In one of my early agility trials with Layla, after her having zoomies on
steroids every run, my obvious frustration (I said something "bad" to my dog) produced well-earned asshole vibes. All that evil surrounding my aura prompted a lady to rightfully walk past me, giving the stink-eye,
and say, "First agility dog, and you get a dog like THAT!"
Well, yea, but she got the first spark of this
canine-human bonding story all wrong. We didn't come together from the devious
plans of a foul human soul, conjuring putrid fantasies of succeeding via the
"dark side" in experienced people's sandbox.
Our buddy, Layla, came from the wrong side of the
tracks. I caught my husband in a weak
moment of the ongoing dog discussion, bee-lined him to the humane society,
where we locked eyes with a little black and white baby who pulled us in, we
were introduced, we touched, she shit, we left to hand Incredipet our credit
card, and went back to take her home.
There were no lies told, we knew what she was, hubby said
not not to worry, he'd had herding dogs, he knew how to train. He fed her steak bites, we took her to puppy class, he fed her Cheetos, I walked her miles and got chuck-it ball impressions in every pocket, then she ate his leather chair: and I took up dog
agility, and Layla got a JOB!
It was ALL WRONG, totally not recommended, I'm doomed to hell; but, as you can see, she likes the bedspread.
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