What Art Taught Me About Dog Training This Week
Or, how my dog trained me.
My new dog woke up at 5:47 this morning. Which means that I was out of bed and downstairs by about 5:52. Five minutes flat.
Arthur is a three year old blue tick coonhound. Have you ever heard a coonhound bark? Google it and you’ll know one reason I was awake and downstairs so quick.
The other reason is a story I’m about to tell you.
Art had two homes before ours. One was a nearby dam. He was found there with his mother Lucy, two years ago. They were taken to his second home — an animal shelter.
I remember them there when we went to adopt out other dog, Louie. I remember not asking to see him because I didn’t think I could convince my husband to take in two dogs and I also couldn’t imagine separating Lucy and Arthur.
Louie was meant to be our dog, I think. But Art and Lucy were separated anyway. She was adopted pretty quick. I don’t know why Art wasn’t. He’s a beautiful dog. Sweet as pie. He legitimately loves to give hugs.
Maybe it’s because he’s rambunctious. Not housetrained even the slightest bit, in any way at all. Bays like the sky is falling. Still has puppy energy at three. I can only imagine how much he had when he was actually a puppy. Or how it effected him…
