Well, we achieved it. Hubby and I made it to the class of spoilers, nurturers of spoiled brats. And Sugar, genius pup that she is, encouraged us all the way. We created a four-pound monster. When people came to the house, she raced through every room, uncatchable, out of control. Is that a polite greeting? Is that the way the well-behaved and adjusted pooch behaves? Hardly. And I so had my heart set on a well-mannered canine. Not only for the braggadocio aspect, but for her own safely and sense of well-being.
But lately, in the last week or so, when I called her, she literally gave me the cold shoulder, turned tail flippantly and ran in the other direction. Often with a morsel of Pup-Peroni ten inches from her teeth. "Bedtime, Sugar, let's go upstairs, which you love." Run run run in mad circles and catch me if you can; this her response to my polite invitation. This would obviously not do. Trainer Scott would have to be called back into action.
Yesterday, upon greeting Scott, Sugar the new egomaniac (she has no idea she's four pounds and can be squashed like a bug), streaked about the house. "Ah," Scott said, "I see. She's out of control." I felt like tucking my tail beneath my legs. My smart, beautiful, petite, delightful puppy out of control! But not to fear, and not to feel humiliated, Scott was here, with all his canine/human wisdom. He says it's almost never the fault of the dog; it's always the Human. And usually it's because the Human is afraid that if strict, the dog won't love her anymore; or worse, the dog will think the Human doesn't love HER anymore.
It was time for Tough Love.
Scott's diagnosis was no doubt correct. But what was the remedy? When he put Sugar through her paces -- all the commands she knows by heart backwards and forwards -- she did them all for him, in one go. She didn't wait for orders. Then she jumped up on him for the treat. I was mortified, as you can imagine. Only two weeks ago he'd been suggesting Sugar be taken for advanced agility training. Now she was a little savage, accountable to no one. But Scott has seen much in the canine world as a trainer, and he had the answer (well, we'll see about that in a week or two). He cut off the handle of her red outdoor leash so she can wear it all the time. Meaning that if she refuses to come, I can step on the end of the leash and make her. Tough love, little one. One of us needs to be boss, and as with a child, it can't be you.
So we've regressed to doing only come and sit. All the rest of the marvels of Sugar's agility and obedience rest waiting in the future, when she's a "mentsch" again. Now, if she doesn't come, I can give her a gentle yank (yes, it hurts me more than it hurts her). I've had to put the snack fanny pack back on because we're at square one again. And that doesn't feel good to me; yes me, I'm a person too! I can't crow yet about how much progress we've made, as Sugar is not completely reconciled to the new regimen. But I can say that Sugar has a creative mind, and has learned a few lessons I could live without (oh why can't she be a dummy?):
Sugar has learned to pick up the slack of the dangling leash by carrying the whole thing in her mouth around the house, so it's really tricky for me to step on or even catch that leash. Plus, she's perfected a downtrodden visage. She lies in her downstairs fleece bed and gazes at me with sad, disappointed, defeated eyes. As if to say, I had such high hopes for you, but now I know you don't really love me.
Naively, I thought I was buying a pet, a living being who would trot to me whenever I wanted, who would be endlessly loyal and obedient. Who knew I was really about to raise a third child? They say it will be worth the effort (don't they always say that?), and damn it, I do love her more and more. She knows it too, and exploits it to perfection.
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