myTMI

By Vance Meyer This what not at all what I was expecting. Had a shorter fellow in mind, maybe.  Soothing voice.  A pouch on his belt filled with dog treats. Certainly not this chisel-face in combat fatigues at our front door. Our Shih-Tzu, Lucky, was eight-months old and beginning to need a little help with social graces, so we asked some friends if they knew a trainer. His name was Butch, and after nine-and-a-half years my fingers are only now recovering from our first (and last) handshake. Without being asked, Butch stepped in and began delivering a take-me-or-leave-me rendition of his training philosophy: Discipline. Boundaries. People run the house, not the dog. (We’re already screwed, I thought.) Butch’s first order of business was an evaluative short walk down our suburban street. Just Butch and Lucky. Quiet time. Building rapport. Dog-whispering, I imagined. He returned from their five-minutes together with his recommendation: Our dog very much needed him and his traini