Mad Dog

I really love the little mutt. I delight in her delight when she sees me--it's new every morning and each time I come through the door. I love taking her for walks even though I often have to pull her away from the poo she is strangely compelled to sniff. I find it endearing that she helps me harness her for those walks by sticking her head through in just the right place and lifting her sweet little paw. And I love the tufts of white on her chest and on the bottom of her paws that indicate she is indeed a mutt and not a pure-bred chocolate lab.

Love the dog--hate that she licks me. I don't care what her instinct tells her to do. And I don't care how "clean" her mouth is compared to a human's. It's not personal, I don't want anyone's tongue on my calves when my back is turned or on my feet when I'm about to put my socks on. Soggy socks? Eww. She's smart too--she knows I hate it. So she's a stealth licker--catching me while my arms are full or while I'm washing dishes at the sink.

I have to admit, I've never really tried disciplining it out of her, excepting the times I've reasoned with her and politely requested that she stop. So today, I'm starting a discipline regimen. I'm not yet ready to resort to the sour apple spray, but I will commit to giving her a stern no every time she does it--even if she hangs her head low in response.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.