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My four-year-old Saint Bernard, Auggie, was recently expelled from obedience school for “behavioral issues.” We had only attended two classes before the trainer politely suggested that perhaps a group setting was not “the most productive learning environment for Auggie and the other students.” My sense of pride being deeply offended, I would have said something curt before stalking off with Auggie in tow, heads held high, but we were having a heck of a time untangling her leash from the leash of the miniature schnauzer she had knocked over in an attempt to eat through his owner’s pocket for the treat hiding in there. But, believe me, as soon as I could wrangle her away from the crotch of that man cowering behind his wife, we were leaving.

I know, I know. Caesar Milan would be horrified at the way she catapults onto the bed in the mornings, stomping her enormous paws all over me until I get up and take her to the park. Or the way she runs laps around the house, crashing into everything and everyone in her path, barking with maniacal joy when she sees me grab her leash, yet refuses to sit still long enough for me to attach it. Then, once I manage to wrestle her down and snap on the leash, the way she drags me behind her, clinging desperately to any stationary objects along the way, pleading with her to slow down. But, in my defense, the universally revered Dog Whisperer himself never held her as a puppy, looking into those brown, saucer eyes fringed with lashes we women would kill for… and those freckles. Have you ever tried disciplining a fluffy ball of white fur with freckles on their nose? Have you no soul?

In hindsight, I see that, however adorable she may have been, some training at that young age would have proven quite valuable. (And by hindsight, I mean of course, the view I have of her backside as she gallops away from me, toward an unsuspecting group of picnickers at the park, yet again.)

Did I mention that my fiancée and I own a dog walking service? The park is generally a great place for free advertising for our business, and the opportunity to meet potential new clients. However, I can’t help but think the sight of me chasing my dog through the bushes, calling out frantically to drop that baby’s stuffed animal that she has pilfered from his stroller, fails to instill the necessary confidence in our dog-handling capabilities.

“So, your staff has a lot of experience with dogs?”

“Oh yes, we only employ highly capable people, with many years of experience caring for animals and…I’m sorry could you hold that thought? It seems my dog has treed that couple…again. And they were definitely NOT happy about it last time. Apparently drool does not come out of silk after all. Here’s our business card, and yes we are insured.”

Still, at night, when I collapse onto the couch covered in fur and drool and other substances I would just as well not examine too closely, Auggie will come and rest her massive head on my stomach and sigh contentedly. As I stroke her silky ears, I think about all the qualities I admire in her. Her loyalty is unwavering, even when I pretend she is not mine after she has run through the middle of a softball game and stolen the ball. When I hide behind a tree, as twenty irate players storm after her, she brings the ball right to my feet. She will march up to anyone, unabashed, slobber dripping down her face and leaves tangled in her hair, to say hello—believing that they will have a few nice words and a pat or two for her. And while I do not advocate those lapses in hygiene, I do have to respect the confidence; and her resolute belief that, given the chance, sometimes people might just surprise you with a treat.

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