Dog Training Blues: Yoda Screws The Pooch


So. What a day. It’s been raining, sprinkling actually, for the entire week, and the furry little shitbird we call Yoda is a hot mess. The little half Chihuahua/half whippet can’t stand to get his little tootsies wet, so our visits to the great outdoors for him to make doggy piles are problematic.

For me, problematic, but not for Yoda as he says to me, “No problemo por mi, I’ll just take a giant smelly dog shit on one of your nice rugs.” That would be the Squirt’s translation of Yoda’s whispers and grunts. The owners of the puppy mill he was born into choked him and damaged his voice box, so every noise he makes is muted.

He mostly pees in the sink with Squirt, Honor and me, and, “No, Gene, I didn’t need to pee when I was at your place, so you needn’t worry about your pretty, spotless bathrooms.” I would have peed in your sink and for all of the right reasons had I needed.

I say Yoda mostly pees properly because he has taken to strike back at me when I make him go out into the rain. I take him out any time he gets up after we go to bed, and last night he woke me just as my own pee alarm started ringing. So I picked him up and put on my slippers and the two of us, nekid saving the aforementioned slippers, slid outside into the drizzle.

I love getting rained on and especially nekid when the weather is warm like now. I walked the little rat out into the grass and set him down. He said something that sounded a lot like “asshole” and he took a few steps away. Like I said, I needed to ease the pressures on my own bladder so I shut my eyes to pee. I always shut my eyes at night so that I can ease the muscles that control bed wetting in adult male humans.

I’m standing there for a few seconds before starting, start, and release a nice stream. I realize quickly that my leg is getting warm and I immediately suspect that my anxious flow has diverted from the grass to my leg. I stopped peeing, wiggled my pecker to get things back on track, and then realized that the warmth was continuing to spread.

My first reaction to this was panic—panic that my prostate had finally exploded and I’d lost bladder control. My eyes shot open and I looked down to see Yoda, giant shit-eating grin plastered to his rain-soaked face, peeing on my leg.

Would somebody please remind me why it was that I saved this white-furred mess from the gallows. If I’d been saved by some nice man in Texas and removed from an existence living in a cage two sizes too small in Oklahoma, where they beat and choked me routinely, I’d… well, I at least wouldn’t piss on the nice man’s leg. In his shoes or on any clothes he might drop on the floor, but never right on him. Unless, of course, the nice man liked it.

As punishment, I made Yoda stand outside with me until he shit and the rain washed my leg clean, both. I almost fell asleep on my feet several times before he did his duty and we returned to bed.

“Ce qui pue?” Squirt asked as I snuggled back under the covers.

“Yoda pissed on my leg and I guess it’s still in my slipper.” I got up and put the slipper outside to further wash and returned to bed again.

“Serves you right, asshole.”

I love my little puppies, the both of them. But sometimes I want to send them back to their puppy mills. Squirt, an already fully-trained dog, has been shitting on my stuff every time she thinks my ego gets out of whack over the four-of-five stars book review I got from Clarion. I’ll admit to a swelled (swollen?) ego and maybe an over-swelled ego. But you tell me. If you had written a book of 400+ pages and your book had been given a four-of-five stars review by Clarion, would you be proud?

OK, unless you’d written dozens of books—all five-of-five stars—then you’d be mighty proud of your four stars. Hell, four stars are all even the finest hotels can get, and chefs shit their pants when they even get one Michelin star. I’m a great cook and I’d be proud to get a Michelin star, but I’m way more proud of my four stars for writing.

Hell, for that matter, I actually think I’m pretty hot stuff. How many other authors do you know who have four-of-five Clarion stars reviews? None I bet. Special is as special does.

I need to go. Squirt just left me a load over by the door, and she had a sweet bean tamale for lunch. But do me a favor. Go over there ===}}} and click on the linksters for Full Rising Mooner. See what all the fuss is about. Manana, y’all.

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13 Responses to “Dog Training Blues: Yoda Screws The Pooch”

  1. melanie says:

    So, I am sitting here at my desk busy as hell, when one of my wonderful co workers brings me some gatorade and a slice of pizza from the cafeteria (since I am not getting a break tonight, other that the time I took to eat my pizza and read your blog and leave you a comment.) and I am reading this post, and there was almost gatorade all over my computer. I could visualize the scenario and I was dying!

    Also…stop by today…your cake is posted…

  2. Mel. OK, first, Gatorade? You drank that nasty-assed drink from Tim Tebow’s school? Pthew, pthew. (That was the sound of me spitting something nast from my mouth)

    Second, what nice gestures by your coworker and you. I’m headed over right damn now to get your instructions. Thank you, dahhling.

  3. mel says:

    so happy I could help…and yes…I loathe Pepsi and that is who holds the soda contract with my hospital…and I didnt want water with my pizza…if its any consolation,it tasted like shit. I should have got some mountain dew. Oh well…not tonight that is for damn sure. I will bring a can of coke.

  4. Squatlo says:

    I thought “pthew! pthew!” was the last sound a pubic hair hears before it hits the floor… am I wrong about that?

    Your little Yoda’s aversion to the outdoor facilities reminds me of a cocker spaniel I once was afflicted with when I shared a house with a psychotic woman years ago. Her little bundle of joy (the dog, not THAT bundle of joy) preferred to poop on carpet rather than grass, and would hold it until she was back in the house before letting her bowels go crazy on the rug. Every. Damn. Time.
    My philosophy was that dogs needed to be house trained, and to avoid punishing a dog for pooping on the carpet was a de facto admission of ignorance. Because a dog that prefers to poop indoors is never going to stop pooping indoors, unless persuaded to change its behavior. My rolled up newspaper was deemed “Cruel” by the lady of the house, and rubbing the little precious dog’s nose in its mess was even “crueler”… so the dog pooped in the house a lot.
    For my part, I refused to clean up dog poop if she wasn’t willing to at least TRY to house break the dog. There were a lot of days when that dog’s little monuments were crusted over and molded to the rug by the time the woman arrived home from work.
    “Have you been stepping over that all day?” she’d ask.
    “Yep. I figured you’d want to handle that yourself, since you like this sort of thing so much.”

    Cocker spaniels suck. So do their owners. And that was her one saving grace, dammit. Head monsters are so hard to find, but rarely worth the trouble they cause. Ever noticed that? PMYS…

  5. chrisinphx says:

    Mooner I admire your patience, I have a strictly enforced 3 strike and you’re out policy with going on the floor (dogs & company)
    The ex (affectionately referred to as Asshat) had a brain dead cocker spaniel named Peanut, I hated that dog so Squalto is totally correct!!

  6. bj says:

    Nekkid …. standing in a warm, late fall rain …… at night …… relieving yourself. What a romantic portrait you paint …. please tell me the moon was full, and racing through the clouds. And what’s the deal with yer lil’ dog’s stinky piss? Is Yoda taking Red Yeast Rice capsules? My Dr. has me taking those to help RAISE the blood level of the pork flavored CHOLESTEROL coursing (more like …. idly dawdling … as it slowly ambles) through my veins. It has the effect of changing the aroma (more like … O-dear!) of my piss to reflect what I have most recently ingested. At this point in time …. my fave is Smoked Sausage and Sauerkraut ….. or Garlicky Broccoli and Slick Pig Wings … I can’t make up my mind. I think the smoky flavor … I mean bouquet … is the reason. Lastly, that EXACTLY … is the Good Housekeeping approved way of washing slippers …. since 1938.

  7. Mel. Coke, if no Carta Blana available. Cerveza Carta Blanca es cerveza mas fino.

    Squat. Housebreaking an abused dog is a horse of a different stripe. PMYS is my middle name and sex is my game. Cockers are dum.

    Chirs. If I were to employ your three stikes dealie, I be out, and way out at that. I’m fully impatient but find certain things are not a real bother. Like caring for a formerlly-abused puppy.

    Beej. I myself rescheduled my annual cholesty test until after the new year. Doctor’s got a weak heart. Red Yeast Rice sounds like a ladies disease, and a smelly one at that. Try vinegar ennemas and and mashed parsnips to control the odors.

  8. Granny Ook says:

    Mooner, if you were a good doggie daddy, you’d get Yoda some rain boots. Look at They even gottem in blue suede.

  9. Granny Ook says:

    Folks- Just to make it clear, that last dopey comment was intended to be a joke. (Yes, I know most of my comments are jokes, but this one was deliberate.) That is all.

  10. admin says:

    Granny. It’s obvious you’ve got a hunka-hunka burning love for those blue suede boots. I love my pets and treat them as adults. But I only provide clothing and accessories at their requests.

    Like the leather bustier with stainless steel rings requested by Rick Perry on his Christmas list. I’m starting to think that my ostrich has a dark side.

  11. What about crate training the little shit? My bitch ass doxie IS house trained – and I swear, she gets a wild hair up her ass every few months, when she wants to “get back” at me for something – she shits on my dining room floor. SOOOO, back into the crate she went every time I left the house…a week’s worth of that got her back on track. Until the next time I piss her off and she finds it dining-room shit worthy…

  12. Granny Ook says:

    Mooner- Yep, those blue boots had me wishing I wuz a hound dog!

    And for a fleeting fraction of a second there, I associated the leather bustier with the OTHER Rick Perry. Aaaaah! Try that one on for a horrifying mental image. I am off now to search the innertubes for a source of brain bleach. Oh- and FRP!

  13. admin says:

    Reck. It’s the 18 months he spent locked in a crate that fucked him up. That and the beatings and choking. He gets better but tries my patience.

    Granny. Ooh and ick! I’m going to the bathroom and stand with a bar of soap in my mouth.

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