You may have a dog that won’t sit up, roll over or even cook breakfast, not because she’s too stupid to learn how but because she’s too smart to bother.
~Rick Horowitz, Chicago Tribune
I opened the cupboard door under the sink and reached for a sponge. Ginger, our six-month-old Boykin Spaniel, darted in, grabbed something and disappeared, her nails scratching along the tile as she scooted away from the scene of the crime and crouched under the coffee table.
“She’s got a Brillo Pad!” I yelled, in hot pursuit. “Drop it, Ginger! Right now!”
Richard blocked one end of the table while I blocked the other. Ginger darted out between Richard’s legs, over the sofa and into the bedroom.
“Richard!” I screamed. “I can’t take it anymore! This dog has got to go!”
Ginger was the devil in disguise. As she grew, I waited for horns to sprout behind her soft silky ears. The amazingly cute, chocolate-brown puppy with a gleaming smile and sparkling eyes had captured my heart the minute I saw her. I soon tired, however, of chasing her around the kitchen table to retrieve socks, towels, eyeglasses and everything else she snatched when I wasn’t looking. Only a biscuit would make her relinquish her prize. I kept the treat jar filled at all times in order to retain my sanity.
I stomped my feet in frustration. “Take her to the pound! I’m done with her!”
Richard calmly snapped the leash on her while I picked pieces of steel wool out of the carpet. Ginger trotted behind him as he headed out the door. My heart began to pound. I leaped up and ran after them.
“She can stay,” I sobbed. Richard laughed. He knew full well Ginger wasn’t going anywhere. Ginger, oblivious to her close call, sniffed the garbage can.
“She’s going to obedience school,” I decided. Obviously I couldn’t train her myself and I certainly couldn’t let her get the best of me.
“Whatever you say, honey,” Richard answered with a grin.
I immediately signed her up for school at the local pet store. The instructor billed himself as a world-renowned dog trainer who could cure any behavioral issues. I laid down my credit card without hesitation.
On that first night, we were six women gathered in the pet store parking lot. The drill sergeant, Gordon, barked orders at us.
“Wear flat shoes to class. No spike heels. No stopping at happy hour. If I smell alcohol, I’ll tell you to leave. And absolutely no smoking,” he said, emphasizing every word with his hands on hips. “Does everyone understand?”
We nodded in agreement.
“I’ve trained dogs for years and it’s the owner that needs the training,” Gordon bellowed. “No treats! Dogs can’t be trained with treats.”
On week two, owners and dogs lined up in the parking lot. Big scraggly-haired mutts of various shapes and colors towered over tiny Ginger. Not the least bit intimidated, she immediately stuck her nose in the pile of bags and purses lining the sidewalk. I jerked her away before she had a chance to steal a set of car keys.
“Sit!” yelled Gordon.
On command five dogs landed on their rumps. Ginger darted off to chase a squirrel dragging me along with her.
“Obviously you didn’t do your research on this breed before you bought her, did you?” said Gordon.
“Why do you think I’m paying you?” I snapped back. “When are we going to learn ‘drop it’?”
I took Ginger to school the next week full of hope. We had worked on sit and stay every spare minute I had. She didn’t seem to get it but I had a feeling it would sink in soon. If she could learn one simple command, I hoped that “drop it” wouldn’t be far behind. The biscuit jar verged on empty.
On cue the class lined up as Gordon called out commands.
“Sit!”
All six wagging tails hit the pavement. Ginger’s face lit up as I dealt out praise — along with a treat I’d hidden in my pocket.
“Stay,” Gordon called. Ginger was off like a dirty shirt, as my father used to say. But one out of two was progress.
“Stay,” I repeated. Ginger yanked her leash and I pulled her back. We played tug of war. I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes left. I prayed the time would go quickly. My arm hurt. A classmate’s screaming startled me.
“She’s got a cigarette! She’s got a cigarette!” someone said.
Gordon spun around. “Who’s got a cigarette?” he screamed.
“Ginger! Ginger’s got a cigarette.”
I looked down at the little imp to see a cigarette butt dangling between pursed lips as if she’d been smoking for years.
“Drop it, you little juvenile delinquent. You’re going to get us expelled,” I scolded her.
Ginger looked up at me as if I were speaking Chinese. I retrieved the butt from her clenched jaw and walked toward the trashcan, bouncing dog in tow, as she desperately tried to grab her smoke from my hand. She wanted that cigarette back. I wanted a dog that obeyed me. If I had had a match on me that moment, I’d have lit it so we could both take a drag, and I’ve never smoked a day in my life.
With my stomach in knots, I drove Ginger to the last class. We’d have to pass a final exam to get our obedience school certificate. I worked sit and stay into every interaction with her. My pockets bulged with treats just in case she responded to a command.
“Good luck, Ginger,” I said as she leaped from the front seat of the car into the now familiar parking lot. Excitement lurked in every corner of her asphalt playground. She couldn’t wait to find it. Each dog took its turn performing four different tasks: sit, stay, come, and down. Ginger got an “A” on sitting, and an “F” on everything else.
“I’m sorry, Ginger, you flunked obedience school,” Gordon said, breaking the news in his usual matter-of-fact manner. “Call me,” he whispered in my direction. “I’ll give you a discount to repeat the course.”
I led Ginger to the car, leaving the graduation party in full swing. I slid onto the seat and rested my forehead on the steering wheel, tears flowing down my cheeks. Lifting my head, I read her the riot act.
“You’re so bad. How can I keep you if you’ll never listen to me?” Ginger calmly climbed up on the center console and stared at me. “I’m mad at you. Go away.”
Before I could push her down, her soft pink tongue touched my cheek and licked my tears away. A little brown bouncing ball hopped into my lap and I could no longer resist. With her tail wagging, she kissed me on the lips.
“I can’t live with you. I can’t live without you,” I said as I hugged her.
Ginger kissed me again. Then she stuck her nose into my pocket of treats. I fished one out and she gobbled it down before curling up in my lap. She rested her head on my chest, and her warm, sweet puppy breath soothed me as we drove home together.
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