My little dog hates rain. Hates it with the passion of a million burning suns. I am not exaggerating. He has a super sense. Even before a drop lands on his back, he knows it’s going to rain. Thus, he cannot take care of his nightly business (aka peeing).
Besides, everyone knows that no self-respecting dog pees in the rain. Period. No exception. #nopeeintherain
After a pleasant stretch of rainless days, the other night we had a light sprinkle. Nothing serious. Just teeny-tiny raindrops falling gently to the ground. As far as rain goes, it was barely noticeable.
My little dog only had to take two steps to know something was not right. He immediately let me know his displeasure with the situation—he turned into stone with one paw raised as if he was dying/it was broken (none of them were true). He trusted me to understand his displeasure for how much he hated rain and the unbearable situation he was forced into. AGAINST his will.
I stared back unimpressed.
My dog indicated he would like to return inside.
I indicated that’s not going to happen until he peed.
Then he turned into an even more unmoving statue. He could have won competitions with his ability to not move for prolonged periods of time and deployed big puppy eyes.
After 20 minutes of this unresolvable standoff, I employed my Hail Mary tactic and told him if he peed he’d get that treat, the lamb-flavored one, that he loved so much.
He carefully considered my offer, then decided to pee. ONLY because I offered enough compensation for his suffering.