My father always said if you want to train a dog, you have to spend every second doing it.
“To get the top dog, you have to start at the bottom—getting them to sit on it, that is,” he told me. “Become the person the dog can’t live without. Become the Right Hand. Scratch his ears with it, and he’ll follow you around the second you leave puppy school.” He looked me straight in the eye, imparting more parental wisdom with every passing second. “Especially if you keep your pockets filled with liver treats.”
I had become irreplaceable. My dog needed me to feed him, because he’d been overbred to the point of complete helplessness. And I’d definitely become the Right Hand—he loved being scratched behind the ears. It just happened most days, I wanted to slap him right in his long, fuzzy face.
Not that I would ever do that, because that would be animal abuse and those people should be tortured ruthlessly, like, in front of an enormous plate glass window for an entire major city to see. But that’s irrelevant here.
My dog, Mr. Bigears Flyin. Beautiful Basset.
My stomach clenched at the thought of him—and his bowel problems, but we’re working on that with a perscription diet.
He’s long, low-slung, and entirely brainless. He’s the most idiotic creature I’ve ever met. All the other humans at the dog park talk about his floppy ears and ridiculous stature, and wonder if a tummy rub was all it took to get him to follow me around like a…dog.
But my father used to tell me, “you realize early in life that fur is only skin deep, but the sense of smell goes straight to the bone. And bassets, they can smell your bones. Inside of your body. Also, the liver treats in your pockets. Even when the treats aren’t actually in your pockets. If they were there once, two years ago for five minutes, the basset can smell those treats.” His profound wisdom guided me every day of my life. “And that basset will be yours forever. God help you. Invest in a lot of poop bags.”
He wasn't kidding.
I’ve had my fair share of dogs, fostered one or two in college, but this one took the cake. Also all the liver treats. And any bread I happened to leave on the counter. He could down a loaf of bread in seconds flat.
A Toblerone, once. Totally toxic for dogs. $600 in vet bills later, I had learned my lesson.
The thing about bassets, they are low to the ground but if they get up on their hind legs, do you know what happens?
They get tall, fast.
The bastards.
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Author's note: done with complete and total love for my brilliant friends. And trust me, ladies, this dog could never, ever be a shepherd.
