Lucy is a bad dog. She has been a bad dog her entire short life. By the time Lucy came into my life (a little over a year ago), I along with my roommate Amanda were her fifth owners. She wasn’t even six months old at the time. Not the best of starts. Within two weeks of her arrival, Lucy attacked and tried to kill our other dog Poppy Petunia. Besides that problem, she barked constantly, she threw temper tantrums when she was put in her cage, she peed everywhere, she pooped everywhere and then proceeded to eat it. The dog was a nightmare.
Amanda consulted a dog behaviorist and started Lucy on a vigorous training schedule. I, who rarely walked a dog, was taking Lucy on long promenades around the neighbourhood in hopes of wearing her energy level down. My peaceful home life was destroyed. I love peace. I love quiet. Lucy was none of those things. As the weeks of constant turmoil embroiled our household, I began to get more irritable. One morning as I was getting my coffee, I looked down at the whining dog at my feet. She was sitting. She had learned to sit! She was sitting, she was staring up at me and her tail was going so fast that her butt was levitating off of the floor. “Oh my god,” I said to her, “You actually want to be good.”
Lucy is still a bad dog but I love her.