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“When you look at Pumpkin, what do you see?” Dash’s voice has gone low and intense. He stares at me.
The question seems like a trick one, but I don’t know what answer he’s going for, so I pick the easy one even though I’m sure it’s wrong.
“An adorable puppy.”
His expression softens, slightly, but his mouth keeps to a grim line. “Well, that’s not what the general public sees. To them, she’s a vicious animal, always one second away from killing something or someone.”
As if to disprove his point, Pumpkin lies down between us, flipping onto her back and rolling around in oblivious bliss.
“That’s ridiculous.” I glare over the fence surrounding my parents’ backyard as if that’ll change the world’s mind.
“You’re telling me in all that research you did, you never came across any anti-pit-bull rhetoric?” One of Dash’s thick eyebrows crests high in disbelief. His right eyebrow. It has a beautiful shape all on its own, but when he moves it around like that, I’m practically hypnotized. I want to stroke it.
“Paige?”
Shoot. Was I just mesmerized by a single eyebrow?
“Um…yeah. I saw a few articles. But I hoped they were over-exaggerating.”
“I doubt they were.” Dash stands relaxed, thankfully oblivious to my attraction. “There are some shitty people in this world, and they train pit bulls to do bad things. Those are the dogs the news reports on, and people start thinking all pit bulls are inherently violent.” He crosses his arms over his chest, causing his biceps to bulge nicely. The red of his shirt contrasts enticingly with his golden skin. “So, imagine if Pumpkin sees some kids that she wants to meet and goes running towards them. People are going to think she’s attacking.”
I glance down at my sweet dog, who’s sprawled in the grass, panting and being a good girl, waiting nicely for us to finish our conversation.
“Paige.” Dash’s insistent voice has me meeting his eyes again. “She needs to listen to you. Or else she might do something that scares someone, and they’ll hurt her or call animal control on you saying you have a dangerous dog. If she behaves—sits when you tell her to, comes when you call her—then you can keep her safe.”
It’s not fair, but he makes a good point. Really, the same point I was making to my parents earlier.
“Okay. Yes. I want her to be safe. I’ll try harder.”
Dahs smiles, small but sincere. “Good. Now, try ‘sit’ again. Use a firm voice. You can be kind even when you’re being firm. And” —Dash reaches out wrap his fingers around my wrist, tugging my hand from my pocket— “use hand motions, too. A lot of dogs respond better to hand signals. There may be a time when you need to give Pumpkin a command when there’s a lot of noise, and she might not hear you.”
He spreads my palm out flat, positioning it so it faces toward the ground. I’m baffled as to why he didn’t just demonstrate the gesture with his hand, but I’m not complaining about the physical instruction.
Paired with the heat of the day, his touch is scalding against mine. More sweat beads on my skin as my heart rate picks up. The pads of his fingers are rough from use, covered in calluses.
What would those hands feel like dragging all over my body?
My soft places want to be teased and tormented with his rough touch.
Stop it, Paige!I scold myself.
“Paige?” Hell, even his voice holds edges that catch and abrade my psyche.
I nod and retract my hand, hoping to regain some of my mental faculties. “Got it. Be direct. Firm. And use my hands.”
A half-choked noise comes from Dash, and I glance up fast, in time to catch him running his fingers through the shaggy black hair that falls across his forehead. His cheeks tinge with redness that also creeps down his neck.
The heat of the day is probably getting to him, too. NOLA weather, even in the fall, is no joke. Today has already reached the upper eighties. I better start getting this right, so we don’t have to sweat our asses off out here much longer.
The three of us work for another twenty minutes until Pumpkin and I have mastered the basics: sit, stay, and come.
“We don’t want to do more than that today. When Pumpkin stops having fun, she’ll stop listening.” Dash’s words are supported by my dog trotting away from the both of us, heading back toward the house.
“Looks like someone misses the AC. Come inside. Is cash okay? Do you like sweet tea?”
I want to offer him more than just a beverage. Dash is in good shape, but he seems on the thin side to me. Like he needs a few extra meals to fill him out.
Is it weird that I want to sit him down and fix him a plate of food?
