It all began one Saturday morning when the poodle dropped her dinosaur bone on my husband’s (thinly padded) eye socket. “EITHER THAT DOG GETS TRAINED NOW—OR SHE GOES!,” my mild-mannered husband yelled at the top of his lungs—from a dead sleep—after a night of shrieking by the un-housebroken puppy who didn’t want to get “crate trained” and ended up in our bed at 4 a.m.
Ever the peacemaker, I hopped out of bed and dialed until I found the first dog trainer to answer his phone on Saturday morning.
“Our poodle needs one-on-one. Do you do that?”
“Well, yes,” he unwittingly replied.
“Can you come NOW?”
“Well, yes, I guess so.”
Before the reality of what lay ahead of him could sink in, I had given him our address and hung up.