Taming Coco

 

The Coco Saga continues.  Three private lessons were not enough to teach her some manners. It was off to Saturday school with all the other dogs that needed to amend their rude ways.

We were last to arrive at the facility. All the other dogs and their parents apparently subscribe to the 'If you aren't early, then you're late' philosophy. We are the kind of people that need frequent reminders of what day it is and on a Saturday, time is suspended if you're my husband. He only comes in if it's dark and sometimes not even then. We arrived two minutes before the start of class.

She claims she's just misunderstood. Don't fall for it.

Coco is very large- granted that's compared to the chihuahua and the terrier-mix who also live here. Though she does need the very large, take-up-half-the-living-room-dog crate. But all the other dogs? ENORMOUS. I wanted to leave. Clearly this was not the right class for us. The enormous dogs waited in the vestibule. We waited outside. Once the enormous dogs began filing in, we entered. 

We found our space quite near the door- in case we needed a quick getaway. Me, Coco- whomever cracked first. In a surprise move, Coco cracked first. She reared up on her hind legs and gave her best bear impression. A solid move if you're a hiker confronted with a black bear. A brown bear will probably just eat you anyway. The other dogs perked up- a common enemy is such a good distraction. The French Bull Dog was already throwing a temper tantrum, he didn't care about Coco. He looked snack-sized next to the rest of the dogs. And he knew it. He shrieked and complained the whole class- he knew he walked into the wrong bar. 

The other dogs: an Anatolian mix-you know, the ones bred to guard their flock against any and all intruders, a Rhodesian Ridgeback-bred to hunt lions, another couple of shepherds minding their own business, twin shepherds awaiting modeling contracts with Abercrombie and Fitch- they all looked like they would rather be anywhere else but here, though they were not doing bear impressions. 

Then there was Lassie. Lassie was like Brooke Shields dropping by a very unorganized Book Club where no one read the book. Hair freshly blown out and slightly aloof in her demeanor, Lassie was already a professional. I'm convinced she was a plant to give the other rude dogs something to aspire to and other parents hope. Go home, Lassie. I'm not delusional. Coco will always be more Mick Jagger than Lassie. The French Bull Dog continued to shriek. I started to sweat. 

I got the 40 dog treats out of my pocket. We went through 30 in six minutes. The last ten I broke into quarters, my fingernails savaged in the attempt. It's not easy breaking an inch-long dog treat baked rock hard into quarters. I silently begged her to behave herself lest we run out and she reverts to her savage ways.

After Coco's misguided attempt to command control of the room, she grew bored and gnawed on the orange cone marking her bubble. The trainer wasn't happy. Then Coco threw herself on the floor. "I think that's fine, don't you? Maybe she should just watch this class," I said to the trainer. The trainer didn't disagree exactly. But she did have other helpful things to say like, "Switch places with Lassie. Coco needs a bigger bubble." And, "Well, that didn't go too badly," at the end of class. But we did not get kicked out of class. Coco was invited back. 

However, I made Doug go alone. I quit. I couldn't take the stress. The Frenchie is still attending. Poor guy.