Mom used to joke: “You’d better learn humility along the way.
Because if you don’t, your kids will gladly teach it to you.”
She was, as most mothers are, exactly correct. In the course
of my own journey as a parent, I have had many a red-faced moment at the hand
of one of my delightful girls, such as the time I attempted to get our
middle-button into the movies for a reduced-price ticket, citing her age as
younger than it really was.
“Oh, No, Daddy!” She corrected at the top of her voice in the
theater lobby, for all other patrons to hear. “Don’t you remember my last
birthday when I turned five instead
of still being four?!?!”
Burning under the gaze of the other moviegoers, I quickly
ponied up the extra buck or two that I was attempting to save and scuttled her
through the door.
The funny thing is, I’ve discovered that Mom’s truism applies
to both my two-legged kids and my
four-legged ones.
I learned this lesson early in my years of dog ownership with
Wesley, our Black Labrador Retriever. Wes was a terrific dog, but he had a
stubborn streak that made him fiercely independent. We enrolled him in
obedience training out of sheer necessity – as a pup, he was tearing our house
and was very close to the D-day of either improving his behavior wholesale or
finding himself shipped to another home. Fortunately, he got the training he
needed to stay with us, but shepherding him through his class work was a steady
and constant challenge.
Some of our obedience exercises involved off-leash work, and
just about the time Wesley lured me into a false sense of security that I could
trust him untethered, he would dart off on a spree as soon as I unclipped him.
Many classes had me feeling the sting of humility, chasing him
through our instructor’s neighborhood in an attempt to get him back under
control.
Ah, Wes. You were a son-of-a-gun. He’s gone now; lost to a
cancerous tumor at age 10, but his cantankerousness made him a true character.
And a lesson in humility.
Parker, our current Lab, isn’t nearly as headstrong. His
temperament is much more easy-going than Wesley’s. Which doesn’t mean I can
leave my guard down.
Our obedience classes address all kinds of goals, ranging from
everyday good behavior to showing in American Kennel Club (AKC) obedience
competitions. When a dog-and-handler team distinguish itself in an obedience
ring by earning a title (an official recognition of achievement), we celebrate
that accomplishment.
It’s called Brag Night.
You should be able to see already how such moxie can be
fraught with danger.
Brag Night involves not only the announcement of the accolades
for the admiration of all but also a snack provided by the beaming owner.
Treats range from simple cookies to elaborate cakes and sometimes even
champagne, depending on the honors being feted. Often, too, there are dog
cookies (homemade, of course) distributed to canine colleagues.
Last summer, Parker and I earned a Rally Novice title. The
process involved participation in three separate dog shows, earning a
qualifying score on a variety of exercises, as judged by an AKC-approved
authority.
I was over the moon about this accomplishment; Wesley had
earned his share of AKC titles, but not at such a young age (Parker was just
over a year old).
I couldn’t wait for
Brag Night. Cue the ominous music here.
On the day of his big celebration, Kristin, our youngest,
asked if she could dig out a recipe she’d been eager to try and whip up a batch
of red velvet cupcakes for the class. I gave her the green light, and she had a
blast mixing, baking and decorating.
On our big night, I tucked Parker into the back of my car and
placed two trays of cupcakes — each holding a dozen — inside, one on the seat
and one on the floor. Parker’s position was assured by a metal grate I
installed for just that purpose. Blocked by a set of horizontal bars, he rode
safely behind me, posing no risk of jumping in my lap as I drove or startling
me with an unexpected on-road kiss in the ear.
The cupcakes, by virtue of being up front with me, were safe.
Weren’t they?
I pulled into our instructor’s driveway and parked. Juggling the
sweets required two trips. I grabbed the tray from the passenger seat and
exited the car.
Ten seconds.
It could not have been more than ten seconds that the car was
vacated.
And in that one-sixth of a minute, Parker, compelled, I guess,
by the scent, managed to wriggle his way through
the grate and vault into the front seat. Once there, he scarfed down 12 red
velvet cupcakes.
In about ten seconds.
I placed my tray on a nearby table and turned back to the car
to get the second tray…
And saw a happy Yellow Labrador Retriever in the passenger
seat of my car, eagerly licking his chops of red crumbs.
“Oh, no.”
I squinted, to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.
“Oh no, no, no, no, no!”
I jogged to the car. Parker’s tail thumped against the
windshield: “Hi Dad!” he greeted.
I looked at the floor and saw and empty tray and a sheet of
waxed paper that had been casually nosed aside.
So Parker’s Big Night of Brags turned out to be less than he
expected. A cell phone call to the vet confirmed what I suspected: that there
was probably not enough chocolate in the recipe to cause a serious health
threat (chocolate being toxic to dogs) but that it wasn’t worth the risk. So we
administered a few tablespoons of hydrogen peroxide, cleared the decks, and let
Parker eject his ill-gotten gains.
I took him home. He was a little unsteady on his feet —
something like a fratboy who’d gotten sick at a kegger — but none worse for the
wear.
Brag Night… Pfft.
