Pawprints: The First Steps of Proper Training

I can't really remember my real mom or dad since I was just a tiny little puppy when I was shipped out into the big world. My new owner came to pick me up and dragged me on an airplane, then we flew about 300 miles north. Now, I could pretend I was all upset and crusty about it, but you know what? I got the tasty end of the bone, the one with a lot of juicy marrow and stuff. See, in case you didn't know, I'm wearing a very fine black and white fur that keeps me plenty warm in the winter; some call it silky, some call it simply dashing – including myself. But you know what? It's a freaking flea in the backside during the heat of the summer! It feels like even my eyeballs melt and ooze across the floor together with the puddle of drool from panting like a son of a Bulldog. I don't like that, it just doesn't work with what I do. I didn't mention the little detail that I have two brothers and a sister, too, which just adds to the luck I got. Can you imagine trying to compete for attention in a big, fluffly stack of cuteness like that? No thanks, I say. But to make long story really short: I traveled 300 miles north and it's one of the best things that ever happened to me, although things were a little awkward and weird at first.

The new owners, yes, a pair in fact, took me in and showed me around the house. It wasn't overly big or anything, but well, I guess it just comes down to the service. I can't complain about the level of amenities as I was instantly drowned in treats and other delicacies, but of course they didn't come for free. I had to pull off some tricks and tolerate some of the weirdest things in order to keep them goodies coming.

First of all, they kept repeating this really disturbing name from a cheesy 80's movie called Gremlins. At first I thought they had some childhood issues and were desperately reaching back to their lost youth with utterly tasteless hairstyles and other oddities. Then it dawned on me that it was actually me they were calling Gizmo. Embarrassing would have been an enormous understatement, but I quickly refocused and decided to play along. A sour face at this point might have been devastating for all the lovin' that was poured on me in the form of pets, rubs and praises. The humans are just so sensitive about things like that, so quick to lose their concentration and effectively making any informative interaction literally impossible for hours at a time. It's absolutely frustrating, but what can you do? I started panting excitedly, tapping my paw vigorously, wagging my tail playfully, blinking and winking like a nutcase, and it worked. The treats kept coming and things were sliding along just fine, but were the owners happy with everything done? No! They insisted on taking me outside, and for the life of me, I cannot understand why any sane creature would want to do that in the middle of August. The plain thought of the sun bounding on my delicate skin gives me the itches. I had to come up with something to stop this madness.

It became quite obvious soon that they were trying to give me chances to— well, you know, do my business, fan my weenie, you get the point. But for crying out loud, was it really necessary to do it every fifteen minutes? And like the constant coming and going wasn't enough, they kept repeating the same word until my little head was aching from the boredom of it.

“Out— you want to go out? Let's go out, Gizmo!”

All that talking and walking in the sun was very unpleasant and unhealthy for my sensitive complexion, but I was a resourceful dog already back then, and the answer to my problem was right there on the lawn. No, I wasn't going to jump into the droppings of a colleague, no matter how much I hated the routine. While it would have probably had the same result, it definitely wasn't my cup of tea. Instead I simply lied down, curled up into a little ball of fur and went asleep right there on the spot. I wasn't really sleeping of course, but it worked all the same. Getting a lot of admiring aww's and ooh's and aah's from the people walking by, my owner picked me up carefully, glanced at me affectionately and carried me inside. An easy free ride back to the shade; sometimes the simplicity of people still amazes me.

The next morning, however, I had yet another surprise waiting for me. Instead of a lawn run, I got shut in a cage, just like that. No apologies, no explanations, I was not a happy dog. I tried to do my best and tell them that I really had to go this time, no sleeping on the lawn or anything, I promised. But I was ignored despite all the cutesy moves I made, and after a while it really started to upset me. I lied on the bottom of the cage and looked away, showing clearly how unhappy I was with the situation. I didn't know what was the deal, but I really wanted out, so I declared loud and clear, as close to as I can imitate their silly primitive language.

“Ouut!”

Daddy came running instantly and opened the cage door. Mommy sounded really excited too, but her output left much to be hoped for.

“Mumblemumble-good boy-mumble-out-mumblemumble,” was all I could make out of her. Of course I was happy to get the message through, but I wasn't going to let them off the hook quite that easily. Clearly they needed to a small lesson because I wasn't going to accept this kind of treatment again. While Daddy was putting his shoes on, he laid me down on the floor to wait, and that's when I made my move: Gizmo's special surprise in all of its stinking glory!

If I would've known how awfully lot of ruckus a tiny poop causes in the house, I might have reconsidered, but when training people you just have to stand your ground with some things, and locking me in the cage is just one of those big no-no's. A little bit of proper communication here wouldn't hurt.

After everything was said and done, we had the talk. Oh how I love the talks. I get to sit on Mommy's or Daddy's lap and listen to a long and lovely gibberish I have absolutely no clue about. I often just tilt my head appropriately from time to time, gaze at them deeply with my big puppy eyes and occasionally lick their hand, and I can feel them melting under my irresistible snuggles. The tones get softer and the excessive amounts of pats and pettings tell me that the situation is completely under my control. I was definitely able call it a job well done.

A couple of days after my arrival I began to get used to my new name. It wasn't my favorite or anything, but you know, it could have been worse - a lot worse. I could have been called Fifi instead. I mean come on, getting named like a Poodle would make even the Chihuahuas laughing their sombreros off. I think at this point we were building some kind of an understanding between each other, but there was still a long way to go before I had this new family of mine properly trained. I was being hopeful though; it had been only a couple of days in my new home and we had already made some impressive progression on setting up some routines how to run this household. The future didn't look bad at all.