Finally, some professional
handlers showed up with their dogs. I could tell they were in the business
because they came prepared with their dog crates, bait bags, treats and other
training paraphernalia. I, on the other hand, was the person with my dog pulling
me around on a leash, sniffing, and barking, out of control, and obviously not
trained. I peaked inside the crates of the handlers at the other dogs and breathed a sigh of relief; none were as beautiful as Blondie.
Since she was the
prettiest dog there by far, at least in my estimation, I immediately felt at
ease and confident that she had a good shot at being chosen for the spokes dog. How could I have ever doubted my Blondie? I was imagining her future,
being mobbed by fans screaming for her pawdegragh, becoming the poster dog for
shelters nationwide, encouraging people to rescue dogs, the two of us meeting Oprah and sharing our heart warming story of how this little dog changed my life
and the world.
“Lady, lady, hey
you,” I was awakened from my day dream by a man shouting to follow him inside.
I yanked Blondie forward as the trainers in line snickered, I imagined them
talking behind my back and asking each other what was this person doing here
with this obviously untrained mutt?
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