Look at me. How can you not love that face? Ok, I’ll admit I can be a bit wild, but that’s my terrier blood. My people call me high energy, but I prefer to think of myself as a dog that wants to live life to the fullest.
Take for example my walk. Every day, except perhaps on the Sabbath, my people take me for a walk. I rip put the front door as if I were launched. Yee haw, off we go!
I pull this way and that way on my leash. For more than two years the Crazy Woman who walks me has tried to make me heel. Ha, I am not a Blue Heeler, I am a rat terrier, a squirrel dog, a running demon. If it moves I chase it.
A year ago the man human, the Sicilian, was walking me. He wanted to go this way, but I saw a squirrel and jerked him in the other direction. The Sicilian groaned in pain. I ask you, how can the tug of a 30 pound dog injure a human of 170 pounds? I don’t know, but it did. He’s had tendonitis for months, and it’s all my fault.
The Crazy Woman has tried different collars and harnesses, is always yelling “Heel,” and jerking on the leash to make me behave, you get the picture, but none of it works. I am in charge. That was until two weeks ago.
The Crazy Woman saw a collar guaranteed to make me behave. She bought it. My opinion: a waste of money, money that would have been better spent on treats. The next morning as soon as the Crazy Woman put on her sunglasses, I jumped into a chair, ready for my leash to be clipped on. Whoa, what is this? She slipped a metal collar over my head.
I ripped out the door as usual. The Crazy Woman jerked on the leash and yelled, “No.” I stopped dead in my tracks. I felt as if I had been nipped on my neck. When we walked by Speed’s house, this Westie I dislike that barks likes crazy when I pass, my Crazy Woman jerked the collar again. I had no choice but to quit pulling. The Sicilian says it’s not a collar, it’s a crown of thorns, but no matter what it’s called, the Crazy Woman wins, but I fixed her.
A week later her pastor came to our house for supper. I engaged him in a game of ball. The Sicilian warned him not to grab for the ball, but he did. Snap, I bit the pastor. Well, I’m in the dog house again.