How can I feel so loving toward this dog one evening and then so frustrated with her the next morning?
We set out at 7 am for our morning walk, Na'ilah, Stormy, and I.
Of course, Na'ilah regards this event as a hunt. She heels pretty well until she gets a whiff of a cat or squirrel, which today happens only a block from home.
I let her pull me a few feet off the sidewalk as she sniffs at thick foliage in the yard of a house on Pacific Street.
Suddenly she's pointing and staring aggressively.
We hear the deep, mournful growl of a cat that must be hiding three feet from her nose in the bushes.
I reach for the salmon strips I'm carrying in my treat bag for this type of emergency and hold one near her saying, "Na'ilah! Heel!"
She could care less.
It's like rock, paper, scissors. Cat definitely wins over salmon strips.
I tug on the leash, but the Gentle Leader head harness is not designed for dragging a dog in the direction you want it to go. I know I'm supposed to use voice commands and treats, and in fact I have no other choice.
For five or six minutes--it seems longer--Na'ilah holds us hostage, the cat growls, and I grip the collar around Na'ilah's neck trying to drag her away.
The vision of a cat attack resulting in death or expensive surgery--again--makes me desperate.
I tug and pull and treat in vain as Stormy stands by, occasionally performing a sit and getting a bit of the salmon cookie.
I'm sure State Farm would not be as generous with Round 2 of a cat attack.
I feel completely estranged from this beast. Why did I pick up a strange dog in the desert? I wouldn't pick up a hitchhiker. (Well, usually not.)
Why such a big dog? (Note to self: confine your charity to lap dogs.)
Finally she allows herself to be pulled away and continues hopefully down the block, plied with the last of the salmon strips.
The rest of the walk is uneventful, though delayed by a pause at each tree and house where she has previously encountered a cat or squirrel.
We set out at 7 am for our morning walk, Na'ilah, Stormy, and I.
Of course, Na'ilah regards this event as a hunt. She heels pretty well until she gets a whiff of a cat or squirrel, which today happens only a block from home.
I let her pull me a few feet off the sidewalk as she sniffs at thick foliage in the yard of a house on Pacific Street.
Suddenly she's pointing and staring aggressively.
We hear the deep, mournful growl of a cat that must be hiding three feet from her nose in the bushes.
I reach for the salmon strips I'm carrying in my treat bag for this type of emergency and hold one near her saying, "Na'ilah! Heel!"
She could care less.
It's like rock, paper, scissors. Cat definitely wins over salmon strips.
I tug on the leash, but the Gentle Leader head harness is not designed for dragging a dog in the direction you want it to go. I know I'm supposed to use voice commands and treats, and in fact I have no other choice.
For five or six minutes--it seems longer--Na'ilah holds us hostage, the cat growls, and I grip the collar around Na'ilah's neck trying to drag her away.
The vision of a cat attack resulting in death or expensive surgery--again--makes me desperate.
I tug and pull and treat in vain as Stormy stands by, occasionally performing a sit and getting a bit of the salmon cookie.
I'm sure State Farm would not be as generous with Round 2 of a cat attack.
I feel completely estranged from this beast. Why did I pick up a strange dog in the desert? I wouldn't pick up a hitchhiker. (Well, usually not.)
Why such a big dog? (Note to self: confine your charity to lap dogs.)
Finally she allows herself to be pulled away and continues hopefully down the block, plied with the last of the salmon strips.
The rest of the walk is uneventful, though delayed by a pause at each tree and house where she has previously encountered a cat or squirrel.
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