I haven’t always been a reindeer or The Grinch’s loyal sidekick. In fact, when he rescued me from the Whoville Humane Society I was a pretty hopeless case.
I was the very worst kind of mut, it’s true. I’d been turned in by a nice family of Whos who feared my bark and my bite. I didn’t care. Grandmas, little girls with cute hair-dos, I chased them all and ate their shoes. Woe to the fool who turned their back on their Christmas feast. In a second flat, I’d polish off the roast beast. I couldn’t heel, much less walk on a leash. I pooed in all the wrong places and yaked inside expensive suitcases. I ate roadkill and then licked unsuspecting faces. You get the picture.
Who knows why the Grinch picked me that one fateful day. He pointed one fury green finger through the bars of my cage and snarled “him” with an evil grin. I wagged my tail, desperate for an out, putting on my best pout. He took me back to his cave high in the mountains, and I really let him have it. I ransacked the place, ate all his garbage and peed on his favorite pajamas. I really couldn’t help myself.
I must say, the guy is downright terrifying when he’s angry. Especially when he’s trying to hot glue a pair of antlers to your head in a rage. How was I supposed to know that he was into that kinky stuff? You might think it was his onion breath, or maybe his pure green meanness that finally straightened me out. But that would be a lie, my friend.
The truth is, he called A Dog’s Tale. They sent a trainer over to the cave for a free consultation the very next day. I think this really impressed The Grinch, that they made the trek all the way up Mt. Crumpit, in a blizzard no less. Anyways, they were great. In just a few lessons, I was a totally new dog, er, reindeer.
If they can help me, they most certainly can help you, too.