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Kathy Bohannon Columnist

Published Sunday, October 16, 2011

Puppy boot camp

We were going to send Dyson the Terrible Puppy to boot camp. He was all packed and ready to go. We drove the four hours to our daughter's house in Newnan, preparing to leave the little stinker behind when we would leave on Sunday.

It was a great plan. We would pick him up in a few weeks and he would be trained by our daughter Aubern, who in our estimation is the best pup trainer ever. He would be smarter, more mature and surely obedient, and no longer do the crazy things he does, such as consume non-consumables in our absence.

Perhaps it's my fault. Maybe, just moments after he ate a remote control for the television, he heard me when I said it's too bad that now he is too big for the crock pot. He could have been listening when I mentioned how I fondly remember having cats that just purred and rubbed against our legs. Or perhaps he could read my lips when I told him exactly what I would do if he didn't unlock the car doors and let us back in.

But my husband John thinks it's something in his wiring. "He's got some strange dog in there," John stated, as if reading the results of a DNA test. I have to agree. The mix of dogs between his Boston terrier mom and sneaky neighbor dog dad is anyone's guess. Our family is split between his having "some" daschund and "some" basset hound simply due to the front right foot that seems to always point way, way, off to the right, completely independent of the other three.

It could be the daschund that causes him to panic when he can't find us. It could be the basset that makes him lie between my feet (actually ON my feet) beneath my desk as I write this column.

It's anyone's guess whose ears he has. They stand up when he's surprised, stick out when he's curious and fly far behind him when he is happily running. His heritage probably does have quite a bit to do with his behavior, and it is so varied and confusing that sometimes we think he is just downright smart as a tack.

Like when I'm preparing to leave the house and he runs to his crate. That's a good thing, according to my dog trainer daughter; it means he likes his crate. He is the very first dog in my entire life of owning dogs to spend time in confinement. "It's you who is uncomfortable," she tells me. Looking at him piled up on his blankies while the door to his crate is standing wide open, I have to agree. He loves it in there.

"He knows he's rotten," she says, "and he just can't help it." We're pretty sure that's it in a nutshell. He's just adorably terrible.

So much so, that even though he lost his dinner on the driver of our car who my husband said I'm not allowed to name so I won't -- but there were only two of us in the vehicle and let me just say I was reading at the time -- even though that happened, we can't stand to part with the little monkey.

And even though we packed everything he owns, including his favorite blankies (there are several, all with holes in them, which he uses to stick body parts through and run through the house like he is a super hero) and packed his bowls, his food, his jacket and his T-shirt, we just couldn't leave him.

So we hauled it all back to the car with Dyson the Terrible Puppy happily in tow, ears flying back, without a clue that he just escaped weeks of rigorous behavioral adjustment.

The trip home was uneventful. No one got sick on the driver, who still cannot be named -- but let's just say I was knitting on the way home -- and no one chewed anything or locked us out of our car when we stopped at a rest stop.

When we got home Sunday night the three pups piled up on us and we watched a bit of television together.

"Look how sweet he is," my husband said. Dyson gazed at him with big wet eyes. I glanced over and noticed what appeared to be a speck of shoe leather on his lip. "I think he wants to be good," he added.

Dyson blinked, adding more wetness to his big brown eyes. He glanced over at me and raised his eyebrows as if to ask, "Am I cute enough?"

I smiled as I watched my husband hold the little pup, surely being thankful we brought the little terror home. I'm thankful we did. I'd miss the little squirt. Besides, as long as we hide the electronics and never leave him in the car without taking the keys with us, and as long as that crate stays intact -- I think we have a pretty good thing going.

•••

(Kathy Bohannon is a Georgia Press Association award winner and regular contributor to the Newnan Times-Herald. Kathy can be reached at kathybohan@yahoo.com .)

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