I've got a doggie problem. Rocki Wit Pifer (named for the honorable Rocky Balboa & the esteemed Philadelphia samwich “Wit” cheese) has worse bladder control than a mother who’s birthed three. In other words, house breaking isn’t going smoothly (despite crate training.)
Ya know how when you gotta pee bad and you see the toilet and those last 2 seconds when you gotta finagle your belt and yank down your pants and sit down seem like an eternity of torture? (sort of like that last sentence sans punctuation?) Those last 2 seconds require yogi-like self-discipline. Please tell me I’m not the only one who experiences some cruel Pavlovian response when you just lay eyes on the clean white promise of porcelain relief.
Well, I’m starting to think I am just that for my little Rocki. She sees me and just about loses it every time. She just peed all down my pjs as I carried her outside for her morning walk. It’s official. I am the pissbucket. How symbolic. How sad. How pathetic. Oh wait…the thought just occurred to me that maybe it’s excitement that’s causing her to pee. Maybe I’m more than the visage of urinary relief. Maybe…I’m her rock star and she’s my most devoted groupie. The poor thing can't help but throw her panties on stage, so to speak. She is so freakin’ thrilled to see me that she wets herself at the glorious sight of me. I'm the Mick Jagger of her bladder! Yeah, that’s it. I like that notion muuuuch better.
In anycase, I got a problem. I smell like dog piss.
Any dog whisperers out there? Or anyone into water sports?
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