Bringing Up Banksy :: Part 7 of 9

Do you ever feel judgy when you see someone's puppy flailing around on its leash in an Exorcist moment, thrashing like it's been possessed by not one but two spunky, high-kicking demons? Its person may appear dazed and confused, not fixing the situation at all? Hmmmm might roll out from under your tongue, because your dog would never do that. If you're thinking right now that perky little dog training saying, You Get The Dog You Need, please try to keep this thought the unspoken kind that doesn't come spilling out your mouth. Just hold it there, silent, like a little mouth caterpillar that you get to keep for your very own. That's a good thing to do in this kind of situation, because that person just might be doing their best.

In starting from scratch to create the agility dog of my dreams with my very own baby border collie, it turns out I wasn't exactly Top Chef. More like, sure tries hard, thanks for playing. Wow, just wow. How could it be so tough? I had the cutest, fluffiest, and smartest puppy ever, overflowing with amazing potential. She had crazy blue eyes and was a joy to train. But she was wildly elusive in her cleverness. I have a masters degree and my puppy's junior rocket scientist brain waves were running circles around mine. Every time we made progress one direction, she'd head me off at the pass and something else would pop up to derail my train. Maybe as minor as, another dog bed, chewed up into knee deep puffiness in the blink of an eye. Maybe as major as the time when I was still hobbling on crutches after my knee surgery, (because who doesn't want to have knee surgery when you have a puppy), and Banksy took off across our entire ranch, through the neighbor's cow pasture and all the pointy horned cows, over a fence out to a fast moving road exactly at the blind curve to chase a truck that she spotted from a half mile away which was heading at 50mph for the freeway.

A fast thinking, quick moving teenager with excellent dog tackling skills saved that one.

Let's just say we had plenty of jaw dropping, eye bugging, stomach twisting times, always when I least expected them. Head hanging low, sometimes near tears, I'd come home a mopey, dismal puddle, mumbling something along the lines of, "How much do I suck at dog training?" During my whining about the most recent fiasco, Banksy would be jumping all over my husband with her overwhelming joy of Gary. He who had come from the No Border Collie In Our House school of thought was cuckoo for Banksy and how cute she was. And sweet. And creative. And quirky. Every time I'd come slinking in from a puppy class where she'd thrown a major fit, or a trip to the pond where she wouldn't get out, or a walk that didn't happen because of speck staring, Gary was the cheerleader for team Banksy. He already had a weirdo for a wife and three other weirdo dogs. What was one more? "Um, wasn't this what you wanted? A smart dog who likes agility? Banksy's a good girl," as she flopped over for him like a crazy eyed fluffy polar bear. "Maybe just a little loony. You'll figure it out."

Coming from someone whose official role in dog training at our house was waving his arms and yelling "SIT SIT SIT SIT SIT SIT," when he walked in the house with a burger, this wasn't a whole lot to go on. Dog training was as far off his radar as the finer points of basketball scorekeeping are off mine. I think we cheer for the Warriors at my house. But, you know. She was our pet dog. And she was everything I ever asked for in my new puppy. She just came with extra added complications that I wasn't prepared for. I'd flop myself onto the couch and heave a dramatic, swoony sigh. Very eye rolling, Pre-Raphaelite damsel. And then the woo woo woo dog love monkey noises would start coming in from the other room, and there she'd be, rolling around on the floor with Gustavo, vampire teeth biting away on each other's heads. True love. I just had to channel that energy into fancy napkin table manners instead of raccoon keg party behind the Taco Bell.

to be continued...