Anyone who has ever had puppies before knows that they essentially do whatever they want, whenever they want - as is evidenced by our carpet. After many, MANY sleepless nights, and the end of shalom in our home (shout out to Rabbi Shmuley), I have decided that I am going to be the pack leader of these hooligans and teach them a few things.
Me being the ever-diligent state employee, I googled (at work) pet training techniques, found them on a good website and printed them out in case I needed to make notes or highlight. I figured the most logical and easiest command was "sit." At first, the twins looked at me like I had 3 heads, but several fractions of treats later and little or no help from Kell, I think we are learning. Bear in mind that they don't budge if I am empty-handed, but baby steps, people.
I now of course begin to think that I have a connection with my dogs of Dr. Doolittle-like proportions, and they will be speaking in complete sentences by tomorrow afternoon.
Fast forward to Friday morning: I am getting ready for work reveling in my talent of being "one" with my four-legged babies. (I wondered if PetSmart has any openings in their training department...They'd be lucky to get such raw talent.)
The heathens are undoubtedly wreaking havoc all over our bedroom, and suddenly their growls subside and a muffled, panicked cry emerges. I look out at the room, and Olive is patiently sitting beside my bed quietly (that tipped me off). I could still hear Charlie's cries, but couldn't find him. After some searching (not a lot - our apartment's not that big), I slowly open my closet door and out emerges a traumatized Charles Barkley. Nice mom. I am still apologizing.
Dr. Doolittle. Sure.