Free Don't Dump The Dog by Randy Grim Page A

about a horse yourself—take the puppy out of the crate and to the backyard. Place your New York Times on the ground in the backyard, so the puppy understands that this is where to go. As soon as she does her thing, praise and pet her, so she associates doing the deed outside with pleasure.
    Then, bring her inside and for about half an hour or so, let her play at will. Watch her, though, because as soon as she squats anywhere in the house, you have to screech and jump up and down (presumably still in your bathrobe and without caffeine in your bloodstream) so she conversely associates doing the deed inside with something rather hideous. (P.S. Most of my dogs have a fear of me in my bathrobe. Will tackle that issue in another book.) Between the screeches and the deed itself, make sure to brew your coffee because the work has just begun and you need to be awake.
    After thirty to sixty minutes, put her back in her crate where you give her breakfast. When she’s done eating, take her back outside and wait for her to do a number-two, which invariably happens about half an hour after she eats. Praise her, pet her, and bring her back in, then repeat the whole process over and over for the rest of the day. Be sure to stock up on staples that will help you deal with the stress of house-training your puppy (e.g., wine, chocolate, nicotine, and/or vodka) because here, in short, is your schedule:
Take her out first thing in the morning.
Playtime.
Outside.
Breakfast in crate.
Have a Mimosa.
Outside.
Playtime.
Have a cigarette even if you don’t smoke. Trust me on this one.
Outside.
Lunch in crate.
Have a Bloody Mary.
Outside.
Playtime.
Outside.
Eat an entire box of chocolate truffles.
Dinner in crate.
Take Valium. Call neighbor or pharmacist for supply. Tell them it’s an emergency.
    In other words, your life revolves around the little beast for about a month, after which time she should let you know when she needs to go out. Don’t expect her to come up to you and say, “I need to see a man about a horse.” Watch for signs: whining, circling, and sniffing, or what I call “the look.” My Hannah, a mixed-breed street dog, is queen of “the look.” She sits up and stares very intensely at nothing, her brow wrinkles up, and I know it’s time for me to open the door.
    If you work and can’t watch the puppy closely, then you probably shouldn’t have her in the first place, but since you do, put her in a crate when you leave and have someone—a dog walker, for example, or the neighbor who loaned you the valium—let her out at least once every couple of hours. It will take much longer for her to learn the rules this way, however, so be prepared.
    As for Bonnie’s thirteen puppies ... the story ends happily. I found every one of them a good home. When I approached a potential adopter—in my bathrobe with a cigarette dangling from my mouth, a box of chocolates under one arm, a bottle of Visine under the other arm, a fifth of vodka in one hand, and a puppy in the other—and asked for a light, they usually grabbed the puppy in horror and ran.
    To this day, people still ask me why I didn’t just ignore Bonnie when she followed me home from the park; or why, if I was so inclined to keep her, I didn’t take her to the pound when I found out she was pregnant; or why, once the puppies were born and Bonnie developed mastitis, I didn’t drop them off on the doorstop of my greatest enemy.
    I have no grand answer. It wasn’t Bonnie’s fault someone abandoned her in the park, any more than it was the puppies’ fault they were born in the first place—and besides, taking care of those thirteen puppies monopolized every waking thought, which left no room for self-centeredness, self-pity, or self-loathing, all of which, when allowed free reign, send selfconfidence and self-fulfillment running for cover. It was good for me. It also led to the eventual creation of Stray Rescue. It changed my life.
    During the chaos, though, people accused