Who knew that murdering bitch Carol Fucking Baskins could be a comfort to all mankind?
The Sugar Mama knew, that’s who.
Our Nervous Nelly of a Chiweenie did not look “comfortable” to me. She looked like a super spreader for anxiety. Every evening that dog runs in circles and spins her tail like a helicopter until she is let out for a mile long walk/run. (I walk, she runs).
During the day there is the incessant following of “the daddy” (that’s me) for every step in the house, every trip to empty the trash and right straight into the bathroom — like I’m her lost 250-pound security blanket that pees 4 times a day.
I could not picture our 11-pound mound of hyperactivity fitting in well with the newly minted hormones of 150, 7th graders.
“This is gonna be like throwing a hummingbird into a roost of chickens — somebody is going to lose their shit,” I mumbled under my breath just quiet enough for Sugar Mama not to hear.
With a pocket full of chopped hotdogs and a new 6-foot leash on life, off they went to comfort animal training.
Carol learned “sit, stay” and sort of “lay down” — she will only lay down on carpet or pillow. On the hard tile, she fights to stay up like a boxer in the 15th round.
Amazingly, she learned “place.” Point to an area and she runs there immediately — as long as you have hot dogs in your hand. She might as well carry a protest sign:
There are two sections of classes, and a final test. Carol passed Comfort Animal 101 — only 2 out of 7 dogs failed.
Now Carol’s on to “Comfort Dog 102”. Six weeks of more of the same, but she has to learn how not to bark or run away from people. Not sure how she is going to get through that.
“At the test they bring in strange people and shuffle their feet at her to see if she will react,” Sugar Mama said.
She just barked at me because I put on a hat. I don’t think she going to pass.
But if she does — Carol Baskins will be the new kid in Sugar Mama’s classroom. Won’t that be a comfort to us all.