Confucius say: Dog who belongs to you will generally do what you say. Dog who doesn’t, won’t.
“Pickle, come,” I say.
Pickle just stares at me. I’m standing with the back door open. Pickle is in the yard, 15 feet away, still as a statue. Carol and I are watching him because Robby and Brianne both have to go to the city today for work. Wait a minute. I think his parents use a different command. “Pickle, here,” I try. Yeah, that’s what they say. Still, nothing. Pickle doesn’t even flinch. I’m not crazy about the way he’s looking at me. Like he’s challenging me. Defying me. He’s only 10 months old, for God’s sake.
Pickle belongs to my son and his fiancé. He’s a super-good-natured black Lab pup. In fairness, he’s still in the process of being trained. Nonetheless, he ought to be able to come when I call. Recall is important, we all know that.
I go to the treats jar and jiggle it, making a lot of noise. I take some pieces from the bag of Zukes — beef recipe — and crinkle the plastic bag, nice and loud. I go back to the door and make a big show of holding out my hand. “Pickle, here. Treats!” I’ve seen this work for Robby and Brianne.
Pickle tentatively creeps forward. He cautiously climbs the steps. I can see his nostrils flaring, as he sniffs for the treats. He comes within reach. I grab for his collar . . . and he scoots right back to where he was on the lawn.
He thinks this is a game.
I’m determined to win. He’s just a puppy. So I try again. I retreat to the living room and find Kemba’s favorite toy, a squishy, squeaky ice cream cone. Pickle loves to steal it from his “uncle”; no way he’ll be able to resist. I return to the back door. I wave the toy. I shake the treats. Pickle looks tempted. He climbs the stairs. Sniffs my hand. I reach for his collar, again. And he’s gone, again.
He’s loving this game. For me, though, it’s getting old quickly. Fact is, Carol and I are due to leave for a Staples football playoff game within the next 10 minutes. We’re supposed to be dropping off Pickle at Robby and Brianne’s apartment on the way over. Clearly, this ain’t gonna happen. I call Robby, who should be home by now, to come and get his pain-in-the-rear puppy.
Robby lives 5 minutes away. He’s over in no time, and heads for our back door. “Hey, Picky Boy!” he calls. At the sound of his voice, the suddenly obedient dog goes flying into Robby’s arms, eagerly licking him all over — nose, eyes, ears, mouth. “I missed you, Sweetie,” Robby coos.
Yeah, he’s a sweetie. Real sweet. Now. The little stinker.
YOU CAN ALSO FOLLOW BEAGLE MAN, KEMBA, AND RICKY ON FACEBOOK AND INSTAGRAM.
I would have said it’s a Lab thing when I had Labs. Now that I have small dogs, it doesn’t matter. It’s the same. And now, I have to bend my old back to reach the little buggers. And they run away. They all test your patience. And I wasn’t born with any.
C’mon. You love it!
Isaac’s favorite words are “treats” and “sweet potato”. I admit, I spoiled him by rewarding treats when he came inside on his own. Now he waits at the door for the treats, comes in, grabs them and then runs out before I can close the door. He wants more!
Those little sneaks!