ramblings: west highland white terrier (terror)

We had Malcolm in puppy training class for about two months and things were going well. Like any proud parent, we brought friends along to see him in action and bragged about our little guy being at the top of his class. Then things changed (duh nuh nuh). I'm not sure if it was the "terrible twos", or our lack of puppy parenting skills, but instead of sitting, staying and laying down for treats, he became more worried about barking, choking himself with the leash and jumping on other dogs. The worst part? He would wee on the floor. Every single class, mind you. We could handle the excited pees at the pet store and at the veterinarian's office, but at some point, the yellow puddles at training class got embarrassing and a old. Being the great parents that we are, we did what every concerned couple would do in a trying situation. Pulled him out of class. I know, we are terrible people - but our class was taught by an older Scottish woman who rolled her eyes when she heard our American accents for the first time and she scared us (and I thought the German women at Oktoberfest were intimidating). We've promised ourselves that we will put Malcolm back in class when we're in the States surrounded by American owners and dogs that act just as badly as him. For now, we train him ourselves...

Sadly, the puppy's manners have not improved since his last class. Perhaps he's angry because of the loss of his manhood (neutered!), or maybe he is just now realizing he'll most likely be a midget for the rest of his life. Either is possibility. So while B is at work supporting our little family, I'm experiencing the vicious cycle of an abusive relationship. A normal day in our household consists of me yelling at Malcolm for acting like a demented spider monkey on steroids, and him lashing out by shredding everything in plain sight. He's manipulative like that. On more than one occasion, he has waited until I'm near him to pull all of the clothes off of the drying rack. He has also learned to wait to destroy the only plant in the house I haven't killed until I'm in the living room to witness the devastation. 


While this is going on, I think about leaving him. I see his sweet puppy eyes and decide to offer him another chance. Mistake. Instead of shredding more of my belongings, he decides to wee on our hallway rug. I put him in his kennel but his cries make me sad. I let him out. He snuggles me and says sorry in his own puppy way. He bites my leg. I ignore him. He rolls over onto his back and beckons me to rub his belly. I do. He chews up my favorite slippers. He keeps me company when B is at work. He destroys my computer cord (twice). He takes a nap with me. The cycle continues. I am his bitch.