You can't tell in the photo, but moments ago, we had a face-off on the sidewalk after he nabbed an entire bread roll before I even noticed it. With my rapid, gymnast-like reflexes, I hit the ground and threw my hand in his mouth so he couldn't chew.
He stared at me.
I stared back.
I wrapped my fingers around the bread roll and tried to pry it away, but his teeth were already wedged in there. It was not good.
I told him to "drop it," as if he would have magically learned that command on his own today. (We haven't taught it.) I told him to "leave it," like we make him do with his food. I took a stern tone of voice. I told him he was a bad boy. I pushed his jaw to get him to unlock. I touched his tongue to freak him out. I yelled "UH OH" to startle him into dropping it.
So I waited. I sat there in the cold, staring at my dog as cars drove by and stared at us. We both held onto that bread roll as if our lives depended on it. Finally, it started to get soggy, at which point I saw my golden opportunity. I dug my nails into the roll and broke it apart, moving swiftly to swat crumbly pieces out of Rocco's mouth.
I held tight on the leash and kicked the bread pieces into the snow as they fell. I felt triumphant. I wanted to throw a fist pump in the air or something. Within 2 seconds, Rocco forgot all about the bread and promptly pissed on a tree.
Sigh. Such are the glamours of puppy parenthood.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010