If nothing else, reality tv has given me the following gifts: "The Bachelor" consistently reaffirms my gratitude for my husband, and “The Dog Whisperer” reaffirms my gratitude for my dog.
Not that my dog is a shining beacon of canine behavior, because he’s not. Or, I’M NOT, because if Cesar Millan has taught me anything, it’s that any and all wackiness and psychosis on the part of the dog is all my fault, directly or indirectly. If there is no Calm Assertive Pack Leader, it’s all shot to hell because I didn't get my act together.
He really is a wonderful dog though; whoever owned him before we adopted him gave him some basic training, and he obeys and listens 100% of the time at home and 70% in the outside world where overstimulation fries his brain with 800 electric shocks every half a second. He’s funny and goofy and has a boundless energy we have yet to scrape the bottom of.
I love him, but he is a freak. And here is my proof. He is the only dog I have ever known who, when offered either a walk or a game of fetch, if I throw him a treat he will catch it and Spit. It. Out. On the ground.
There is no bribery juicy enough to win him. You can’t reason with that kind of fanaticism.