OBEDIENCE SCHOOL

Chapter One: Pup With A Chainsaw

In the sunny suburb of Long Beach, California, in the LeBrye residence, I lifted my head from my paws. My kennel was cool and dark around me. I had outgrown it months ago, but my masters still insisted I sleep in it.

The morning I got sent to obedience school started like most mornings do in the LeBrye household—me getting screamed at before my paws even hit the damn floor.

"Ripley!" Rick's voice bellowed from the kitchen, sharp enough to slice drywall. "Get your furry ass out here before I break out the belt!"

I groaned, stretching out inside the cramped metal hellhole they call a "garage-safe sleeping area." My blue nylon blanket was balled in a corner, soaked with drool and dreams of a better life, probably one with bacon and without a family of humans who couldn't tell a squeaky toy from a therapy tool. My chain-loop martingale collar jangled as I stood up, ears flicking. I gave myself a good shake—fur fluffed, tail curled, claws clacking on the concrete—and strolled out with just the right mix of swagger and I-don't-give-a-shit.

The door to the garage squeaked open before I even reached it, and there he was: my master. Rick LeBrye. Towering. Tan. Built like a wrecking ball and meaner than a pissed-off raccoon with a hangover. Same black T-shirt, same greasy jeans, same dead look in his eyes that said 'my coffee tastes like depression and I blame the dog.'

"Good mornin'," I grunted, flashing a grin that probably only made things worse. "How'd ya sleep, master? Or did the sound of your wife crying keep you up again?"

That earned me a backhand to the snout. Hard enough to make my nose bleed. I would've bit him, but the last time I did that he knocked me unconscious with a crowbar.

"You think you're funny, mutt?" Rick growled, shaking out his hand like I'd bruised his knuckles with my face. "You're lucky I don't neuter you myself with a fuckin' steak knife."

I tasted blood. Just a little. A metallic reminder that today was gonna suck harder than a vacuum in a strip club. My tail twitched. Not tucked. Not wagging. Just... waiting. I didn't dare growl—not 'cause I was scared, but 'cause I knew better. You growl at your master, they'll call it disobedience. If you're especially unlucky, you'll get a club to the face and a broken jaw.

Rick turned back to the kitchen, where his two boys were arguing over whether or not I'd eaten James's leftover chicken nuggets. I hadn't. This time. But I had licked the sauce packet. Sue me.

And his wife? Esther just stood there in her robe, her eyes somewhere far away, like she was watching a rerun of the life she could've had. The kind with love. Or therapy. Or a dog that didn't sleep in a cage and smell like kennel disinfectant.

"Ripley," she said gently, voice trembling like a scared chihuahua. "Be good today."

I gave her a long look. I wasn't mad at her. I felt sorry for her. Real sorry. But sorry didn't change the fact that I was about to be shipped off like a bad toaster.

Rick dropped the bomb like it was casual.

"I'm done with your shit. You're goin' to school. Obedience school."

I froze. Blinked. Let that sink in.

"Wait. Hold up." I held up a paw, claws out. "You mean like one of them afternoon training classes with peanut butter and clickers?"

"Fuck no." He cracked his knuckles, slow. "I mean full-time. Five days a week. You show up, you learn to behave, and maybe—just maybe—I don't sell you to the next bastard who offers me a carton of smokes and a six-pack."