My wirehairs have become table scrap ninjas. Before every meal,
I place them at their spot in the hallway, command them to stay, and proceed to eat. And without fail, they slink underneath my children’s chairs unnoticed, until one of the kids squeals, “Ewww, he’s drooling on me!”
I take blame for this behavior. When we were focused on training, days were darn near military in routine. The dogs knew their place. They knew commands and, more important, the repercussions for not following those commands. I had my wife on board, and she kept the same high standards. That’s how, only 10 days after my first kid was born, I managed to stick a title on my first dog.
But times have changed. The iron fist I held over my…