We’ve had a complaint about the behaviour of the Princess from the building management company of Dysfunctionality Box.
The shame of it. Don’t they know who she is?
Apparently, when we were away she made some noise that resembled a bark each time a resident breathed within a radius of 5kms from the block and one of the old snooties that we’re surrounded by, (who obviously just doesn’t understand the deep-seated anxieties, protection instinct and attachment disorder of the Princess’s long line of royal canine stock, or has nothing better to do), wasn’t prepared to take a more sympathetic stance.
Sometimes the Princess likes to do impressions of her forefathers to keep her culture alive.
So much for pet-friendly!
God knows what the residents of Snooty Box will do once Kurt starts drumming. When he thought that 7.30am was an appropriate time to play the Red Hot Chilli Peppers this morning, I must have developed wings such was the speed with which I flew down the hall to tell him to shut the fuck up castigate his poor timing.
Although the building does accept dogs, it obviously does not understand the needs of a highly-strung dog and the time they need to adapt to new environments. I’ve received some death-stares in the lift and I am certain that the Princess, being the sensitive soul that she is, must be picking on up the animosity lobbed in her direction. She’s certainly not herself. She even refused her afternoon coconut macaron today.
So I am trying to train her as I have trained the children.
Obviously if it was the children, I would simply threaten her with 24 hours time-out in the storage cage, but the Princess is too intelligent for such primitive parenting strategies.
So I have bought bags and bags of dog treats rewards that I have placed around the apartment and I shove one of them in her gob the minute she so much as opens her mouth to growl. I play Beyonce on Youtube to distract her when I go out, because Beyonce is her icon – that dog just loves to ‘put a ring on it’ – and I try to wear her out with regular ball-throwing Olympics at the local park.
But this little problem is turning me into a paranoid mess. Obviously, if this was Kurt, I’d have no compunction about finding him another, more suitable home. But this is the Princess. I put her in doggy daycare on Monday and she had to mix with common mutts! She was distraught when I collected her and only a pepperoni (no mushrooms) pizza from the take-out shop next door would calm US down.
A pepperoni pizza. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
It was the building manager who dobbed us in and I find it hard to disguise my disgust at his treachery, especially when I’ve dug out my best smile for him every morning at 7am en route to the Princess’s toileting duties.
I am re-thinking the bottle of red bribe I was going to surprise him with at Christmas.
It feels as though everyone in the building is out to get us, stab us in the back and have us evicted onto the streets. Even the building Jacuzzi doesn’t feel like a safe zone anymore and Kurt keeps threatening to wee in it in retaliation.
Any strategies worked with your dog?
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