands around my head, and I was sweating.

  The appearance of Lumpy leaving my building cut short my contemplation of the sorry state I found myself in. He wore a long shirt that did nothing to hide the fact that he was armed and he looked angry.

  I froze in place. The heat that just seconds ago had made me want to scream now did nothing to melt the ice that bloomed across my skin. Sensing my distress, Hugo froze and began looking around for the source. His ears shifted and his nose lifted and twitched as he sifted scents.

  What he didn't do was put himself of front of me and act menacing so that all comers knew to leave me alone. Most especially, scary men who carried guns.

  Lumpy spotted us and moved to intercept our path with a speed that seemed impossible for someone of his size. Hugo, for all the aggression he was supposed to possess as a pit bull, did nothing more than stand still. He radiated tension, but was not one-bit threatening.

  Lumpy came close enough for me to see he hadn't shaved and a dark shadow of stubble covered his face. He wore something under his shirt on one of those cloth lanyards that usually held security passes when worn by corporate cogs.

  With his proximity, my tension skyrocketed and I tightened my grip on the leash. Hugo gave a low, warning growl. Yes! Hope and relief surged. The steel bands restricting my diaphragm dissolved and I once again drew breath. Hugo was going to protect me after all.

  Rather than pass by, Lumpy dropped to one knee, held out a loose fist to Hugo and said, "Hey, fella," only to have Hugo lick his hand!

  The relief surging through me turned to little lead pellets and panic returned. My dog was useless. The whole reason I'd gotten him was to protect me from people like Lumpy.

  "Ma'am?"

  I jumped as Lumpy's voice broke through my panicked mental ramblings.

  "Huh?" was my lame reply.

  A drug dealer just called me ma'am? Call me crazy, but I hadn't put social etiquette on their list of things to do. He was still kneeling as he scratched Hugo, who'd flopped on the sidewalk and rolled over for a belly rub.

  "I asked if you knew Gerald from apartment C."

  I didn't answer right away. I wasn't certain how to ensure a favorable outcome for myself. At the same time, I actually liked the kid and he'd been so gallant the evening before. I didn't want to see him get hurt. I opted for caution.

  "I'm afraid I don't answer personal questions from strangers."

  Only after I spoke did it occur to me to question how he even knew I lived in the building, but I refrained from asking. In the 1980s when rampant drug and gang violence earned the city the nickname of Murder Capital a saying became popular: Don't start none, won't be none.

  It still applied.

  "Fair enough." He stood and reached behind him to where his gun sat in his waistband. In that moment, my death flashed before me. I saw the shift in the air as the gun arced forward displacing molecules before pointing at me, the searing pain of the bullet piercing me for failing to give this man what he wanted.

  You'd think I would have run. Nope. I froze. I was a human icicle; no more effective than my so called "menacing" dog who still lay at Lumpy's feet.

  Time slowed as Lumpy's hand moved back from behind him. The dark shape in his grip made no sense to me. I stopped breathing again. His hand rose and I expected to see the gaping donut of the gun barrel. Instead, I had to squint against the glare off the golden metal.

  A badge. He was flashing a badge at me. Across the top was the label "Metropolitan Police." Lumpy was speaking, but it took me a few seconds to tune in.

  "… is my brother. I've been trying to reach him for a while now and I'm beginning to get worried. We had an argument, but he usually doesn't go this long without getting in touch."

  I laughed—more like got hysterical—in she
er relief, but noticed the consternation on his face. I pulled myself together, taking the business card he fished out of another pocket and handed to me. Reading it, I learned his name was Louis Carlyle and he was a detective.

  "I apologize, Officer," I wiped at my eyes which had watered so intense was my relief. "I've seen you and your gun before. I thought you were some kind of gangster."

  He smiled and rubbed his chin before saying, "It’s detective and I can understand. I look the part."

  Even with the misunderstanding cleared up, I still felt compelled to protect Gerald's privacy. I must have been going soft given avoiding things that didn’t concern me was my usual modus operandi.

  "Listen, Detective. I understand your concern, but all I will do is promise to let Gerald know you're worried if I see him."

  He sighed, ran a hand over his head, and nodded.

  "Okay. Thanks." He gave Hugo one rub more saying, "Bye, buddy," before walking off and disappearing around the block.

  I looked down at the dog I'd gotten to protect me from a man I didn't need protection from. He met my eyes. I swear one canine eyebrow rose as if to say, "what?"

  What the hell was I going to do with him now? I couldn't control him and fate was conspiring to keep me from giving him back. The climb to the Closet felt more like scaling Kilimanjaro than walking a flight of steps.

  * * *

  Once inside, I removed Hugo's leash and commanded "Bed." He ignored me, went to the rug where he circled twice before laying down. The weight that had been descending since my encounter with Lumpy, encompassed me. It felt like I was giving Jacob Marley a run for his money. Even so, I needed to deal with my blog. I grabbed my laptop and, shoving it in my bag, left Hugo to his nap.

  There was no way I was making it to Kona in my current state, so I trudged the few blocks to my neighborhood McDonald's. Once inside, I bought a Dr. Pepper, and found a booth.

  Connecting to the Internet seemed to take forever. My laptop dinged letting me know I had email and I distracted myself long enough to scroll the subject lines. Greg Haldane's name jumped out amid the many work and junk emails. There was no subject line to state his purpose. My heart raced, especially when I realized it came from his private email rather than his corporate account.

  Charlotte - I wanted to thank you for the other night. I've never been rejected so meaningfully. All jokes aside, it was a relief to be able to speak my mind and not be judged for it. As much as it pained me to do it, I've informed my wife that I won't contest the divorce.

  If I can ever return the favor, don't hesitate.

  Sincerely,

  Greg

  P.S. I meant what I said. The project is safe.

  A strange warmth suffused my chest and a tingle like dizziness spun inside me. Unable to catalog the emotion, I put it down to relief. I was completely stumped as to what to say in response. I'd been both blunt and honest the other night. I put it down to my recent upheavals and the whiskey sour that I hadn't stayed inside my usual rules. That it had produced such an unexpected effect took me out of my "go-to action" file.

  Clicking reply, I typed:

  Greg - You're welcome and thank you.

  For several minutes, I sat staring at the screen. It felt too terse, too hard. But what could I say that wouldn't sound patronizing or worse, expose the fact that I didn't related to his pain at all.

  I sifted and discarded too many responses to count before throwing in the towel and responding honestly. I added:

  I don't pretend to know what you're feeling, but I do know what it's like to be judged for speaking honestly. I'm glad I was able to give you that safety.

  Regards,

  Charlotte

  The biggest surprise was that I meant it. I despised weighing and measuring my every reaction. If I had done nothing more than let him spill his guts free from moral recrimination and hypocritical judgment, then I'd done something good.

  That warm twisty feeling grew and spread, causing me to tremble. I felt lightheaded and my chest hurt. Thanks to my trek in the rain, I must be catching the flu.

  I sipped my soda and logged into the administration panel for my blog. Mentally, I cringed and prayed no one had visited. I was such a fool to have exposed myself that way.

  The page popped in and there were no indicators for unread comments. The breath I'd been holding whooshed out and relief surged through me.

  I was safe.

  I moved to click on the post so I could begin deleting when the screen blinked, refreshing itself. Where before the comment indicator had been blank, it now read 150.

  One hundred and fifty people had not only read the posts, they had something to say about them. When was I going to learn to control these stupid impulses? I needed to be better about thinking before I acted. It had been so stupid of me to expose myself that way. Complete strangers now knew my pain, had a window into my psyche and memories. Topping off this colossal stupidity, I'd set myself up for judgment.

  You never learn, Charlotte. You deserve whatever they throw at you, imbecile.

  I shook off the mental narration that accompanied my many impulsive mistakes such as this and chewed my lip as I tried to decide what to do. The last thing I wanted was to read about how weak and stupid I was. I didn't need anyone telling me what I already knew.

  As I twisted the situation in my mind, the menu at the top of the screen finally registered. "Bulk Actions" it said and "Move to Trash" was one of the selections. I didn't have to read a damn thing. I could erase the comments and the posts as if they never happened. Hell, I could erase the whole damned blog.

  I pulled up the comments page. I wouldn't be able to avoid reading the first comment that pulled in, but one comment I could ignore. When it finally loaded, I squinted as if narrowing my eyes could lessen its impact. So great was my relief as the words registered, I laughed out loud.

  These comments weren't on those posts at all. Every comments showing was about the post I'd written on office sex. I responded feeling comfortable that I still had the high ground but I was polite. I saw no reason for the cruelty that had cropped up online in recent years.

  After the first three comments, I relaxed and stopped worrying. I was in my zone, responding with a touch of snark and a dash of humor to each commenter. I clicked next and almost cried out at the physical discomfort brought on by the words on screen.

  *hugs*

  It's okay to feel how you do. Animals love us unconditionally and their loss is just as painful because we can love them purely and in safety. I hope you did save that pit bull. Can you post an update? (MarshaJane989)

  What your parents did to you was emotional abuse and it was wrong. That's so f**ked up I can't even think what I can say to encompass how f**ked up it is. I'm sorry that happened to you (JustASmallTownGirl)

  Have faith, Telling It. Corky, Sam, and Bandit are waiting for you across the Rainbow Bridge. (ItIsThePits)

  Let me be the first to say it - your parents sound like real arseholes (CarterDouglas)

  I laughed out loud at that one. If he only knew.

  Honey, I can only imagine the pain you felt to bury it so deep. I'd give you a huge hug if I could (Cala Lily)

  And so it went. The comments on my post about feeling like an outsider were just as heartfelt and supportive. There wasn't a single judging or repudiating comment in the list. Comment after comment was the same. It was a litany of comfort, support, and solidarity from complete strangers.

  I read them all.

  Then, I read them again.

  An enervate rush surged under my skin, making me dizzy. I needed to get home. I was obviously getting sick.

  The walk home was much faster. A disorienting sense of lightness tugged at me as if my skin were peeling off and my soul was being sucked from my body. The twisting built inside me and I ran the last block, charging up my steps only to curse my deadbolts and regret my paranoia.

  I finally made it inside where I dropped my tote by the door and fell to m
y hands and knees. The dizziness was acute and the floor warped and shifted while I crawled intending to get to my bed.

  I didn't make it.

  Spots floated in front of my vision. The comments I'd read echoed in my brain, adding to my disorientation. I couldn't assimilate the compassion and empathy -- the acceptance. Even as the thought formed in my mind, I felt myself crack open. Collapsing on my side, I wept.

  Sobs shook my body. The grief of that eight-year-old girl who lost her best friend overwhelmed me. I wept the adolescent tears of a youth who learned that distance meant power. I grieved for the young woman who sublimated her pain in sex rather than honor the creature who'd loved her.

  They were ugly tears that mixed with the torrent of snot that accompanied unregulated sorrow.

  Through the haze of my pain, I felt the cool nose and silken skin of Hugo's muzzle. The soft whine he made as he snuffled my neck and tried to cheer me. He lapped at my face and failing to calm me, curled against my midriff to bear the weight of my grief with me.

  At some point, I slept. When I woke, peeling my crusted lids apart, it was dark. Hugo remained pressed against me. His head thrust into the space under my chin, his canine heat keeping me warm on the chilly floor.

  I ran my hands along his side, cataloging the silky fur over firm musculature. It occurred to me that I had never shown him any affection, never petted, or praised him. He'd been a tool to me. Nothing more. It was no wonder he refused to listen to me.

  "Hey boy," I said stretching out my kinked muscles. "Hungry?"

  He rose and shook before doing his doggy yoga and sitting with his head cocked as if he wasn't sure what was going on. Shame flooded me and in that moment, I understood cruelty wasn't reserved for physical harm.

  I filled his bowl and let him eat while I washed my face. When he finished, I ran him out to relieve himself.

  He didn't pull once.

  Back inside, I threw on my pajamas and crawled into bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hugo start toward my bed, stop, and switch directions heading to his own.

  "Here boy," I didn't question my action, I just patted the coverlet.