After a dreary, rainy Saturday at the Casa, Sunday morning breaks through clear and cold. This means that the inmates are in no hurry to go outside, content to stay piled up on the bed in a state of partial hibernation. For a while, peace reigns supreme, broken only by the snores of the older critters, until suddenly it doesn’t…
…as Hurricane MacDuff decides to make landfall.
Due to his gimpy hind leg, the Duff hasn’t figured out that he is fully capable of jumping up on the bed. So, my first inkling of impending disaster is a frowzled head and a pair of beady eyes peering at me through a mass of tangled hair. This is NOT good, as A: it means that he has already jumped down to possibly lay me a land mine elsewhere in the Casa, and B: he wants back up to unleash his own particular brand of hell upon the other dozing dogs.
As he’s still a pup amongst his older siblings, house breaking has been the equivalent of brushing one’s teeth while eating a bag of Oreos. I’m at the point of mixing rubber bands in with his food, so his dingleberries have a handy little loop protruding which saves me money by not having to go delve into my stash of hoarded toilet paper.
But wait, there’s more. If I let the Tootsie Rolls petrify for a few eons, I
then will have a projectile.
I can then use the rubber band to launch the hard little turds back at him when I catch him in the act, this using his own output to create input towards the training process. Winner, winner, here’s last night’s dinner…
It always pays to have a Plan B at the Casa, as well as some house shoes.
