13 Fass
Every day, Cosette gave me a play-by-play of his attempts to talk to her. When she didn’t reply to phone messages, he tried email. She didn’t respond. One day, when Heathcliff and I were walking Cosette to class, he managed to intercept us as we passed the dense bushes that shielded the Psych Center.
When she refused to listen to him, he tried to restrain her physically, but she was too quick for him. He managed to seize her hand, but before he realized what was happening, she bit down, hard, on his thumb. When his hand opened, she took off for the safety of her history class, in Fletcher Hall.
I guess I should have run, too, but I was stupefied by his actions. And by the fact that he was now looking at me and laughing. “She’s a feisty one, isn’t she! But we sure have fun in bed.”
Now I was double stupefied. I must have showed it on my face because he said, “Hasn’t she told you about what we do in my bedroom? Or in the bathroom?”
Of course, she had told me, though without all the gory details, but there was no way I was going to acknowledge that I knew anything about it. Even if I could manage to activate my vocal cords.
“You’re blushing,” he said. “Maybe you don’t know what we do, but you should. You’re missing all the fun.” He took hold of my hand and pulled me toward him. “Come on, let’s go to my place and play Show and Tell.”
I tried to pull my hand away, but my other hand was holding Heathcliff’s leather leash. With two hands, I might have made Desmond release his grip, but he was too strong for one hand. Without thinking, I tried to follow Cosette’s example. Mouth open, I bent toward our locked hands. Before I could manage a good bite, he wrenched my hand up behind my head. “Good try,” he said, “but that’s already been tried.”
A couple of students emerged from the bushes, holding hands. As they strolled by, Desmond tightened his painful grip on my hand. He bent over and whispered in my ear. “Shhh. That’s a good girl.”
Heathcliff whined. The couple turned to see what was wrong. Desmond said, smiling at the lovers, “He wants to go in the bushes–you know–to do his business.”
The couple lost interest in the whining and moved away. They would come back if I yelled for help, but I stayed quiet–not because Desmond wanted it. I simply could not vibrate my locked vocal cords.
Once the couple disappeared around the corner, Desmond slightly loosened his grip and smiled at me. In a conspiratorial tone, he said, “I’ll bet you’d like to learn to do what your little friend does with her talented mouth.” I shook my heat, but he kept pulling me toward the bushes. “Don’t be coy. I know you want to do it, and we can right here.”
My vocal cords stayed locked, incapable of forming even a single English word. Despite my struggling, we were halfway to the bushes when Heathcliff stopped whining and barked at Desmond. Of course, I thought. All I need is one German word from his Schutzhund training: Fass!
Like the top Schutzhund III he was, Heathcliff didn’t need me to repeat the attack command. Anyway, there wouldn’t have been time. Before I could have uttered a second command, Desmond’s gripping hand was itself being gripped by Heathcliff’s German Shepherd teeth.
He released my hand and tried to shake off my dog. Fat chance, I thought, know that Heathcliff’s 250 pounds-per-square-inch bite wouldn’t release unless I gave the command. I’m only slightly ashamed to admit that I was enjoying the show so much that I forgot to give that command until Desmond dropped to his knees, howling.
In a quiet voice, I said, “Aus!” Again, I didn’t need to repeat the command. Heathcliff let go, but sat facing the fallen attacker, awaiting further commands. I knelt down to hug him, mostly to hide my trembling. My next command, however, was to the attacker. “We’re going home now, Des. Just stay down there until we’re out of sight. If I see you move, I’ll send Heathcliff to put you down again. And he runs a lot faster than you can.”
Desmond stopped trying to stand, but that didn’t stop his mouth. “You’ll regret this, you little bitch. You won’t always have your mad dog with you. When I tell the police what happened, they’ll have him put down.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I’m sure the police will be pleased to hear exactly what happened. They may not put you down like a dog, but they’ll probably put you away like a child molester.”
I think that reached him. At least he stop cursing and threatening me. Still, though he might not go to the police, we’d seen what he could do with words in the newspaper and on TV. I probably hadn’t heard the last from Mr. Desmond Quincy.