DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE.

L.A. Knight.

From the author...

This is the first of a series of novels in which I hope to launch a comedic trek into the publishing world. If you were expecting a romance novel, then you're humping the wrong leg. Dog Training the American Male (loosely based on actual events and experiences) is more Wedding Crashers than War and Peace and if you find yourself relating to any of these bizarre characters then I'm guessing you're either married, own a dog, live in Boca Raton, or use Shades of Gray as a coffee table book. If it generates a laugh then you possess a superior intellect and I've done my job.

My father believed that laughter is the best medicine. He gave me my sense of humor and a lifetime of love and wisdom and left us far too soon. This book was my therapy in dealing with his pa.s.sing; a percentage of the proceeds of which will go to the foundation at the South Florida Bone Marrow and Stem Cell Transplant Inst.i.tute which is involved in an exciting new Phase I & II FDA-approved protocol designed to cure solid tumor cancers. If you'd like to learn more or place a donation, please go to www.ZapCancer.org . Their success would put a smile on my face . . . and could save a loved one's life.

My thanks to Stanley Tremblay, editor Barbara Becker, the amazing James Gelet, and the kind fans of author Steve Alten who probably purchased the e-book just to read the first two chapters of his next novel. I hope you'll give Dog Training a read after you rush to the back of the book to read the free excerpt. Please spread the word if you like Dog, or better yet post a review at Amazon to combat the dog haters/cat lovers among us who have no lives, thus the time and energy to surf Amazon and castrate hard-working authors like a frustrated community college English teacher stuck in the house on a weekend bender with no cable.

Yeah, you know who you are Dr. Schecter! C-minus my a.s.s!

Blessings.

L. A. Knight.

NANCY.

Nancy Beach's hazel eyes snapped open in panic, her heart pounding as if it was chugging blood from a water cooler. You fell asleep! What time is it? Did you miss the interview?

She nearly lost her breakfast when she saw the credits rolling on the greenroom's flat screen television. Then she saw the digital clock.

Nine-fifty seven. Oh, G.o.d . . . thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

She realized she was no longer alone in the Today Show guest waiting room. An angelic child with blonde curls occupied the chair to her left, the eight-year-old's feet dangling over a cushion as she read the Wall Street Journal.

Impressed, Nancy asked, "Are you really reading that?"

"The future looks bleak. Mother says I need to be prepared. Why is that disgusting man staring at you?"

Nancy turned to her right where a one-legged h.e.l.l's Angel biker was gazing at her from across the fake gla.s.s coffee table like a Rottweiler in heat. In return, she offered a polite smile. "Is there something on your mind?"

The biker grinned, continuing to stare at the perky mounds of flesh pressing against her cream-colored blouse.

"Kathy Lee and Hoda starts in one minute. Do you really think it's necessary to make me feel so uncomfortable before my interview?"

The little girl folded back her page, glancing at the Fortune 500 stocks. "He can't make you feel anything. Why are you giving him all your power?"

"I'm not. I'm just trying to reason-"

"He's a mongrel. He doesn't possess the social capabilities to reason."

Nancy whispered, "But he only has one leg."

"Yes, and he's mentally raping you with the one on the right. Tell him he either takes a hike, or you'll punt his frank and beans up his a.s.shole with your size eight Pradas."

The biker's smug smile evaporated. Struggling to stand using his crutch, he hobbled into the corridor, grumbling to himself.

Nancy's flesh tingled as the theme music for The TODAY Show with Kathy Lee and Hoda pumped out of the flat screen television.

The little girl continued to scan the stock index while offering advice. "Predators sense fear. Are you really ready for your interview? Those two b.i.t.c.hes will eat you alive if you don't bring your A game."

"I'm ready."

"You'd better be more than ready. Your Arbitron ratings are in the toilet. The TODAY Show booking is manna from heaven . . . a make-it-or-break-it moment."

"I prepped for weeks. I've got my six success points down-pat, and two really amusing antidotal stories one for single women, one for married ladies. I'm just not sure how to get the men interested."

"I suppose you could flash them your t.i.ts; it's keeping them interested that always gets you in trouble."

"Excuse me?"

"Dark clouds are forming on your horizon . . .sorry, just reading your horoscope. You're a Libra, yes? I saw it on your Facebook bio. Uh-oh." The child pointed to the television where Hoda and Kathy Lee were taste-testing wine with their first guest -- a French chef.

Nancy watched, horrified. "Look at them! They're sucking down Chateau Margaux like it was drawn from the Fountain of Youth. They'll be toasted by the time-"

"Mrs. Beach, we're ready for you." The a.s.sociate producer, a black woman in a navy collared shirt, khaki pants, headphones and sneakers entered the greenroom.

"It's Dr. Beach, actually. I have a doctorate and an MBA . . . it should be in my intro."

"Got it right here. If you'll follow me, and watch your step."

"Dead woman walking," muttered the blonde-haired eight-year-old, turning another page.

Nancy followed the a.s.sociate producer down a restricted access corridor past the make-up room. "That little girl who is she?"

"Just another child prodigy destined for mediocrity." The producer stopped at the stage-right entrance of Studio A. "Wait here."

A sound man joined them, clipping the business end of a pencil eraser-size microphone to the collar of Nancy's blouse, the battery pack to the back of her charcoal-gray skirt.

Through a maze of booms, bright lights, and mobile cameras trailing thick black power cords, she spotted her quarry. Kathy Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb were "in-commercial" while an a.s.sistant prepped them for their next segment.

Nancy closed her eyes; mentally reciting her radio host mantra like it was the Lord's Prayer: I am the keeper of my own fate, emanc.i.p.ating myself from the self-imposed bonds of my gender. I am the keeper of my own fate, emanc.i.p.ating myself from the self-imposed bonds of my gender. I am the keeper of my own fate . . .

"And we're back. Hoda, I just love Miami, I wish we could stay here more than a week. Do you love Miami as much as I do?"

"Absolutely. But do you know what I love more than Miami, Kathy Lee? Thursdays. And today is Thursday, which means it's time for another episode of Okay-Not Okay."

"Right you are, Rooda woman . . . oops. Did I just say Rooda?"

"You called me rude!"

"It was the wine, my lips are numb. You know I'd never call you rude . . . unless of course you made a comment about my belly flab."

Nancy's pulse ticked upward. Come on, ladies, I'm losing precious seconds of air time.

"Anyway, Ho-down, this morning we're going to be discussing relationships."

"Which brings us to our next guest, a relationship counselor who hosts a local radio show in West Palm Beach called Love's a Beach. Let's welcome . . . Dr. Nancy Beach."

The producer gestured.

Nancy walked into the blinding lights and audience applause. She waved to no one in particular then took the vacant stool on Kathy Lee's left, her eyes straying to the two Teleprompters.

"Love's a Beach . . . I love that, don't you, Hoda?"

"It's perky. She's perky. How old are you? Fifteen?"

Nancy maintained her grin until her cheeks twitched, waiting for the audience's laughter to subside. "Actually, I'm twenty-six, with a doctorate degree from Penn."

Education established. First success point down, five to go.

Kathy Lee looked impressed. "Penn, wow. Were you called in to console those poor victims a.s.saulted by that creepy football coach, Jerry Sandusky?"

"That was Penn State, Kathy Lee."

"Okay. So were you?"

"No. I'm actually a relationship and intimacy specialist. My radio show, which airs on WOWF 1160 AM weekdays from noon 'til three counsels women to better empower them in their business and personal relationships with the Y chromosome . . . men."

Points two and three down, three to go . . .

Hoda nodded to the audience. "Empowering women in their relationships with the Y's; that really is so important."

Kathy Lee smirked. "Believe me, I ask myself why all the time. Why, Frank? Why? Why? Why?"

"Dr. Beach, how many years have you been married?"

"Oh, I'm not married."

"Engaged?" asked Kathy Lee.

Nancy's pulse pumped faster. "I was engaged. Twice. Suffice it to say, neither relationship worked out."

"Sounds to me like you could have used a relationship and intimacy counselor. Am I right?" Hoda turned to the audience for support.

The audience applauded.

"Oh, stop it, Ho-woman. I'm sure Dr. b.i.t.c.h . . . oops; did I really just say that? I meant Dr. Beach-"

"Were they sleeping around on you?"

"Huh?"

"Your two fiances," Hoda asked, continuing her cross-examination. "Did they cheat?"

"Been there, sister," Kathy Lee chimed in. "Of course, you don't toss the baby out with the bath water. Not if you really love one another."

"Or if you're planning someday to run for President," Hoda added with a snarky smirk.

Nancy casually dispersed a sweat bead touring her right cheekbone. "It's funny you should mention that. In my women's counseling seminars-"

Kathy Lee interrupted point four. "Are you dating anyone special now?"

"Dating? No. I'm sort of between boyfriends."

"Oh. What about women? Ever think about playing for the home team?"

"No. But my older sister, Lana-"

"Forget your lesbian sister," said Hoda, cutting her off. "How long since you had any?"

"Since I had any what?

"s.e.x. And no counting vibrators or d.i.l.d.os."

"Oh, they never count vibrators or d.i.l.d.os," Kathy Lee chirped, addressing the studio audience. "Why is that, I wonder? And who exactly is they?"

"Shh. I want to hear her answer. C'mon, Dr. Beach . . . when's the last time you felt a man's sausage squeezed between those silky twenty-six-year-old gymnast thighs?"

Nancy's pulse danced along her neck, her rattled psyche seconds from a full-blown meltdown. How would Hilary Clinton handle the a.s.sault? Would Sheryl Sandberg dignify the inquisition with a response? "Hoda, for now I've chosen to prioritize my career over my social life."

"Don't avoid the question; just give us a time-frame. Six months?"

"I, uh-"

"Longer?"

"I don't know. Maybe a year."

Kathy Lee's eyes widened. "A year? You're twenty-six and you haven't had s.e.x in a year? Good G.o.d, did you join a convent?"

The audience roared, encouraging another a.s.sault by Hoda. "Listen, sweetie, take some advice use it or lose it. Youth is like a man who has. .h.i.t thirty it only comes around once. Before you know it you'll be forty, injecting Botox like it was heroin. Then you'll hit fifty and you'll be waking up every hour with night sweats and hot flashes . . . am I right, Kathy Lee or am I right?"

Kathy Lee nodded. "Menopause. They should call it women-o-pause."

"Wait, wait, I just realized something," Hoda said, facing her audience. "How can a talk show radio therapist advise her callers about marriage when she's never been married, relationships when she isn't in one, or s.e.x when she isn't getting laid? That seem strange to you, Kathy Lee?"

"Like a three-input ding-dong . . . can you imagine? Hey s.e.x-doctor, my birth ca.n.a.l is a two-lane highway compared to your unused t.w.a.t."

Nancy's retort caught a dry spot in her throat and suddenly she couldn't speak!