Poe has developed the annoying habit of shadowing me in the kitchen, very often firmly wedging herself between my legs and the cabinets on which tops I'm trying to assemble something resembling a dinner. Our kitchen is just big enough to turn around in (okay, slight exaggeration), which has resulted in my just very nearly diving headfirst into the preheated gas oven because I've tripped over her immobile figure on more than one occasion. I finally decided it was time to advance her obedience training (since she's been unemployed all this time)and teach her to stay in a stationary place while I worked in the kitchen.
I found a blanket for her to lay on, still within a comfortable obstructing distance in the kitchen doorway, so she could feel secure in knowing that if there was a chance of any tasty tidbit dropping to the floor, she could be there within microseconds to inhale it.
Now, I've taken her through an obedience class, so I hunkered down for what was probably going to be a long process of teaching her to stay put and knew this was going to require consistency (difficult) and perseverance (not as difficult) on my part, but she's a smart dog and displays her submissiveness through physical evidence at every opportunity, so I figured it probably wasn't going to be too bad. Once I cleaned up the first trail of urine that resulted from me throwing cheese onto the blanket and telling her, "Blanket," and then quickly followed that up with more cheese (knowing I was going to pay down the line in dog-processed-cheese-smelling-paint-peeling poots) and a firm "Stay," it was a breeze. She stayed put, I occasionally threw her a piece of cheese and said, "Good stay. Good stay," and we managed to get through a dog-shadow-free dinner. Dave was impressed by my superior Dog Whispering skills, and I smugly said, "Well, it was easier than I thought (mentally patting myself on the back), but she's a smart dog. Now, it'll just be a matter of reinforcing it."
Next day:
"Blanket, Poe, Blanket." She immediately assumes what I call the dog-squat-walk, legs splayed out in opposite directions, low floor-to-piss gradient, weeing all the way to the blanket. "Awwww, Poe!...Okay...um...Good stay. Good stay."
Next thing I know, she's off the blanket. "Poe, blanket. Blanket." All of these commands are interspersed with generous amounts of cheese, but no matter how much cheese was waiting for her on the blanket, she still assumed the position, tapped into her submission bladder (which I'm of the firm belief at this point there are two of them, besides her "regular" bladder), and let 'er rip.
By this time, Dave is trying to get in the action, which just makes things worse. If you're a male, all you have to do is look at her and her fount runneth over. She has an innate ability to detect penises and immediately show them proper deference.
Things quickly deteriorated to her running upstairs to the safe refuge of her crate, leaving a trail of pee behind her. Since this "trauma," on more than one occasion when I see the telltale signs of loss of bladder control, I have had to scream at Dave, "Don't look in her eyes! Don't look in her eyes! For God's sake! DON'T MAKE EYE CONTACT!" in an effort to try to avert the inevitable, like facing some kind of canine Medusa, only instead of being turned to stone, you're bathed in a puddle of pee.
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