when the vet, the janitor, and the old lady in the car park at the post office all suggest outside intervention, i rapidly shift through the abbreviated five "i am not a crappy parent/am i a crappy parent?/i am just an unlucky parent who picked the wrong runt" stages.
completing a psychiatric intake on an identified problem child, will reveal who's in charge pretty quickly; the electronic treatment plan pre-populates with the focus on supernanny's primary adversaries; mumzy and papa.
the denial tree trickles down from: what? there is nothing wrong with my dog, and therefore my puppy rearing skills, to; he's a puppy, this is how they're supposed to act, to; my parents spoiled me, it's all i know, and therefore, their fault, to; ok, ok, i'm completely inadequate as a parental figure to an animal that leads blind people around wal-mart on saturday mornings, so just go ahead and book a double neutering.
i have no doubt that there are $1,500 tempurapedic doggie beds covered in monogrammed, triple digit thread count, but they don't come in a queen, with hot and cold running humans eager to prepare their breakfast at 4am. soon we will be getting phone calls from mall security that axel has been caught shoplifting musical kong's, and stuffing $60 retractable leashes under those giant ears.
and so the two, two-legged mammals are off to obediance school for some short term, intensive group behavior modification skills training, because thus far the humanistic 'he's-a-labrador-which-is-the-4-legged-intelligence-equivalent-of-a-dolphin-so-he-knows-how-to-pee-outside-and-only-chew-on-rope-and-any-shoes-that-don't-belong-to-me' approach has not worked.
(the other names on the sign up sheet were; "fluffy", "twinkle", and "baby").