Page 154 of The Billionaires

Yeah. Now, if Colossus were to meet a dictator with a mustache—which most of them have—he would be cool as a cucumber. He’d also be fine with being stroked by a mustachioed villain on the set of a Bond movie called The Chihuahua Who Loved Me.

Grinning, I thank Johnny and lure Colossus back into the garage with my last piece of cookie.

As I take off my goofy helmet, I vow to never show my face at the local branch of Bruce’s bank—though there isn’t much I can do to make Prudence and the rest forget about my shame.

As usual, Colossus runs to locate Bruce once we enter the mansion, but when he notices that I’m walking to the kitchen, he pivots and goes with me.

“How are you not full?” I ask him. “At this point, with all those treats, you’re probably skipping lunch.”

Colossus brings his pointy ears together on the top of his head.

Full? I think that sensation is a myth, like Chupacabras, the Loch Ness Monster, or edible sugar-free cookies.

I check the fridge for something with fewer calories that I can use for further training and stumble upon the freshest-looking cucumbers I’ve ever seen.

Hmm. Bruce mentioned that Colossus eats cucumbers, and if that’s true, the dog will get some much-needed post-walk hydration, along with a treat.

Roach wouldn’t have eaten cucumbers so I’m a little skeptical about Bruce’s assertion.

Cutting a small piece, I hand it to the dog.

Wow. He nearly bites off my finger in excitement as he snatches the cucumber. Making audible noises signaling deep satisfaction, Colossus devours the cucumber like a cannibal who got a hold of Bruce’s (presumably) delicious liver.

“You like that, huh?” I ask Colossus.

Without my prompting, he plops his butt on the floor and looks me right in the eyes—a perfect execution of ‘sit.’

Do I not want to sniff the big pile that a bear makes when he poops in the woods?

I give him another piece of cucumber and say the word ‘sit,’ hoping he will associate what he naturally did with the command.

He devours the cucumber with the same enthusiasm.

I cut another piece and hold it in front of his nose, then slightly above it—which causes canines to naturally sit. At the same time, I also say the command.

Yes!

He sits. I praise him both verbally and with a gift of vegetable—or fruit, if you’re a botanical stickler.

I repeat the whole exercise.

He sits again.

And again.

“Wow,” I say on his fifth successful attempt. “You’re a quick learner.”

He looks pointedly at the counter—where the rest of the cucumber is—then at me.

Is the moon not made of cheese? Is the sun not a big cookie right out of the oven?

Grinning, I cut up the rest of the cucumber, and we rehearse ‘sit’ some more—using just the word this time.

“I think you got it,” I say when I have the last tiny piece of the treat left.

“Got what?” Bruce asks, startling me.

How did a man that big sneak up on me so stealthily? Do they teach ninjitsu at billionaire school?

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