We (married plural for “she”) sprayed the backyard for weeds last night, so the dogs can’t go out back until… well, now, actually, but it led to all sorts of confusion for the dogs.
That is to say, one dog — the dog who is confused far more easily that most life forms — the dog aptly named Dizzy.
See, Dizzy’s never really been leash-trained terribly well. When we lived in our town-home and taking your dog for the combination lavatory/walk was mandatory, we only had Jake, so Dizzy is completely unprepared for the idea that we might put her on a leash, take her outside and expect her to take care of business.
You know how you can train pets to only go in specific places?
[shut up, you can]
Well, for Dizzy, that specific place is the back yard — that’s it — back yards are the only place where such things are done — that’s all she remembers.
Except…
Except, since she won’t go out front on the leash, the pressures begin to the build, and apparently somewhere back in the dim recesses of what I’ll condescendingly call her mind, she apparently remembers the early puppy days of non-trainedness, and the fact that the house interior used to be a viable option for Tiny Dizzy.
Oh yes, she remembers that.
This morning, I hit on the idea of taking her on the leash into the backyard (which suggestion was immediately muttered to my spouse so I could fall back asleep and let her test it) — familiar surroundings, with the control to keep her away from the unnaturally high levels of all-natural plant-killer. This plan worked.
Eureka. I’d feel a bigger sense of accomplishment if I weren’t in such a…
excuse me…
…if I weren’t in such a pissy mood. Har.
