How To Effectively Potty Train Your Dog (Hint! It's Not How You Think).

Disclaimer: I'm bringing back on oldie from when only three people read my blog because I'm tired and my life is in complete disarray and I'm trying to piece everything back together without collapsing into a heap of dog hair and dirty laundry.

Potty training my dogs is one of those things I’ve always considered futile and frustrating to the umpteenth degree. Every single time I gear myself to accomplish this task I fail miserably and end up sucking my thumb in some random corner of my apartment in the fetal position only to be discovered by my roommate hours later.

When I first moved to my current place, my dogs took to peeing all over the house and I often found myself cleaning until two in the morning, finding new pee puddles and poo mountains around every corner. I finally had enough and took my mom's advice by training them to pee on newspapers in my little bathroom hallway. At first I was ambivalent about this method of potty training, considering that Bruno would always eat those stupid wee wee pads I bought at Walmart and then crap blue and white for days on end. Oddly enough, the newspaper trick actually worked after only two tries and I was as almost as excited as when I discovered Skinny Cow ice cream bars.

Anyway, I was such a happy camper that my dogs' physiological needs were being fulfilled in one specific location as opposed to twenty, that I diligently cleaned the little hallway every day and gave them their usual walks by night. By the time Thanksgiving week rolled around we had a nice little routine in place, and my legs were fitter than I’d ever from all the hiking up and down stairs. But we all know happiness is fleeting in a poor man's home and as usual, just when I thought I'd found a harmonious order to my day-to-day, something comes out of nowhere and chops it to bits.

I like to call this phenomenon: the ninja effect.

It was two days before Thanksgiving and my mom found him practically crawling on the side of the expressway. When she brought him to my place, I warned her I'd only keep him for two days, bathe and feed him and then take him to the Humane Society during the weekend. My mother excitedly agreed (she always gets her way).

Mother: What shall we name him?

Me: I don't want to name him anything. We can call him "Dog" from here until the weekend.

Mother: You can't just call this sweet little baby, "Dog." What is that?

Me: Why not?

Mother: Shoots me a look that says, Name the dog or else.

Me: He kinda looks like a Michael.

Vin (ex-boyfriend): Mikey?

And so it was that Mikey, the black dog that turned white after four baths, came into my life and f*cked everything up, ninja style.

I swear I didn’t want another dog. I kept telling that to everyone who'd listen, as well as to myself over and over again. Yet every day that passed I continued to make up excuses on why I couldn’t take him to the Humane Society, delaying the process further and further until I ran out of reasons for not keeping him. Thanksgiving gave way to Christmas, and by the time New Years' rolled around I knew that Mikey was with me to stay.

Now I don’t know where the heck he came from, or what sort of manners his previous family taught him, but a normal dog he was not. I would wake to find shoes completely chewed up and on my bed. How he managed to open my closet door? Still a mystery. Socks, underwear, pajamas, ear plugs, lizards, and anything else he could get his little paws on were fair game. He took to devouring the unsuspecting lizards in the mornings and then playing a game of fetch-for-one. This is where he grabs the lizard and tosses it up in the air, to then catch it, run and repeat all over again.

It wouldn’t be unusual to find a lizard head on top of the dining table or in my cup of coffee.

I hated him.

But on to the potty training story. Mikey did not understand the concept of peeing on any newspaper. He wasn’t fixed and so wherever he could lift his leg, he would.

Everywhere.

I cleaned and cleaned until my calloused hands had a permanent scent of Clorox and Pinesol that not even a whole bottle of Chanel could mask. I took him to the vet and got him fixed, but that didn’t accomplish anything except Mikey not eating for three whole days (I said I was sorry!).
One lazy afternoon, I was inspired to sit on my couch and watch tv, a rarity in this life of mine as remote controls confuse me and sleep always seems more appealing. As I tried to fumble with the OnDemand feature in search of True Blood, an infomercial caught my eye and I upped the volume.

There it was as a sign from God, the Potty Patch.

This patch of “grass” could be placed anywhere in the house and it claimed to be the perfect solution to anyone trying to train their dog on where to do their little business. They had me at “potty.” I was sold. I went online and found the website for the magical product. After inputting my credit card information and clicking "BUY", I was briefly tortured with the following:





I should've taken that as my sign from God and hit "CANCEL," but I didn't.

One hundred and ten dollars and two weeks later, I received my little “Potty Patch” and could hardly contain my excitement as I took the steps up to my place two at a time with the big box over my head. The hopes were to put it in my shower and train my dogs to pee there. That way, I could just throw a bucket of water with Pinesol down the drain when I got home from work and voila! Happy times.

I instantly realized there is a reason I never allow myself to watch infomercials. These products never deliver what they promise to.

For starters, it was too big for the shower floor, but I was determined to put the thing to use so I decided to place it in the balcony. I marched with purpose with all the pieces of the dreadful thing and quickly realized the grass had no means of attaching itself to the actual little drain. Mikey would chew that up in ten seconds flat and then make his own version of the Potty Patch, naturally calling it, the Brownie Patch. To make matters worse, the supposed grass was so synthetic it looked like green plastic spikes. Apparently this didn't seem to bother Beba as she happily sat and posed for me as in saying, "Look at me. Aren't I cute?"

Needless to say, I was beyond livid to have wasted my grocery money in such exquisite fashion. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and desperate I became.

I packed the stupid Potty Patch fueled by rage in its box and made a mental note to burn it sometime on the weekend in a bonfire. I was seething but determined to come up with a plan right then and there to teach Mikey that he needed to urinate where I told him to or else! In a frenzy, I picked up a bunch of newspapers and spread 'em on my shower floor. I began screaming at my dogs and pointing at the shower and the newspapers.

I'd clearly lost it by this point but I was a woman on a mission. I made eye contact with Mikey and started chanting the pee pee song, to which he responded with sheer confusion.

"Come on, Mikey!" I willed him to go and do his business, but I could clearly tell he was becoming paralyzed with confusion and a slow spreading fear.

At that instant I don't know what came over me, but I pulled down my pants determined to show him how it was done.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Bruno slowly taking backwards steps and Beba beginning to do the same, but poor Mikey just kept on staring at me with those scared puppy eyes.

I admit it was a low point in my life, but I swear I wanted to choke someone, preferably the inventor of Potty Patch.

As soon as I got up from my squatting position and put my pants back on, Mikey slowly went in the shower, sniffed at my urine and peed right on top of the newspapers. I clapped and jumped up and down saying, “Good boy, siiiiii, good boy!”, while he wagged his tail enthusiastically at the irony that is life. Meanwhile, Beba and Bruno had left the bathroom and were hiding under the covers.

I couldn't believe that my idea worked and Mikey now happily pees in the shower just like I wanted him to all along. Now if only Beba and Bruno would follow suit, order would be restored and life would be just peachy.

That is of course, until the ninja strikes again.