We may have celebrated Lunar New Year a few months ago by welcoming the Year of the Dog, but for my parents it’s been that way since mid-2016.  

That’s when a goldendoodle puppy came to live with them.  His name is Yogi.  Despite my mother’s enthusiasm for IU basketball, she insists the dog is not named after Yogi Farrell.  He’s black and white so I pointed out that he has one color each for both IU (Mom) and Purdue (Dad) so hopefully the dog can remain neutral.

Yogi has long whiskers and four white paws which make it look like he’s wearing black pants that are rolled up.  Accordingly, I refer to him as a hipster dog.  Due to this look, my sister and I thought Spats would have been a good name.  Mom vetoed it, stating she would feel dumb standing in the back yard yelling for Spats.  (This turned out not to be an issue as the dog never leaves her side.)  

Dad has recently taken to referring to him as a poodledoodle, as he’s actually 3/4 poodle with only 1/4 golden retriever.  He definitely has the coat (and temperament) of a poodle.  He looks a lot like Portuguese water dog, which is what people most often think he is.  Mom was assured Yogi would not get bigger than 30 pounds.  As of last weighing he was at 67.  Mom always has known how to get good value for her money.

From the beginning Yogi has been the Dog of Destruction.  Not aggressive—just exuberant.  He received a stuffed llama toy; he disemboweled it within fifteen minutes.  The fluff was everywhere; Mom collected it up, returned it to the llama, and sewed it up.  After repeating this procedure a few times she finally gave up and just let him play with the limp llama carcass.

Containment has been a theme.  It was decided to keep Yogi fenced in the kitchen, thinking that there would be fewer opportunities for him to mess things up.  Yet every bit of woodwork in that area has been either scratched or chewed.  I saw a doggie T-shirt that I considered buying for Mom:  “I’m the reason we can’t have nice things.”

After it was discovered that he could move the barricades, they had the bright idea to anchor the blockade in place with something heavy.  Because, you know, there are only about a thousand things that could go wrong with my octogenarian parents climbing over baby gates blocked with brick-laden chairs several times a day.

This was also around the time that they were locking the bedroom door in case he escaped from the kitchen.  This meant they had to go from the bedroom, out onto the back porch, and in through the kitchen door every time they needed to go from the one space to the other.  It would be interesting to look at their fitbit log of steps for this period.

So then, since the electric fence had already been installed in the yard, why not get a zapping device that could be plugged into the wall inside, and moved around on an ad hoc basis?  FYI—when taking the shock collar off the dog, be sure to hold it by the end when walking into a room that is protected by the invisible eye.  

But I’m pleased to report that the rigorous training is progressing along quite well.  In another few months of work, I feel confident that Yogi will have my parents up to speed.  He’s doing good work with the lessons; they are almost completely obedient to him.