Yesterday afternoon, I was on the phone with my cousin, Kelli. You know, the one who is EIGHT months pregnant (as she so nicely corrected me on in the comments section of a previous post). The one who we are throwing the baby shower for? The one who has the naughty puppy?
Well, we were chatting away when she received an incoming call from her hubby, who she may or may not have been arguing with at the time. Seeing as they may or may not have been on civil speaking terms, she may or may not have been surprised that he was calling, and promptly informed me that she'd call me right back.
So, I get back to working, and a while later, my phone rings.
Per caller ID, I can see that it's Kelli.
I answer the phone, and all I hear is, "He's a three-weeker."
I say, "What?" as I attempt to figure out what in tarnation she is talking about.
Then, it hits me. My mouth gapes open as she continues on. "He's.a.THREE.WEEKER. I really do have the world's worst dog. They called Randy and told him that Morty will require the third week of training."
At doggie boot camp.
Kelli goes on to explain that when they enrolled in the obedience school, the instructors said there was the rare possibility that he would require a third weeks' stay.
Rare, like in 20 years of operation, 6 or 7 dogs have required it. And, one of these dogs had a rare neurological condition that resulted in a sideways walking gait. This is what was told to them.
Does anyone else find this completely hilarious?
The fact is, they feel as though Morty is highly trainable. In their professional opinion, he is just choosing not to listen.
Trying to stifle my laughter, I reassure her that it's probably the right thing for him and hopefully another week will make him a new dog.
Then she said in a sorrowful voice, "It's funny. I was just discussing this with my Dad yesterday. I just knew he wasn't doing well. He's my dog, and I just knew..."
Aha haha ha ha.
"It'll be okay," I tell her.
C'Mon Morty. We're rooting for ya!