And He’s Going to be a Therapy Dog?

Wilson! Oh, our dear Wilson.

In human time, Wilson’s just six days from turning six months old. In doggie time, he’s now past young adolescence and entering his dirty rotten teenage years. Our lovely, sweet, cuddly puppy has turned Goth … or worse, Headbanger!

There’s not an imported Belgian rug safe in the house. Yesterday, I discovered a section of baseboard chewed to the nubs. Poor Scarlett, our elder Golden Retriever, is stalked and attacked on a regular basis. I spend my days like an eccentric Gypsy woman, muttering chants under my breath while shaking black pepper over the rugs in my house.

Wilson LOVES black pepper. He thinks I’m FRICKIN’ SEASONING the rugs for his dining pleasure.

We have a plan, though.  Next week, Wilson begins training with Sigfried the Horrible. Ve vill haf him trained, or he vill DIE! Well, not really, unless you consider the local PetSmart a dungeon of torture. Beginner, Intermediate, and Advanced Training, here we come! Every Tuesday night for the rest of our natural lives is what I’m thinking.

Uh Oh! Gotta go. I hear a six-month-old puppy chewing something.  Something crackly and forbidden.

Dear Wilson (who thinks his first name is Leave It, his middle name, Noooo!) is going to LOVE his new trainer.  Or Die.

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