Page 140 of The Billionaires

“All right.” Who knew that instead of yelling at my nemesis, I’d end up having dinner with him?

I take my seat, put food in my mouth, and chew self-consciously. He seems to be okay, but I ask, “How do you feel?”

“Great,” he says.

Dare I ask if it’s thanks to my company?

“I’ve always been jealous of people who can eat during work meetings,” he continues. “Meals are my least productive times of day—while I’m awake, anyway.”

So, there you have it. It’s not my company he’s enjoying—the workaholic in him just loves the opportunity to multitask. A better question is: why does this bother me so much? I don’t know, but my words sound stiff as I ask, “Is there anything related to training that you wanted to discuss?”

“Socialization,” he says. “You mentioned it earlier. I want more details.”

Done with his demand, he fills his mouth with gnocchi—and damn, something about the way he chews makes me hungrier.

“Let me explain why it’s important first,” I say. “Properly socialized dogs have less anxiety and therefore lead happier lives. They are also more pleasant to be around because they don’t react negatively when they encounter certain situations.”

He swallows his food. “You’ll socialize him then. What does it entail?”

I smile at Colossus—who’s sitting and looking up at us, clearly begging for food. “Not sure if this counts as socialization, but he needs to be comfortable with as many new smells, sounds, sights, and textures as possible.” We don’t want him to be like Roach, who refused to step on sand because of my oversight in this area.

Bruce nods, urging me to go on.

“He also needs to be introduced to lots of people, one at a time at first, then in groups. Since he loves food, these people can give him treats, so he forms positive associations.”

“Okay,” Bruce says, but he looks less pleased about this—probably because he’s a misanthrope and what I’ve just described involves having people around.

“These people need to be as varied as possible,” I say. “Think different fitness levels, ages, ethnic backgrounds, disabilities, and even different types of clothing. If you don’t expose Colossus to diversity, you could end up with a dog who barks at people in wheelchairs, or at kids, or at anyone who wears sunglasses while holding an umbrella.”

“Makes sense,” he says. “Do these people need to come to the house?”

I shake my head. “The most natural thing would be to meet them outside, which is neutral territory. But this being a private estate, I’m not sure if?—”

“I’ll make some arrangements,” he cuts in. “What else?”

“Same idea when it comes to animals,” I say. “You don’t want him stressed out if he meets another dog, or a cat, or a squirrel.”

He scratches his chin. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s the gist of it.” I finish the rest of my food and look for his reaction to my chewing.

Nothing.

I put down my fork. “Anything else?”

He glances at Colossus, who’s begging for all he’s worth. “I want him to make it through the night without an accident.”

I fight the urge to toss the little beggar a treat. “Until his bladder is mature, he has to be walked at night.”

“You’ll do it then,” Bruce declares.

“I was planning on it,” I say. “Where does he currently sleep?”

Bruce eats another morsel, then says, “In my bedroom.”

In. His. Bedroom? But that would mean?—

Never mind that, actually. Why is the bigger mystery. Also, how come?—

---