Our generic white dog, Lil Wayne, has been with us now for nine years, and he’s proven to be a sweet, cuddly and mostly problem-free companion.
I wish he’d earn his keep by doing chores, or at least get a SAG card and work as an actor, but he regularly reminds me that he’s a companion dog, according to the dog manuals. This means it’s just his job to sit on my lap and listen to me yell at the stupid people on HGTV’s “House Hunters,” who always complain that the apartment in Paris they’re considering buying doesn’t have the same amenities as their giant ugly house in Texas.
“Then go back to Texas, you fools,” I always shout at the TV. “You don’t deserve to live in Paris.” And Lil Wayne agrees by licking my face, which is part of the job description for companion dogs.
Well, OK, I’m sort of making that part up. He no longer licks my face or any other part of my anatomy, because I hate licking dogs, and with great patience and effort, I trained him to stop doing it. I know some of you are anxious to know how I did this.
When the pink tongue came out and touched any part of my anatomy, I would push him down off my lap and say sternly, “No licking.” Sounds simple, right? Except for the fact that I had to do this 8,422 times in a row. It took that long for his slightly dense canine brain to register, “Oh, wow. She doesn’t like to be licked, and if I do it, she won’t pet me anymore.”
That was a few years ago, and he still mostly follows the rule. When he forgets, again I push him down and tell him no licking. This is complicated because my daughter, Curly Girl, lets him lick her when she comes to visit. I keep asking her to stop, but unfortunately, apparently I didn’t train her as well as I trained Lil Wayne.
That’s the only thing I’ve ever been able to train a dog to do, though, because I just don’t have any patience. I’d like to blame it on the fact that I’m now at the “get off my lawn” phase of life, but, truthfully, I never had any patience to start with. It seems an utter miracle to me that somehow I raised two reasonably polite and law-abiding children to adulthood without either of them being sentenced to federal prison, when I can’t even teach a dog to walk properly on a leash.
I know, now some of you are going to email me and tell me it’s easy and you’ll give me instructions. But, seriously, I’ve tried. I’ve read books. I watched “The Dog Whisperer.” I was the alpha dog. I held the leash tightly in the correct hand. I made the dog sit whenever he pulled. But the problem is that you have to do this 8,422 times. And I could only do it, well, 10 times before I gave up.
I tried to hire trainers to come and work with Lil Wayne, whom we adopted from the pound and appears to be a Maltipoo, but they all told me that it didn’t do any good to train the dog without my involvement. I still feel that they could teach the dog first and, then, after he grasped the concept, I could take over.
A well-trained dog is a pleasure to be around. A discourteous, willful dog is not. I have a good friend who I’m slightly scared to visit now, because her huge dog always jumps on me and nearly knocks me over. She’s tried to teach him to stop doing it, but he seems to have doggie ADHD.
I have another friend who recently got a large dog, and she’s essentially untrained, under the impression that the house belongs to her and she should be able to run it as she sees fit. (The dog, not my friend.) I’m trying to persuade her now to get a trainer, so I can enjoy the animal, who’s actually quite cute and sweet, when she’s not trying to throw her huge carcass on top of you.
I know that some of you don’t like dogs, so you’re thinking to yourselves: No dog is a pleasure to be around. But dogs are like bratty kids, if they’re not taught to be polite, they’re unbearable. But if they have nice manners, they’re fun.
Don’t get me started on cats. Our last cat, Cairo, a Siamese from the pound who refused to stay indoors, disappeared a couple of months ago. I know I should be heartbroken, but he was aloof and a misogynist who only liked men. The males in my house, including Lil Wayne, were much sadder than I was. Meanwhile, a friend of a friend found an abandoned cat and I was convinced to adopt him. His name is Boris. More on Boris in a future column.
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