Some have suggested that because of yesterday’s dog tale, I should employ the help of a trained professional.  Someone like the Dog Whisperer.  Consulting a doggie psychologist like Cesar Millan is a fine idea; however, if I had money for a shrink, you can bet your bottom dollar I’d by lying on the couch for an hour and not my rescue pooch.

Sending my dog to obedience school would be like sending my children to private school and neither are in the FringeFamily’s immediate future.   I’d like to know why public education isn’t available for our pets.  Perhaps I’ll lobby congress…

Lest you all think my dog is just a wild hearted, free roaming, mangy beast, I’ll take a moment to brag on her.  I’m pleased to report that ‘O’ sits, lays down, gives you her paw, gives you her other paw, and goes to her box (her crate) on command.  Personally I’m impressed.  My children still haven’t mastered going to their boxes.

So while you may think total rehabilitation is necessary, I think I may just try an illusion collar.  Hopefully an electrified version will be available soon.  If not, I’ve heard a taser works well.  At least that’s what the children say.

Kidding.

Sheesh!

Charleston graduates today from his dog obedience class.  For those of you who know our little Chuckles, yes, he took a refresher course this fall.  Like any little pup, he finds his fair share of trials and tribulations.  I am very proud of him this go ’round!  This class, we worked on his socialization skills.  In a group setting he gets very nervous and puts his guard up.  He’s not a fan of his new friends in a group setting – one on one, he’s a sweet pea.  Each class Dawn, our fantastic trainer, tested him in a variety of scenarios.  In case you’re wondering, tests included: having other dogs walk by him from a distance and gradually get closer, him sitting in the middle while his classmates practiced healing in a circle around him, etc.  These may sound silly, but they were very difficult for Charleston to accomplish.  And the best part, he did accomplish them!  While his new skills will need continual practice, I’m so proud that my little guy is learning to be a more socially acceptable member of society.

The obedience school courses Truman recently completed required that the owners wear a satchel of some type with large pockets for easy acccess to–what else?–treats. The entire world of dog training revolves around treats, and it’s amazing what Truman will do when he smells a treat. I believe he would will his own vocal chords to evolve and produce English vernacular if he thought it would get him more treats. But if there aren’t treats around? If we call his name and ask him to do something, and he turns to look at us, and a survey of both our hands reveals we had the gaul to request something of him without offering a Snausage in return? These are the moments where I become keenly aware that Truman should have paid the bill for the obedience school. Because for the low low price of $200, Drew and I are now perfectly trained. The house is overflowing with a variety of rawhides, snausages, dog jerky sticks, lamb liver, and everything else dog food companies have imagined. We wouldn’t want Sir to grow tired of just one type of treat.

As I cooked dinner last night, I watched Truman sit diligently at my feet, staring up at me with hopeful, earnest brown eyes, and I realized his small brain, while it doesn’t allow him to remember to not go up the stairs by himself because he doesn’t know how to get back down, it does allow him to remember that a month ago I made an apple pie and while I was standing in that exact same spot in the kitchen, I gave him one small piece of apple. And if he sits and stares at me for just long enough, there must be something up there I could give him. This is when I remembered my own eyes staring earnestly at my own parents in just such a way. But it wasn’t for a piece of an apple.

I always hear you have to be a different parent to all of your children, and looking back, I wish I wouldn’t have shown my hand so quickly. Why didn’t I make them work for it a little? Why didn’t I make them wonder what my motivation was, stay up endless nights talking and trying to figure out the psychology of their oldest daughter? Why did I prove that my brain was just one two-lane road going straight through a deserted stretch of scrub brush and tumbleweeds? Why couldn’t I have been like my sister, brain a jumble of highways on top of super highways on top of toll roads, all bumper-to-bumper traffic during rush hour behind wide blue eyes that were so calm and laid back that even if her motivation was changing that very moment, you could never tell. She bounded through childhood with a poker face, leaving my parents in her wake, making them wonder if she was even motivated by anything at all.

My own motivation was discovered after my first Happy Meal came with a kids’ size Coke. No one enjoyed me quite as much on caffeine. I was too fun of a drunk. So Cokes came few and far between. And just like Truman, I’d remember that one time after I helped my dad at the hardware store, he’d stopped and bought me one on the way home. So the minute the hardware store was even whispered, I was in the car, asking could I assist you with your purchases? I know I’m only seven, but I can carry an entire peg board. I knew that one time after I’d helped my mom at the grocery store, she too had stopped and bought me a Coke. For the rest of my childhood, I could be counted on to assemble grocery lists, weigh produce, load plastic bags into the trunk of her car. I would have gone anywhere, done anything, for that Coke. I was, what they call in the dog-training world, “treat-driven”.

So maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on Truman when I watch him will himself to sprout wings and take flight for a Snausage. We can’t all have complex motivations.

Last night our hearts nearly burst with pride as Truman became the first dog of the Peines of Houston to graduate from obedience school. I’d imagined he would walk across a little platform in a cap with a tassel as “Pomp & Circumstance” swelled from speakers behind him. In reality, everyone just stood with their dogs tethered to four-foot leads around the same classroom we’ve been standing in for six weeks. The trainer called each dog’s name and assigned that dog a trick to perform in front of the whole class in order to receive his or her diploma. Truman was called first, and his six second attention span combined with his desperate yearning to belong to anyone with treats in their hands made it nearly impossible for him to focus on the task at hand. He was the canine embodiment of the kid in high school who wants to be class president; working the room, jumping on everyone with equal enthusiasm, while completely ignoring his real friends who liked him even when he didn’t have an audience. (That would be Drew and I.)

Truman’s assigned trick was to heel in a figure eight and sit. It was a good trick for a dog that can’t pay attention to his owners. Drew just dragged him around in a figure eight formation, interrupting his campaign for class president and embarrassing him in front of his constituents. At the end, everyone clapped, and the trainer gave me his diploma even though he hadn’t exactly aced his final exam. She could probably tell just by looking at me that I am the type of dog parent to go home and tape the diploma to Truman’s kennel and tell everyone he was the valedictorian of his class. I’d post a picture here, but the diploma is already at the framer’s.

Much like my own experience in college, obedience school didn’t really prepare Truman for the real world. I got out of school trained extensively in the history of Journalism and how to tap a keg. What I did not know was how to enroll in my 401(k) and that I am not allowed to name myself as the beneficiary of my own life insurance. Truman now knows how to lay down and how to sit, but he has yet to learn the commands for don’t chew on our furniture, don’t pee on our rugs, and don’t bite us. I can tell he is not prepared for the literal kick in the arse the real world is going to give him. I wasn’t either. I was sore for three years.

Even if his new abilities aren’t very practical, he still enjoys showing them off. Here he is demonstrating the down and stay, performed flawlessly because I was lucky enough to catch him in a moment when he was planning on downing and staying anyway.

A while back, I promised to write about my daughter’s poodle, Noodle. I hadn’t done it yet, and my daughter reminded me of this again last night, when she proudly told me over the phone that Noodle, just a few weeks past her first birthday) had graduated that morning from obedience school.

When I asked what Noodle had learned at obedience school, my daughter replied: “Noodle’s gotten much better when it comes to impulse control.”

Here’s a photo of Noodle, taken a month or so ago, before she learned to control her impulses:

Anyway, this obedience-school stuff makes me uneasy.

What I’ve come to like most about Noodle is her enthusiasm — the way she rushes to the door whenever someone arrives, and jumps up and down like it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to her –even if you just walked out of the house five minutes ago to get something out of your car – and then runs around the house for two minutes celebrating your return until finally screeching to a stop right where you’re standing to have you either (in order of Noodle’s preferences) 1) Throw a ball for her to chase and catch, 2) take her for a walk or 3) give her a treat.

I’ve also come to like her innocent and endearing lack of poise. An example: A few weeks ago, when Noodle stayed with us for a few days, I was walking her on a leash in our backyard. Our neighbors have a horse, a big horse. Noodle looked up and noticed this huge animal walking toward us, and suddenly changed from a poodle into a greyhound as she dashed back to the safety of our house.

Most of all, I’ve been charmed by Noodle’s inability to control her impulses. I’m not talking about her occasional inability to resist the urge to crap on the living room floor instead of going on the pad in the kitchen or, even better, waiting until she goes for a walk. I’m talking about Noodle’s compulsion to wake me up in the morning by climbing up near my pillow and licking my face. I’m talking about how Noodle melts like butter and sprawls on her back, legs akimbo, smiling a dog smile, when someone rubs her belly; I’m talking about how she can’t resist the impulse to run at full speed to chase any tossed bouncing object and my admiration for how she’s become so adept at the chase that she’s even learned to catch balls mid-bounce, in mid-air.

The American Kennel Club has this to say about poodles:

The Poodle, though often equated to the beauty with no brains, is exceptionally smart, active and excels in obedience training. A very active, intelligent and elegant-appearing dog, squarely built, well proportioned, moving soundly and carrying himself proudly. Properly clipped in the traditional fashion and carefully groomed, the Poodle has about him an air of distinction and dignity peculiar to himself. The poodle has about him an air of distinction and dignity peculiar to himself. Major fault (tends to be) shyness or sharpness.

The AKC’s experts know their poodles. All of those good qualities apply, amply, to Noodle.

In conclusion I must note…

*that the references to poodles as “him” can be blamed not on me, but on the very traditional and slightly stuffy American Kennel Club.

*that Noodle, as it happens, is purebred AKC herself, thank you. Her father was a purebred but a commoner. But there’s a pretty impressive line on Noodle’s mother’s side, with AKC champions going back a few generations.

*that I definitely would not like Noodle nearly as much if my daughter ever lost her senses and gave Noodle one of those goofy poodle haircuts so she looks like the French poodle Pepe Le Pew falls in love with in the classic cartoon “Little Beau Pepé” –

Pepe Le Pew leers at a French poodle

And so, while I’m certain this will not be my final word on Noodle, I do have these parting words about the obedience school training that threatens to erase Noodle’s charm and perhaps even destroy the essence of what I might describe as “Noodle being Noodle.”

Just two parting words, as a matter of fact, and those words are: FREE NOODLE!!!

A small issue is developing over at the Peine house. I’m sure Truman wouldn’t appreciate the issue being categorized as “small”, but the point is, our precious baby puppy is becoming a man. And it isn’t pretty. If he were taking after his mother, we wouldn’t have had to face these issues until he was between the ages of three and four, and us slow-maturers tend to handle the onslaught of hormones better, because we’ve been waiting for them for so long. My mom might not agree with that statement, but that’s how I choose to remember my early 20s. At four months old, Truman appears to be taking after his dad, moving quickly down the road of life that is manhood. And our once tiny puppy who whined and cried when we left him in his kennel has learned to maniacally morph into a testosterone-fueled terrorist, seemingly overnight. One evening I put to bed a whimpering, wiggly little puppy, and the next morning the incredible hulk burst forth from the very same kennel. Could Truman have been dog-napped?

This is not to say I don’t see glimmers of the bundle of fur that came home from the airport only two months ago. When he’s very sleepy, he’ll let down his guard and allow you to give him a good scratch, but in no time he’ll realize that you’re touching him – you, underling, are touching him – and before you know it, your hand is caught in the vice-like grip of his jaws. His baby whimpers and cries have been replaced by growls and crazy-eyed barking. At only nine pounds, we’ve watched him run across our bedroom dragging a pair of extra long denim jeans. He spends his afternoons pulling his airline-approved plastic crate across the living room floor. He’s like an army ant, dragging objects twice his size as if they were weightless.

Obedience school has made him smarter, but not more obedient. Now, when we ask him to do something, we can see understanding wash across his fuzzy face. This only makes it more infuriating when he looks at us for a second longer, and then does the opposite of what we’ve asked. I feel quite sure if he could choose his own clothes, I’d be washing a laundry basket full of black trench coats.

The testosterone buzzing through his body might be what has caused him to choose Drew as his ultimate nemesis. Drew loves Truman, and this is why it breaks my heart to see Drew quietly laying on the sofa, watching TV, completely unsuspecting as Truman comes running from nowhere, gathering speed and urging every cell in his body up off the floor and into the chair to bite Drew’s face off. No matter how many times Truman engages in this little game, it never stops taking Drew by surprise. He always looks over at Truman, whose head is practically spinning around, and asks “Why?” with a pained expression on his face. I can only look up from my spot on the sofa and wonder if we should start reserving top bunks at juvenile hall for our future offspring.

As I ponder the demon who has taken over the body of my precious dog, I can only hope that the operation we have scheduled for him at the end of December will solve our problems. Why wouldn’t cutting off the flow of evil testosterone give us back our cuddly puppy? I decided to pose this question to the ever-helpful cockapoo group I belong to online. In no time, I had one answer back.

“Lots of stuff mellows out when they’re neutered.”

Insightful. Let’s hope “lots of stuff” includes the cutting off of Truman’s lines of communication with Bin Laden.

Last night one of my friends came over after obedience school for a glass of wine so we could catch up. Despite putting on his navy and yellow sweater for the occasion, Truman forgot to act the part of the gentleman, and I’m pretty sure she left having made the firm decision never to go near a dog ever again.

Don't let the sweater fool you. Well-dressed does not equal well-mannered.

This friend knows how much I still shudder at the thought of the music played during our wedding reception. The deal with our reception site included the opportunity for Drew and I to choose every single song played over the course of the evening. This was a deal we jumped at, after being forced to “Shout”, “Celebrate” and loudly proclaim that “We Are Family” at one too many wedding receptions. We spent two hours choosing the songs for our reception, and I made a fool of myself by promising all of my friends that they wouldn’t leave the Maxwell/Peine wedding reception without dancing to ”The Thong Song” and belting out “God Bless the USA” because we had chosen those songs ourselves.

I think the nice folks at the Majestic thought I wouldn’t notice that nary a one of my greatest hits made an appearance at our reception. But I noticed. I noticed big time. And the face I made upon noticing has been captured for all of eternity on our wedding video. I’ll just say that I’m glad no one slapped me on the back during that face.

This friend was one of those who got married during the chaotic months when Drew and I were engaged, and she always told me that most of the things that would go wrong during our wedding would be things no one but me would notice. Last night, she brought over an example of something gone wrong that everyone will notice.

“You always think you have it bad until you see something like this,” she said as she pulled a card from her purse with a flourish. The card was an invitation to a rehearsal dinner on October 31. As is the case with most weddings, the groom’s parents are hosting this rehearsal dinner, and the groom’s mother chose the rehearsal dinner invitations. Even though the rehearsal dinner is on Halloween, the wedding is not, so this is not a Halloween-themed event. Which is why the fact that the bride and groom are portrayed as skeletons dressed in a suit and a wedding dress on this rehearsal dinner invitation makes one wonder how the mother of the groom really feels about this blessed union.

Even if I do have to watch myself making an ugly face for all of eternity on our wedding video as the Easy Listening station blasts down on our wedding reception, I count many blessings when I think of our rehearsal dinner and wedding day. Key among them: that I was a live bride.

After last week’s nap during class/spitting of overpriced treats on the ground debacle at obedience school, we learned from our mistakes. We didn’t feed Truman dinner beforehand, and I encouraged him to take a nap prior to class by saying “No” in a sweet, soothing voice, versus the yap I usually use as he routinely mistakes my leg for an arch enemy, forcing him into psychotic attack mode. I know he doesn’t want to bite my leg with the laser-sharpened surgical steel that is embedded throughout his mouth. I think I force him to do so by unwittingly moving my leg in a way that reminds him of the Arkansas predators of his boyhood.

As we arrived at class, we immediately caused a raucous when Truman found the only patch of stickers in a mile radius and planted all four paws directly in them. Drew was carrying him and I was attempting to talk above his pained yowling to keep the hippie dog-lovers inside from thinking we abuse our dog. If they could see him at home, they’d know it’s quite the other way around, but no one would ever suspect him with that face. The trainer had to help us de-sticker Truman, and once again we received correction the moment we stepped in the door for our poor leash skills. My bad attitude toward the trainer led Drew to believe it would be a better idea if he held the leash, and thank goodness. I didn’t want to have to give her hair style correction, but one more comment about the way I hold a leash and she would have left me no choice.

Once inside, Drew went about the business of reminding Truman how to sit, and then working on the “sit and stay”, which is apparently the solution to all of our canine behavior challenges. Is your dog chewing on your bathmats? Put him in a sit and stay! Is he hurling himself against the back door to politely let you know he would like to come in? Sit and stay! Is he confusing your ballet flats for rawhide? And so on. It was difficult for me to believe Truman would just halt in the middle of his maniacal leg rage to obediently sit and stay, but as tights and legging season approaches, I’m willing to try anything.

Between sit and stay attempts, during which Truman behaved beautifully, the trainer explained to us that learning tricks such as the sit and stay requires a lot of brain energy, which is far more taxing to a dog than simple physical exercise. She looked specifically in our direction and mentioned that the super active puppy would be exhausted. I once again found myself feeling doubtful, but these classes weren’t free, so I decided to continue suspending disbelief.

When the trainer decided the dogs were done, she instructed everyone to release their dogs out of the sit and stay. Upon a word from their owners, all of the dogs laid down. Except one Truman Peine, who in that instant felt an irresistible lust for Drew’s denim-clad right leg. Never one for subtleties, Truman felt no qualms in letting the entire class know how he felt about Drew’s leg. For what felt like five minutes, the entire class stared at our hormone-hyped dog as Drew looked at me helplessly and I hissed at him to kick him off. Apparently Truman expresses mental exhaustion through very public displays of affection.

On Saturday, Drew and I spent six hours replacing all of the plants in our yard that fell victim to Hurricane Ike. (When I say “fell” victim, I mean it. There was no spectacular hurling of shrubs across the street. Most of them looked like they just got tired and fell over.) The Heights has a great selection of nurseries specializing in plants native to Houston. Drew and I prefer these nurseries because our chances of having plants that survive are better if they were supposed to be growing in this town to begin with. We aren’t picky about what goes in the ground at our house, we just want it to stay green without much intervention on our parts. I said as much to the woman who was helping us, and she peered at me from beneath a large straw hat.

“So your azaleas you had. You say they just died. Describe how they died.”

“The leaves turned brown and fell off. I think it was because of the heat. Or maybe because they didn’t get much sunlight where they were,” I added helpfully.

“Sounds to me like it was a watering issue,” she said suspiciously.

“No, I really don’t think it was that. They always wilted when they needed water. And when they died, I never saw them wilt.”

“Let me ask you this. Do you know how to water a plant?” It was this question that made me realize we weren’t dealing with a normal nursery employee; we were being accosted by a plant zealot.

I’ve encountered zealots in every field, and as a rather self-conscious person to begin with, they always make me feel substandard. The literary ones make me feel bad because I like Stephen King; the music ones shoot me accusatory glances when I hum “Bootylicious”; the Martha Stewart zealots make me feel like a poser because I use frozen pie crusts and sometimes dust with my hands. Mostly, the zealots make me feel substandard because I am not overzealous about anything. I had this very conversation with Drew this morning.

“The worst part is, we can’t get these people back. I don’t know a lot about anything, except maybe editing. Maybe I’m an editing zealot. What kind of zealot are you?”

Not to be outdone by the dorkiness of my proclamation of love for editing, Drew replied, “I’m a cross-commodity exotics zealot.”

So what do an editing and a cross-commodity exotics zealot do when all their plants die? They take the heat from the plant woman, they let her steer them toward the most-likely-to-not-die plants in the nursery, and they say, “Yes ma’am” when they decide they like a different kind of plant than she suggested, and she snaps, “That one is a little more delicate than the ones I showed you. It won’t hold up to your abuse.”

We can take it from the plant woman because we admit, we know nothing about plants. And the only records we have of our plant-keeping abilities are lying sideways in our flowerbeds, brown and crackly, looking like they’ve finally gone to a better place.

As dog parents of a questionably well-behaved puppy, we have a harder time taking it from the dog zealot, who we encountered last night in our first obedience school session that was actually attended by Truman. I know that people with pets and without children can be ridiculous, but I have about two mothering tendencies and I only have the dog to use them on, so I’m done apologizing for buying him collared shirts to wear to special events. I have been fretting about his performance in school. As I’ve mentioned here before, I did not want to be the mom of the worst dog in class.

Truman, Taryn & the ammo pouch on Truman's first day of school.

The moment we arrived at school, any preconceived notions we had about being superior dog parents were blasted out the window. Truman was on a leash in front of us, and both of us were scrambling with the ammunition pouch Drew brought to hold his treats (Everyone else in class got to wear a special dog training apron to dispense treats; I got to wear an ammo pouch, complete with individual shell pockets for easy access should an unexpected goose fly across my path.) and Truman’s proof of rabies vaccination. (The school was a little hesitant about allowing Truman to enroll because he was previously too young for a rabies shot, despite our assurances that we know he doesn’t have rabies, because he bites us all the time.) During this time, Truman was happily zig-zagging around Drew and I, sniffing his new surroundings. Suddenly, a booming voice from above: the dog zealot.

“No, no, no. Now let’s not set the dog up to fail. There is nothing more annoying in life than a little dog walking back and forth on a leash. You need to shorten his lead and put him on your left side. Do not let him roam back and forth.”

As I yanked Truman over to my left side and silently willed him not to make the yakking sound he makes when he is forced to go in a direction other than that of his choosing, I noticed this particular dog zealot was wearing an entire ammunition vest for dog-training, making my ammo pouch look like a fanny pack. I had to stop myself from saluting. I suddenly realized we have enrolled Truman under the General Patton of dog training.

Once inside the walls of the obedience school, we all faced the center of the room where General Patton displayed her reformed Labrador Retriever, who performed trick after trick as Patton assured us he “didn’t used to be like this”, deluding us into thinking we too could train our dogs not to treat the leash like a game of tug-of-war, then retrain the dog to only play tug-of-war with the leash in classroom situations to demonstrate for other dog-owners what their dogs should not be doing. All 12 dogs in the class were tugging at their leashes, jumping on their owners, and throwing themselves into a general tizzy over this well-behaved Colonel dog. Actually, make that 11 dogs, because one dog, one Truman Maxwell Peine the First, was not even looking at the Colonel dog, or Gen. Patton. In fact, he was splayed out on the concrete floor, frog-style, facing the wall. I looked back at Drew, who was observing during the first class, and he grinned.

“Sleeping during class! He’s a real Peine!”

Truman taking a momentary break from his nap on his first day of school.

Last Thursday, Truman Peine had a very bad day. His hippo shrieking from his crate was breaking our new wedding crystal, he was peeing on the floor, he was pulling with all his might at the vines in our backyard I’ve been gently coaxing along since we moved in, and all the while, I was lying on the couch, sobbing. Drew was on the verge of being irritated, which for him, is still very nice to be around. But I was in full on mental breakdown mode.

“Our lives are ruined! We never even got the chance to spend time together as a married couple and now we never will! Because cockapoos live for 18 years and by then we’ll be almost 50! Or at least you will! And it’s all my fault, you don’t have to tell me. I begged you for the dog and then I went out and found him and I picked him up at the airport and I did this to us…”

That’s a truncated version for the sake of everyone who didn’t marry me and promise to live life like this forever. In the midst of this breakdown, Drew is hopping back and forth between consoling me and prying whatever piece of our beloved home Truman has clamped between his jaws. The whole scene ended in Truman being nicely shoved into his crate and me being nicely shoved into bed. It was Drew’s way of saving us both from ourselves.

In Truman’s defense, that night was the worst night he’s ever had. Since then, his behavior has gotten much better and I’m no longer researching the cost of shipping him back to Arkansas. But his behavior didn’t improve fast enough for him to escape a frantic Friday morning sign-up for obedience school. Classes commenced last night, and the first class was for owners only. Because apparently 90% of our dog’s problems are because of us. Cue the finger pointing.

The wonderfully frightening part of owning this dog so far has been the peek it has given Drew and I into our future parenting styles. It came as a shock to me that I’m the scary one, and Drew is the sweet, forgiving, it seems like you’re thinking about sitting so I’ll give you a treat one. As we walked up the drive to obedience school last night, I found myself asking Drew to reassure me that Truman would not be the worst one.

“Surely there will be some people who haven’t even tried to teach their dogs anything, right?”

“Taryn who cares if he’s the worst one? That’s why we’re here.”

“But won’t you be embarrassed if he poops in the middle of class?”

“No.”

Regardless of how irrelevant Drew feels the dog’s behavior in class is, I do not want to start motherhood as the adoptive mother of the world’s worst dog. I do not want Truman to fail obedience school. I do not want to excuse myself from learning the “down and stay” because my dog has soiled himself while everyone else’s dog looks on with disgusted looks on their faces. It’s the equivalent of being the parent of the smelly kid in class.

The leader of the class is a woman who has been training dogs for 20 years. She started class by telling stories about training her four dogs, and as she spoke, I realized that she was saying “M-kay” a lot, like the counselor on South Park.

Because I never saw an episode of South Park until I met Drew, I knew I would be the only Peine paying attention. Sure enough, when class was over, Drew had a very proud look on his face, and it wasn’t because he couldn’t wait to try out Truman’s new English slip collar.

“I counted the number of times she said “M-kay” and it was (insert astronomical number). Actually, I did an average by counting the number of times she said it in one minute and then multiplying that number by the number of minutes we were in class.”

“So you didn’t listen to anything she said.”

“I couldn’t!”

I can’t wait for our future parent-teacher conferences. Lord help us if our son or daughter is assigned a teacher with a lazy eye.

This weekend was a busy one for me. My husband and I flew to California, me from Orlando, he from London, for a wedding. The wedding was for, well, two people whom I had never met before, but my husband seems to like them and he is generally not wrong about folks (with one pretty glaring exception in my opinion, but that’s another story altogether) and well, how often does one get to say, “I’m flying to California for a wedding in Lake Tahoe,” in your life? I didn’t think so, me neither.

So, I set out with hopes held firmly high. Fly out to California all on my own (which I am still amazed that I can do without getting lost as hell). Go to a wedding in a fancy resort town, have fun! Right? Huh.

I had a horrible time just getting to the plane to begin with. The bus ride from my usual parking lot took twice as long as usual, and unseated me with many abrupt stops. Checking-in in the United terminal cumulated with me being accused of trying to steal my husbands frequent flyer miles by a gate worker. My husband had tried to upgrade me to first class for the flight from Chicago to Sacramento as a surprise, but hadn’t been able to sign a needed form to authorize it. It made for a very confusing and irritating time for me, and I just made my flight.

Now, the Orlando to Chicago flight sucks in the best of times. It is full of (usually) very small children who are over stimulated and tired and quite often, sunburned. I don’t know if it is a trait of Chicagoan’s, but it also seems that the children that are taken to Disney on this flight are often still too young to go to Disney! Ok, for all you parents out there, if your child is still wearing a diaper, it is too young to appreciate Disney. Just telling you. They will not remember it, so you just as well go to Club Med or some other appropriate and expensive resort that you will enjoy and save Mickey till they can poop without you having to clean it up!

Our flight was late leaving the gate as the pilots needed some stickers. Yep, you got that right, the pilots needed some stickers! They were supposed to have some stickers that go on top of a button to tell them not to touch the button. It makes me feel so much safer having stickers between the pilot and the buttons of DEATH! Sometimes I sort of wish that pilots weren’t always quite so honest……

However, as the pilot is telling us this, I was in the back thinking, “Fuck the upgrade, just give me a tranquilizer gun!”. I had a child of DOOM in front of me. No, not a baby crying, they don’t bother me to much (I mean, half the time in coach I want to cry myself, so I don’t really blame them….) but a full-fledged demon in short pants. He screamed, the threw full-body flailing tantrums. He threw stuff at me. He spent 40 minutes of the flight screaming and slamming open and shut his window shade. He went for mine, but this is one point where dog obedience actually came in handy (cause God knows it never came in handy with the DOG!) and I said a loud, firm, “NO!” and he sat down faster than Micheal the wonder dog ever did in obedience school days. It was only then that the mother sitting right beside him gave him a firm talking too. Ugh. So, for the 3 hours or so that it takes to get to Chicago I spent trying to stay calm so that I wouldn’t stuff a child in the overhead bin.

My notes, trying to preserve my mind

However, one thing that I noticed, was that the clouds from hurricane Hanna looked a lot like an unprocessed fleece, with the little waves in it and the right colors. I was so geeky, I even took pictures of the pretty wool-clouds from the airplane.

Wool Clouds

More wool clouds

I also tried to take a picture of myself crocheting the new travel baby blanket.

Geeky self-portrait with crochet

I got to Chicago and made it from one plane to the next with even enough time to grab a piece of overpriced pizza on the way. I get on the plane, sit down and settle in for a long flight. I am just taking out my crochet, when the mother and devil child start walking down the aisle. And then sit down directly behind me.

Oh holy fuck, who did I piss off?

I mean, now this little terror can kick the back of my seat. Which he does, for two hours straight. He also treats me to the rest of his screaming repertoire, including throwing things and flailing until his mother gets up for the proverbial dart gun to take him down. I don’t know what was in that stuff, but I was about to ask for some of it for myself at that point. But, it blissfully took him down until about 40 minutes before we landed.

Chris was at the Sacramento airport waiting for me when I landed. This airport is really small, it makes the Des Moines airport feel like O’Hare or something, it is small. While we were waiting the surprisingly long amount of time it took for our bags to arrive, I took a picture of the traveling blanket and the magazines that I read to show how much I had gotten done on the way there.

It's still a long ways from FL to CA!

We drove to Lake Tahoe that night, about a two hour drive, which I drove since Chris was, well, falling asleep at the wheel. It was dark so not very exciting. We arrived at the hotel around 1:30 in the morning California time, 4:30 Florida time. Doh, very tired…

Woke-up early-ish, around 8am to do some exploring. First we went to explore the Donner memorial state park. All I can say is that anyone who tried to go through that country in a covered wagon with freaking OXEN had a much bigger pair than I ever will.

Crocheting Donner Memorial

Then we went to Reno. I’m glad that we went, but I will never go there again. It was depressing and slightly seedy. Ok, not slightly, very seedy. I don’t know how Las Vegas is, but this was just sort of depressing. Oh, and they still allow smoking in the casinos. Perhaps I am just so used to smoking not being allowed anywhere anymore that this shocked me.

Yes, I am in the middle of the street...Already good in this area...

Needing an oxygen mask!!!

I'm serious, pretty seedy....

We then packed-up and headed to Lake Tahoe proper. Where we were staying wasn’t Lake Tahoe, but very very close to it. So, I got to see and walk in Lake Tahoe for a little bit.

Sarah getting wet n' wild!

We then drove back to the site of the wedding, which is actually Squaw Valley. This was the site of the 1960 winter Olympics.

With the cost of oil these days.....

There is a large complex that is at the top of the mountain where the games were actually held. You have to take a gondola ride to get up there, but once there, you can go swimming or roller skating or get some ice cream

I'm so high.....

On the edge

We came back down the mountain and got ready for the wedding that evening. It was a lovely wedding, but I have to admit something. I am pretty tired of weddings. I am sure that my outfit was at least part of the problem. My right boob kept wanting to come out and say hi to the world (and the CEO of Chris’ company and a LOT of his co-workers and their spouses) and the shoes that I had gotten the day before somehow were too big for me! Also, I don’t know if it was due to the altitude or the humidity, but after I blow-dried my hair, I had some super 80’s pouf going on.

Drunken wedding crocheting is always fun!

We left the reception fairly early on in the night as we had an early flight to catch from Sacramento the next day.

Yes I look like shit, I am hung over and tired as hell. What do you think you would look like?

We were originally supposed to fly to San Francisco then from there to Orlando, but our plans got a little changed when we were bumped off the first leg of our flight, and re-booked to Denver. The Denver airport is pretty, and we hung-out for our fairly long lay-over in the red carpet lounge eating crackers and cheese, wishing we were in a European lounge (they serve alcohol and real food).

We got onto our flight to go back to Orlando, only to have it delayed for an hour because they didn’t have enough people to load the baggage into our plane. All I could think was at least I don’t have the devil child anywhere near me on this flight! We got home around midnight, and back to our house around 1am. The puppies were quite glad to see us, as was a meowing Jiji (Or maybe she was just hungry, it’s always such a close call with her. I sometimes wonder if she wasn’t a member of the Donner party in a past life, she just sort of looks at me like she’s deciding where the tasty bits would be…).

It is very good to be home.

(Next wedding October 25^th. Stay tuned…..)

P.S. Tech support is home, hence the reason half the photos are the size of an eraser and the other half are of normal proportions. You have to pick your battles……..

This isn’t so much awkward as it is friggin obnoxious!!! Ever go over someone’s house, and they have a dog or two or five, and you go into the house and suddenly you get STAMPEDED by said dogs the moment you open the door!? This has happened to me on so many occasions I’ve lost count. And then the owners try to yell at the dog(s), like that’s really gonna make them stop jumping on you. Meanwhile you’re getting clawed up and down your legs, arms, chest, face, wherever you’ve got exposed skin, and you’re cowering in the corner next to the door making a squinched-up face trying to protect yourself from the claws and the teeth and the saliva that are overpowering you. Eventually the owners stop yelling and try a different tactic: humor. “Oh, that old mutt,” they chuckle, “he always does that!” This of course does nothing to help the fact that you’re now bleeding from several different locations on your body. Somehow amidst the fury of teeth and claws, you extricate yourself and run for the nearest safe place, like a bathroom, and lock yourself in there until the dogs can be contained. When you finally emerge, your hosts are as nonplussed and cavelier as ever, even as they appraise your impressive new collection of wounds. Their nonchalance infuriates you, but you don’t show it. No one wants to look like a wuss who can’t handle dogs. But you’ll always dread coming over these people’s house from now on and you’re definitely judging them for their lack of animal control skills. So, if you don’t want your friends to hate you, lock up your unruly dogs before they come over, or bring them to obedience school (the dogs, not your friends).

The Pastor and I went to our first obedience class Monday night. She tried to explain what it was before we got there, but I didn’t really get it. Riding in the car anywhere was cool with me. There were all kinds of dogs there and we sat against a wall looking at each other for a while. There was a big dog there that made me a little nervous, so I positioned myself strategically in case I had to defend myself. (The Pastor thought I was afraid, what does she know?) Then we went out in the center and I got lots of treats for doing things I already knew how to do. There was this one frustrating thing, though. This lady put a bowl of dog biscuits down in the center of the room and I had to walk by it without eating them. Everytime I started to go for them, the Pastor said, “Leave it!” Whatever?! Humans are strange creatures. The only good part about that was that all the other dogs there had to do the same thing. I could tell they were puzzled, too. One lab puppy named Mimzie tried her best to get those treats. She even used her paw to try to drag them to her, which the humans all laughed at. I was secretly applauding her attempts and wishing I had thought of that first. In spite of everything, I had a good time and the Pastor was very happy with me. I got lots of petting and lots of treats. She says we will go back next week.

I’ve got them laying around and I’m bored with the T.V. right now.  So, it’s time to type.  Without any more hesitation, I present these training tips for your reading pleasure (good luck, and the first two are probably the most important):

• Be cheerful when practicing with your dog
• Keep your training sessions short: 5-10 minutes several times a day
• Practice in different locations in your home, the den, the kitchen, the living room and the back yard.  dogs do not generalize, we need to make sure they can work with us no matter which room we are in.
• Play with your dog (this is hugely important, too).
• CONSISTENCY! Whatever you are working on with your dog, be consistent with them
• Make sure you praise your dog for coming to you (duh), give them a treat, and celebrate with them.  COMING TO YOU IS THE BEST THING THEY CAN DO ALL DAY
• Call your dog for positive reasons only.  If you need to cut their nails, give a bath or give a pill, go to them
• PLAY WITH YOUR DOG!
• Use your most excited, happy voice when calling your dog.  As I mentioned before-no one likes to come to an angry voice.
• Praise your dog for sharing what they have in their mouth, trade the dirty sock for a cookie, talk “silly” to help them share.  Give them a toy to replace whatever they had in their mouth.
• Keep your dog on leash during their training to help them be successful
• PLAY WITH YOUR DOG!
• Give your dog a “spot” in the rooms that you frequent.  A towel, rug or dog bed that they can go to in the den, the office or kitchen
• Discipline can happen only when you catch your dog in the act of an unacceptable behavior!
• Play a clicker game, teach a new trick instead of going for a walk when it’s too cold or hot outside
• PLAYING with your dog helps to create a special bond between you

Last Saturday I made some vegetable soup that included carrots as one of the ingredients. Having read that it was good to give your pug healthy treats like celery, carrots, etc., I gave Babeng a carrot stick. As you can see from the photo, she chewed it up a bit. I can’t say she’s crazy about carrots but at least she ate some!

This Sunday marks the first obedience class that we’re attending with Babeng. I have good vibes about this class. The pictures of the training area looks nice and the person I talked to seemed nice and efficient. She sent me 2 SMSes and called twice to remind me class starts on Sunday. My kind of organiser .

We’re hoping that the class will teach us to be better pug people and Babeng to be better behaved. We’d also like to meet more nice dog owners whose dogs will want to play with our Babs. As it is, we only know Pima and her parents. More doggy friends for Babs will be awesome.

Can you tell that if I ever have children, I’ll be the neurotic parent who has the teacher’s number on speed dial? And suck up? Hahahaha…