Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch

Once again, the readers of this blog are worth their weight in designer shoes and football play-off wins (and whatever else you non-footwear/non-sport loving people like. Freaks. Who doesn't love shoes and/or football?). Your tear-jerking song suggestions were inspiring, even the country ones. And, no, I will never again admit that I enjoy a country song from time to time, except maybe a Dixie Chicks tune because they're all liberal and rabble rousing and that gets me hot.

Rabble Rousers = Hoootttttttttt. Write it down.

I spent quality time, and most of my coffee money, on iTunes downloading some of those songs, and then a good number of Kleenex were sacrificed all in the name of "research". Hey, what kind of person would I be if I didn't take your advice on this music? Not much of one, I can tell you that. I wouldn't be much of a person and I wouldn't have large, puffy bags under my eyes. I wouldn't be much of a person and I wouldn't have a permanent sniffle. I wouldn't be much of a person and I wouldn't have a slight headache. I wouldn't...

Hey, come to think of it, I kind of resent you all right now.

But tonight I am not weepy. Tonight I am too exhausted to be sentimental, because I started two new training classes this evening and they wiped me right the fuck out.

For you newbies (Hello! Thanks for de-lurking!), I'm a dog trainer. Whoopadeedoo!

I'm so tired, both mentally and physically. Physically because I am out of shape and standing around for three hours while getting yanked around by untrained 80 lb dogs really hurts my back. Mentally because I'm growing tired of repeating myself to a new crop of dog owners. Every eight weeks it's the same thing: No free lunch; be consistent; say what you mean and mean what you say; follow through with your commands; a command is said once, not repeated over and over; don't be stingy with your treats or your praise. Over and over and over again I repeat these words - and not just at the beginning of a new class, but throughout the entire eight weeks - and the names and faces are starting to blur.

How blurry? Tonight I called a girl by her dog's name and her dog by her name. Repeatedly. And that's good for me. Because usually I forget the person's name entirely.

(Hi Bailey's Mom! Hello Max's Dad! Please don't ask me to introduce you to my husband in Stop and Shop, because I will introduce you by your dog's name and breed and then stare blankly until you provide your name and save me from my stupor.)

I'm sorry to you dog owners out there, for my bitching and moaning. I don't expect you to come into class knowing what I know. Because that's not the point of taking a class, right? But would it kill you to do some advanced reading or something? I'm begging here. I would even go so far as to recommend watching a few episodes of that Guy Who Whispers, and that kills me to say because I hate him.

Okay, maybe not hate, but seriously dislike enough to use his book to pick up puppy "accidents", if you catch my drift.

I know it's not your job to make my job easier, but when a grown woman of, oh, let's say 140 lbs gets pulled out of her shoes by a 15 lb Maltese puppy I know I've got my work cut out for me.

True story, I'm afraid to say.

My weariness with dog training is contributing to my reluctance to update Dog Gone Blog. It has curbed my enthusiasm for starting my own business. And my dogs... My poor, neglected babies. They're suffering as well.

Mommmm. We're so boooooored.

Here, honeys, have another cookie. Now stop looking at me like that. You'll get a walk... Someday.

Ooh. Did someone say "cookies"? Yesss.

Is it a break I need? Some time away from the soul sucking neediness (Please help me train my dog or I'll have to send him to the pound and how would you like that on your conscience? Huh? Help. Me.) and the unethical asshats I work for who feel the need to remind me of the thousands of customers they have regardless, or because of, their lies? Yoga? Pilates? Amphetamines, maybe?

I don't have the answer. You probably don't have the answer. (Uh, right? Do you?) My husband just asked me what I was doing and I said "Purging". If you're still here, having made it through the bitching, I thank you.

And now the bitch is done.

Fin.