Wednesday, December 14, 2011

I'm Doing It Wrong

Why is it that when you have either a puppy or a baby, people feel compelled to tell you what you're doing wrong?  I am aware that I'm making mistakes with my puppy.  I know it.  I'm sure a good trainer could tell me that right away.  In fact, when I took the puppy training class last Saturday, they were very nice about helping me with my training issues.  Even at Petco, they're working hard to help me without being judgemental, like how to keep my dog safe in my car and how to keep my car safe from my dog. They showed me how to use a Gentle Leader harness when I told them that my hands were sore from walking and trying to teach Teddy not to pull on his leash.   

Tonight, as I tried to walk Teddy with his new Gentle Leader, a man, a total stranger, came up to me and said, "He doesn't like how you have tied up his nose."  No kidding.  So that means that, despite the fact that it's the first time I felt like I wasn't being pulled in the Iditarod, I'm supposed to take this small loop off of my dog's nose because some random guy thinks I'm being cruel. 

Other people on the sidewalk steered clear of us.  "It must be a mean dog," one of them said, looking at me accusingly.  I wasn't sure if he meant that I was a mean owner or that I shouldn't bring a dog like that into the public.  The Gentle Leader is a single narrow strap the goes over a dog's nose and causes his head to be pulled down whenever he pulls on the leash.  It's really very effective, stopping Teddy from being a powerful bucking bronco as he did his dance to try to escape the loop.  Unfortunately for those frightened people, the Gentle Leader doesn't restrict a dog from opening his mouth at all.  The way Teddy was writhing, I'm surprised someone didn't call Animal Control with a report of a rabid dog in the neighborhood.  Poor boy had suffered his new seat belt harness plus the Gentle Leader all in the same night.  He was getting a lot of new input and I thought he handled it pretty well.

Another guy told me he wanted Teddy to jump up on him.  "He's so cute," he said  "It's fine if he jumps." 

"It won't be quite so cute when he's sixty pounds and jumping on a kid who's only forty," I said.  The man kept pulling Teddy's paws up on his leg as I struggled to keep his paws on the ground.  The woman with him looked at me with something akin to disgust, grabbed the man's elbow, and pulled him away.  What did I do?  Oh right, I ruined that poor man's puppy experience.  Well, I'm sorry if I'm required to teach my dog bad habits in order for him to have that boyhood moment he missed with Benji when he was twelve.  Okay, now I'm being downright crabby.  I want Teddy to be able to walk in public, but I get tired of the public's opinions of what I'm doing with him. 

Earlier today, I was dropping off a student after reading time at school.  I ended up standing in front of a woman I should know better than to start talking with at all.  I had already encountered her opinions.  When she asked me how I was, I was driven by some stupid impulse to entertain her with my puppy foibles.  So I started in, telling her about the things that Teddy has chewed and how he's getting into trouble.  She wasn't satisfied with my comedy routine, interrupted me with a hand in the air, and said, "Is he getting enough exercise?"  I nodded, tried to go on with the job of making her laugh when she said, a little bit louder, "Does he have anything he can chew?"  Oh my God, the woman thinks I'm a moron.  She went on for a bit, but I ended the conversation, knowing that nothing I said would make a difference or make her laugh.  The only thing I came away with from that conversation was, 'You're doing it wrong.' 

Yup!  I'm doing it wrong.  I admit it.  I am not perfect.  It's just like that time, way back when Nickie was three months old, when a total stranger in the grocery store came up to me, ignoring the sweat pouring from his brow and said with a whithering look to me,
"That poor boy needs some shoes!"

I wish I'd been able to do a little tap-dance routine and say, "What? So he can do this?"  I'm sure if I'd put shoes on him, another woman would have rushed over to exclaim that the poor baby was overdressed and I was going to stifle him.  Fortunately for me, strangers stop giving so much unsolicited advice by the time your baby is as tall as your nose and has hair down to his shoulder blades. 

It's a fact, I can't please people.  It doesn't matter what I choose to do, I'll be doing it wrong.  Didn't Aesop write a fable about that? 

Thank you for listening, jb

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