OUR LEAST FAVORITE AIRLINE PASSENGERS

Thoughtless -  insufficiently alert : devoid of thought : lacking concern for others : rude and inconsiderate behavior 
  
Perhaps the most ill-considered sentence ever to breach my lips was aimed at a TSA agent in a time-critical moment of frustration.  It was shortly after 9/11 and the airports were still in disarray.  I was on military travel orders, and due to the increased security measures, I was late.  For some reason, I was pulled aside, patted down and questioned at length by a TSA agent.  I didn't want to miss my flight, and I felt that I needed to convince them I wasn't a terrorist.  Sooo, I thought I'd speed things up a bit by informing him, "Dude, I carry bombs on aircraft for a living..."


As it turns out, if you are hoping to expedite the process - this is NOT the right thing to say to a TSA agent, not ever.  Not even if it IS an accurate description of your job.  The only thing that saved me was the fact that even a real terrorist would never say something so incredibly stupid, not even if you water-board them.

How I intended to portray myself.

What TSA heard.

 From that time on I have restricted myself to simple greetings and pleasantries while traveling,  thus removing myself from the long list of thoughtless peoople who seem to possess an affinity for air travel.  I will point out some of my least favorite travelers - because if I can change just one person's behavior by shaming them, it will be worth it.  As I am not currently in the presence of a TSA agent, I will skip the pleasantries and call it like I see it.

Here are just some of the folks who make air travel as much fun as walking to your destination (barefoot):

 Chubby McButterpants -  If chunks of your body spill onto or over the armrest, you should not fly coach.  (You should also try eating a carrot every once in a while.)  I feel you should have to buy two seats; after all it seems that you can afford twice as much food as the rest of us. 

If she sits next to YOU, look at the bright side...
she probably brought some extra snacks!

There were drink cart issues, no doubt.

Joe Bags - He or she is the idiot who brings excessive carry-on luggage in order to save a little time and/or $25.  Sure, they used a bungee cord to "combine" four pieces of luggage, but there is a finite amount of overhead space and they took the lion's share. 

he needs to wear this

"Me Luggage no Fit" guy -  This moron is a close and inbred relative of Joe Bags.  Even simple geometric shapes and sizes crush his or her simple circuit mind.  Lacking all situational awareness, they don't even realize there are other passengers on the plane and they have determined that the overhead compartment was custom built for their stuff alone.  Despite repeated announcements not to do this:  they selfishly occupy the entire space by putting every piece of their luggage in SIDEWAYS, as well as their purse, retail bags, outerwear, etc.  If you are one of these people I offer the following pictures.  (Even a sea monkey can figure it out with pictures!)

Hooray, you did it!

Terrible.  Try again.

"I Forgot How to Dress Myself" guy - If you are over the age of three, you should have to comb your hair and wear your big boy clothes in order to board an airplane, and I don't care if your wife isn't there to dress you.  NEWSFLASH:  Unless you own your own jet, PJs and sweats are not considered appropriate for air travel (even if they have Chuck Norris pictures all over them).  By the way, this fad of being "nap ready" wherever you go (not just in airports) is the social equivalent of your self-esteem waving a white flag.  Maybe you should just emblazon "I Give Up on Life" on a potato sack and wear that. 

NOT OK to Board.  In fact, someone please punch this guy in the throat.

Technically, as a member of the lingerie football league, she is in her work uniform.  Sure, I know she isn't wearing a tie, but this is my blog, and I'm going to have to say "OK to Board" on this one.   

Zone Ninjas - The rough Hebrew translation of 'Zone 8' or 'Zone C' is:  "you're screwed".    You have been deemed less favorable than every other zone.  Actually, you are THE LEAST PREFERRED customers of that airline.  Just so you know, if the plane goes down in the Andes, you will most likely be eaten first - even before the remaining peanuts and the customers from better zones who are already dead.  You are destined for a middle seat and your bags ain't gonna make it into the overhead, just deal with it or get a frequent flyer card. 

Now please do zones less than 8 everyone else a favor and sit down so the rest of us can board without having to weave our way through you.  Trust me, your not-so-covert geographical repositioning in front of the gate isn't going to earn you a better seat, and the gate agent isn't going to forget how to count or "mix it up a little" by skipping to your crappy zone first.  This rule applies for the people in zones 3-7 too.

Why the mob mentality?  There aren't any TVs to loot down that jet-way.

Note:  Perhaps the biggest jerks in the airport are the "Zone Frauds".  These are the dishonest few who attempt to board in an earlier zone.  May you all someday experience the following shame:

Zowned

The snot bubble says it all.

Non-Stop Crying Kid - I understand little fella, you're scared, you want to move around and play, but Mommy won't let you.  There is a good reason for that, cowpoke... the rest of us want to throw you off the airplane.  Now please go to sleep or watch Barney!   (Though not under the category of "thoughtless idiot", these ankle-biters are my second least favorite traveling companions - right before terrorists armed with box cutters)

Parents, a piece of advice - Benadryl.  (Don't worry, the rest of us won't say anything if your child isn't quite 6 yet.)
Frequent flyers, your word is - BoseQuietComfort 


 Last minute add-on:  Parent of the Continually Kicking the Back of My Seat Kid - Instead of repeatedly and politely asking you to have your little monster stop; someday I'm gonna snap, come over that seat. 

First Class - I don't know why I don't like you... after all, I want to be up there with you.  I'll think of a reason later, snobs.

 Betcha THEY have Grey Poupon.

I haven't forgotten you "Mr. Still Covertly Using my Cell Phone During Takeoff" or you "Mrs. Too Clueless to Stand on the Right Side of the Moving Walkway" or you "Mr. Take up Three Seats at the Gate" I'll get to you later. 

As you can tell, I am just scratching the surface here, but I realize that most people who read blogs suffer from severe ADHD.  If you made it this far, all I can say is NICE WORK!  That was a lot of reading and there were even a couple big words in there!  You probably want to go update your Facebook status or look at pictures of puppies.  Oh look, there you go!   (I aim to please.)

   


Facebook

My Idiot Dog - Out on Parole and Breakin All the Rules

                                                                                                      Chapter II

rampage: v. to rush about in an angry, violent, or agitated fashion
                 n. angry or destructive behavior

 We left together, a man and a yellow dog.  Her mood improved greatly as the shelter doors closed behind us and like a prisoner on work release, she seemed to be happy just to be outside, away from her confines.  On this short walk, she looked like a normal, well-adjusted dog.  That's more like it girl.  It was hard to believe that only moments before she practically turned herself inside-out performing her patented "please don't beat me" maneuver. 

  I discovered that she possessed remarkable strength for a one year old, 40 lb dog.  As she darted about taking in the smells, I attempted a "heel" command - but I may as well have said "Dirka-Dirka".  She had only the most rudimentary of training, and I would have to remedy that. 

Getting her into the truck was easy.  Before the passenger door even stressed the hinges, she was in her seat following an effortless leap.  Wow, she can jump.  I closed the door behind her, and she quickly decided to cross over and take my seat.  How cute, she thinks she is going to drive.  

Idiot Dog in "play mode".  Looks normal, eh?

 I opened my door and informed her that she wasn't old enough to drive.  "Move over", I said.  She didn't move.  I attempted to gently nudge her back to the other side.  She didn't budge.  I pushed a little harder and she used Newton's third law to thwart my efforts.  She was determined to keep the driver's seat.  This would be the second time she demonstrated a unique talent.  Apparently, she has the ability to defy the laws of physics by tripling her own body weight, which allows her seemingly glue herself to any surface she chooses.

 I would have to crack this nut a different way, so I took her leash and with a quick "lets go", she happily dismounted the drivers seat and followed me around the truck, back to the passenger side.  Once again she bounded into her seat, but this time I secured the leash to the side-view mirror.  It worked, but when I got back around to my seat I discovered that she had the last laugh.  She had taken a leak, leaving me a nice warm, wet seat.  Nice work girl, you got me.  

 After an uneventful ride home, sitting on a towel, the family was waiting outside to meet our new addition.  She bounded out of the truck and headed straight for them.  When she got close, she lowered her body and belly crawled the final few yards.   She writhed around them slavishly, but in her over excited state, she did it very quickly.  The result was a hot mess of excitement, grovelling and urination.  Pathetic, was the only thought which came to mind.  I could tell that my wife and my other dog were thinking the same thing because they both looked up at me disappointingly and their expressions' said it all, of all the dogs you had to choose from...  On the bright side, a potential name popped into my head, we can call her Smeagol!  The resemblance in mannerisms was uncanny.  We will call her that for now, because truth be told, she is no idiot - she just behaves like one half the time.

Idiot Dog's bloodline.

  At that time we were living in navy housing, and I happened to be the Executive Officer of the base.  Part of my job was ensuring the 4,000 residents living on the base followed the rules, making it paramount that I set a good example.  While outside, dogs were to be on a leash, unless in the back yard or at the dog park.  Smeagol did not care for that rule, and escaped four times in two days.  She didn't even have the common courtesy to put on her leash.  

 With each escape came speculation as to how she did it, and we thought we had figured out each time.  As it turns out, I was correct about her jumping ability and at the current specs, there was no government back yard that could hold her.  She took every opportunity possible to explore the neighborhood.  We even tied her up, but she made quick work of the rope before clearing the fence and going about her business.  To make matters even more embarrassing, my own security force brought her back to me twice and I had to put myself on report! 

  Her ability to escape posed a problem the first time the entire family had to leave the house.  We couldn't leave her outside and we didn't know how she would react if we left her alone.  Bogey wanted nothing to do with her, because as far as he was concerned - she was a bad apple.  On the other hand, we would only be gone for an hour, so we thought she would be fine.  Not so much.

When we returned we were greeted by our two dogs.  As usual, Bogey greeted us with enthusiastic restraint, demonstrating his poise and well mannered temperament.  Smeagol on the other hand, cowered on the foyer tucking one of her front legs under her body while shaking uncontrollably.  

Bogey, world's best dog and Idiot Dog's nemesis

Guilty! was all I could think.  I gave the order, "Quick, check the rooms!"  We inspected them one by one:  Living room, no damage.  Dining room, good.  Kitchen, fine.  Jackson's room, messy, but nothing out of the ordinary.  Then I heard it.  "She killed my dolls!"  It was Katie, one of my twin 10 year old daughters and she was absolutely distraught.  "... and I don't think the American Girl Hospital will be able to fix them".  Then came the waterworks. 

I inspected the room.  Oh the humanity.  The carnage would have impressed Hannibal Lecter.  Smeagol had chewed through three $100 American Girl dolls, but she didn't just rip them up because the small pieces on the floor did not equal what was missing.  She actually minced and devoured the heads, limbs, clothes and accessories on each doll.  And by devoured, I mean that I would soon find the missing pieces in the back yard... once she finished digesting them.  My free $200 dog had increased her net worth by $300+ in one hour. 

They made the ultimate sacrifice.

 Smeagol cowered down the hall knowing full well what she had done.  I was mad, but I knew I had to restrain myself because she was so fragile.  I gave her a stern look and a deep growl to show my discontent and once again she pushed the limit by peeing all over the floor while doing her patented "whirling dervish". 



 The vote was 4 to 1 that she return to whence she came.  I however, suspended that sentence and decided to give her one more chance.  I always stick up for the underdog, and she was quite literally, THE underdog.  She wasn't going back to prison yet, but she was going into solitary confinement whenever we left the house.  I was off to Petsmart to buy a kennel.  Tack another $75 onto my free $500 dog. 

To be continued...

Next chapter:  Idiot Dog Gets a Name (and meets the neighbors.)

No dog is ever free.  Even if you get a dog for nothing, they require regular and unscheduled visits to the vet, which cost a bundle, and the food to feed them is always on the shopping list.  I go the extra mile though, and tack on the damage they do because I like to get the real cost of ownership.  However, chewed up toys and furniture are part of the whole "doggie ownership package".  Even well trained dogs cause damage, especially when they are young - but as long as you don't begrudge them this behavior, and take steps to correct it - they are worth every penny.  Heck, my $800 yellow lab, Liberty, chewed up a $1200 Persian rug making her my most expensive pet to date, but I'd give anything in the world to have her back.  (Another escape artist, she was hit and killed by a car during one of her outings.  Bogey is her half-brother.)     

I believe that our new dog had separation anxiety when we left the house.  That was when she would perform her daring escapes and do the most damage.  Perhaps she was uncertain if we would return and this put her on edge.  Additionally, our family and our home were all new and very different than what she was used to - and she does not do well with unfamiliar change.   

The dog kennel worked wonders, for her and for our own piece of mind, but we only needed it for a couple of months.  She finally got the idea, "they always come home and if I am good, I can roam around inside... and torment Bogey."   

Thank you very much for reading,  I would appreciate any constructive feedback or stories about your Idiot Dog.

Please feel free to share if you like the story thus far.  I hope to someday take Dave Barry's old job!

Grrr,

Robert "Mighty" Quinn

My Early Years - From Dropout to Naval Aviator

When people ask me how I became a Naval Aviator, they assume that it must have been my childhood dream and that I worked diligently to achieve that dream.  That may be true of many pilots, it is not my story at all.  I never built models of airplanes or dreamed of flying high performance aircraft when I was young.  Becoming a pilot was fortunate combination of dissatisfaction and timing (and seemed like a good way to pick up chicks.)      

Eventually, everyone rides in one.

Before I was on my own, I lived the life of a "Navy Brat".  This entailed relocating seven times with my three siblings a scraggly cat in our '72 Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon.  It had the backward facing rumble seats in the rear, where your only view was the traffic behind you.  The feature was cool, because when  you gave the right combination of hand signals, you could get your Dad in a fist fight with a trucker.  (I digress, and so soon)

Due to the inopportune timing of my father's military orders, I often had to change schools in the middle of the school year.  Some of my earliest memories were of being displayed at the front of the class and introduced by the familiar, "settle down children, we have a new student..."  Yeah, I was that kid four times, and in hindsight it explains a lot.
 

Many awkward years passed and after a particularly mediocre high school experience, I gave dropping out of college a try.  Within a year I found myself teetering on the brink of the "collegiate abyss" (the point where your GPA is mathematically impossible to salvage).  Needing to make a change, I decided to take a long summer vacation to the hottest place on Earth - Parris Island, SC.  My "travel agent" said that the Marine Corps would pay for the whole thing.  Bonus!

I wasn't convinced that the military lifestyle was for me, so I had decided to test the water first by joining the USMC Reserves.  As it turns out, being a reservist  was a point of contention with my Drill Instructors as was my year of college.  I was known as "Half-Assed College Boy".  (Though Drill Instructors can be some of the funniest people on the planet, they didn't really put a lot of time into my nickname.) 

A familiar sight for me.

Three months of Marine Corps Boot Camp was one of those unique life experiences I am proud to have completed, but I wouldn't do again if they paid me a million dollars.  To keep it short - let's just say that I made it through and learned some valuable life lessons.

Because of my "weekend warrior"status, I was able to return to college in the Fall to give learnin' another try.  With a spiffy new hair cut and a lot more discipline, I was able to make it through my second year of college, finishing with a cumulative GPA of 2.6.  I was numerically feasible again.  Who would have guessed that doing 250,000 pushups and hop & pops, all while getting yelled at by remarkably loud individuals would markedly improve your grades?

My duties on drill weekends primarily entailed cleaning incredible amounts of clay off the bottom of jeeps.  It got worse when they learned I could type.  I continued to attend my "stay at home" college and cut just enough grass to earn beer money.  Thankfully, I was moving forward, but very slowly.  It seemed as if I was stuck in first gear, climbing a hill to an unknown destination.  Like many college students at that stage in their lives, I didn't know what I wanted to do with myself, nothing really interested me.  At some point it occurred do me that:

A.  I should have applied myself more in high school.

B.  I needed purpose in my life. 

I turned out to be correct on both accounts.

Timing is everything in life.  In the mid/late 80s the US Navy wanted to build a "600 Ship Navy", and this armada included a whole bunch of  aircraft carriers.  It just so happens that I had seen "The Final Countdown" and "Top Gun", so I knew a thing or two about Naval Aviation.  I knew that "chicks dig fighter pilots", fighter pilots had cool callsigns, and fighter pilots flew off of those aircraft carriers.  That was ALL I knew, but it was enough. This was my  "Ah-Ha moment", and it would change my life forever.

I wanted to be a fighter pilot!

I had now a goal, I had direction, and a reason to apply myself.  To this day I thank the greatest President of our times, Ronald Reagan, and his vision of a Navy that would dominate the seas.

It just so happened that the Navy was looking for pilots, and a 2.6 GPA was good enough for a guy who may find himself carrying a small tactical nuke over enemy territory with a 40% chance of returning home alive.  They weren't looking for rocket scientists, they needed pilots - and I can tell you from experience that GPA is not a good indicator of a person's flying ability.

In 1987 you only needed 60 credit hours of college to qualify for the Naval Aviation Cadet Program so I put in my application.  After a battery of tests, interviews and a lot of positive reinforcement from my Father, I was accepted into flight school and released from the Marines.  I reported to birthplace of Naval Aviation, Pensacola Florida as Cadet Quinn in May of 1988 at the age of 20.  Not bad for a half-assed college boy.

US Navy Wings of Gold

After a tough start, two years of eating Top Ramen and a lot of late night studying, I received my Commission as an Ensign and orders to fly the F/A-18 Hornet, all on the same day.  Professionally speaking, 25 May 1990 was the best day of my life.  I even got a cool new name - "Mighty".  Sure, I am the only guy with an adjective for a callsign, but it was better than the poor bastard who got "Judy"!

The rest is History and I would probably have to upgrade this free blog to a... not free blog... to tell the stories which accompany a 24 year Navy flying career.  The are filled with colorful characters, stupid flying tricks, port call buffoonery, success, failure, and of course - women and cool callsigns.  I will have to save those stories for another day...     
   

My initial motivation  (Kelly, not Tom)

Thank you for reading!

Fair Winds and Following Seas, 

Robert "Mighty" Quinn

"Hey Moron, There is a Scrotum on Your Truck. Seriously, Why?"

mo·ron  n.   A person of mild mental retardation having a mental age of from 7 to 12 years and generally having communication and social skills enabling some degree of academic or vocational education. The word is no longer used due to negative connotation associated with it, unless of course a person decides to attach fake testicles to their vehicle.

 
Was the title of the post enough to grab your attention?  Well sadly, that is the intent of anyone who decides to display a giant, fake scrotum on the back of their ride.  What THEY don't realize is that their vehicle is now the flagship for their social incompetence.

What would compel someone to make such a purchase?  It is the social equivalent of dancing the macarena and it would be a lot easier and cheaper if they just bought a sharpie and scribbled "Me Dumb" on their forehead.  



 Let's figure out the real cost though:      


New Ford F-250 Super Duty - $50,000
Redneck Convenience Package - $4,000
Lift Kit and Oversized Tires - $6,000

Cost of TruckNuts - Who knows...  (What is a person's dignity and self-esteem going for these days?)    

Seriously?  I don't even know where to start.

If I were an FBI profiler tracking a killer who was last seen speeding away from the crime scene in a truck equipped with an enormous set of huevos swaying back and forth - and that was my ONLY lead, this would be my profile of that killer:

Most likely a white male, aged 18-46.  (Seriously, have you ever seen anything else?)
Probably holds a blue collar job.  (Hey, don't get offended, it explains the truck) 
Doesn't pay for his own gas.  (...and this would explain speeding anywhere with a diesel.)  
Impulsive, lacks good judgment.  (I'm guessing you don't talk this purchase over with the wife)
Low intelligence, moronic.  (Dude, you bought testicles!)
Little to no social skills.  (It goes without saying)
Insecure, continually seeks approval, but fails.  (Guess what buddy, the TruckNuts ain't gonna help)
Likely suffers from E.D.  (Compensates for lack of virility by open display large reproductive organs)
"Not overly endowed".  (Just a hunch Boss)  

That's the guy!  Guilty.  (Case closed)

But to each, his own.  You gotta forgive some people their faults and these guys probably don't know any better.  Let them go home in their giant truck, crack open a PBR, and pet their pitbull. 




Caviat:  The only cars that COULD use a set of large testicles are Mazda Miatas, Smart Cars, VW Beetles, and all Fiats.









Observations & Lessons Learned:  I have been described as a Redneck by others, because I have a Southern accent, love to hunt/fish, and even though it is a Toyota, I equipped my FJ with oversized tires.  TruckNuts is a fad is one that we will all make fun of in the near future.  Despite what others suggest, I do not think they should be illegal.  I feel it is important to maintain our freedom of expression.  Besides, it makes it easier for us all pick out the morons driving among us.  

 If you were "on the fence" as to whether to put some to put on your truck or car, I am trying to persuade you not to commit this social blunder.  Just rust me on this, do not.  (Put a propeller back there or something.)  "Friends don't let friends drive with TruckNuts."

If you need further proof or doubt my profiling abilities, I provide the following:

TruckNuts Propoganda


Don't waste more than 3 minutes of your life watching this one. 

 


   


  

My Idiot Dog - The Acquisiton

My only intent with this blog is to relate my opinion and my experience rescuing a dog who was "not kwite right", and to do it in such a manner as to evoke a laugh or two.  It is a compilation of true stories and lessons learned about the amazing feats of agility, stupidity, frustration, love, and the ongoing rehabilitation of "My Idiot Dog".  

I would like to blame (and thank) Sarah McLachlan for guilting me into adopting this one-of-a-kind dog.  I dedicate the "Idiot Dog" series to her.

                                                           Chapter I

Idiot (disambiguation) -  An idiot, dolt, or dullard is a mentally deficient person (or dog!), or someone (some dog!) who acts in a self-defeating or significantly counterproductive way.


There I was, lying on the couch not paying attention to the TV commercials when I heard it - the sound of a particularly beautiful female voice singing "In the Arms of an Angel".  The sad melody gently wafted through the living room with the promise to ensnare anyone in its path.  Oh No!  I realized what was happening and frantically searched for the remote, but it was too late... The images of neglected pets flashed across the screen and I became entranced as the pitiful propaganda worked it's black magic.  Resistance was futile.

When I awoke from the spell I found myself standing in a small, semi-sterile room.  I could make out numerous dogs barking from behind a door.  There was a short, portly man standing before me, asking a question.  I couldn't make what he was saying out so he repeated himself.  This time it was clear, he wanted me to give him $200.  "For what?"  I asked.  He began to answer, "well there were shots, we had her chipped and fixed..."  As he continued to give me a list what sounded like medical procedures, I looked down and noticed I was holding a leash.  At the end of this leash was a medium-sized, squirmy yellow dog, of a breed I could not make out, likely mixed.

Then it hit me.  A couple months prior our family had moved across the country.  Our black lab, Bogey, seemed to take it the hardest, missing his dog buddies back in Virginia who he played with on a regular basis.  There were few dogs he could play with at our new home so we talked about adopting him a "companion", perhaps a free dog from the shelter...  But that was just talk.  Then I remember the harpy's song earlier that day on TV and it all became clear.  I was "rescuing" a dog.
   
As I bent down to inspect my "free" $200 dog, she cowered on the floor, tucked one of her front legs completely under her body and began to chest-plow herself across the slick surface with pathetic short hops from her hind legs.  Grunting strange noises throughout this display and moving in no particular direction, she eventually reached some carpet, taking this to a whole new level that you have to picture in your head to fully appreciate.

Upon reaching the carpet, the increased drag of the material slowed her front end down, but gave her rear claws better traction, thus allowing them to almost catch up to her head.  With nowhere else to go, her backside was thrust high into the air as her legs continued their merciless propulsion.  To make matters worse, she still had one leg tucked under her body which caused severe lateral asymmetry.  This gave her a freakish ability to rotate about her own axis, and apparently she was unable or unwilling to stop.

I call it the "Whirling Dervish" and it can only described it as a self-propelled, perpetually rotating face plant.

I looked at the guy as she performed this maneuver for over a minute and informed him in a very matter-of-fact way, "This dog ain't fixed, she's broken".

She carries these around all day. 
We lose a lot of socks.

He assured me that she was sweet and just needed to get used to me, suggesting I try to pet her.  What the heck, I thought.  Besides, I had no choice but to stop her before she burned a hole in the carpet.   

As she was incapable of attaining any forward velocity in this absurd mode of travel, I was able to approach, kneel down and pet her.  She stopped moving, squinted her eyes and made a funny guttural sigh of relief.  After saying a few words to her in that high pitched voice we all use when talking to new dogs, she sat up, opened her eyes, and for a brief a moment, she looked like a semi-normal dog.  I guess her stupid pet trick worked because I felt sorry for her.  "I reckon she'll do", was all I said. 

As I wrote the man a check I could hear all my other choices barking in the other room and I had to ask myself, out of all those dogs, why the hell did I choose this one?  There must have been a reason.  I must have seen something in her...  I just had to figure out what that was.  Besides, if it didn't work out, the shelter had a liberal return policy.  For all intensive purposes, this meant that she was "out on parole."

To be continued...  

In the next chapter:  "My Idiot Dog - Out on Parole and Breaking All the Rules"

Observations & Lessons Learned:

Unlike this dog, mine can't write.

She actually did all those things and I honestly had my doubts.  However, she is not indicative of most dogs you can rescue from a shelter.  Most just need a loving home and $200 in bail money, I just happened to pick one that needs medication.

I have raised and trained a couple dogs in my time and they were all wonderfully behaved.  However, I got them when they were puppies, so they were integrated into the family and taught manners from an early age.  I have found that to be good at training a dog, it is best to understand pack mentality, positioning and behavior.  This is where many owners fail.  They think of their dogs as human, but the irony is that our dogs think of us as other dogs!  Why wouldn't they?  A family is a Pack.

This dog may have been the runt of her litter because ALL other dogs instantly try to dominate her, even tiny ones, but that still doesn't explain her excessive displays of submission.  (There are plenty of great runts out there.)  However, I can guarantee she was poorly treated by her previous owners and was probably greeted with a kick instead of a loving pat.  Consequently, I think she developed this premptive, uber-submissive maneuver with the hope that her "caretakers" would take pity on her.  I sure as hell did, because a sane person would have returned her right away.  But Hey!  I never mentioned anything about my sanity, that is between me and my therapist(s).   Let's just say that I was up for the challenge, with a plan to rehabilitate and transform her into a well (enough) adjusted member of our loving family.   I'll let you know how it turns out.

This is (was) my first "published" story and I would appreciate any constructive feedback, comments or stories about your Idiot Dog.  If you Do Not have something to write about, you can click on the link below and start your own blog!

FREE DOG (black magic, click with caution)


Thank you very much for reading.  Please feel free to share my story with others. 


Grrr,

RJQ