How Stella Got Her Groove Back

My boss has a 'little white dog'. You know the kind. She's little, she's white. A maltese, or malti-poo, or shih tzu... She was purchased from a wierd little pet store where we can assume the dogs within came from puppy mills. She's actually quite cute, but a dog...well, a 'dog' she is not.

Her name is Kiki. Well, it's Blake, but they call her Kiki. They got her just a few months before Stan's wife gave birth to a baby girl. The baby girl's name? Tei Tei. Well...it's Blake, but they call her Tei Tei. That's right, folks. If we can pinpoint one of this dog's problems right off the bat -- it's in the lack of a solid identity.

And so - when Kiki is here, she's Stella.
A neighborhood dog mother/friend had thought that I called Kiki 'Stella' one night, and so began referring to her as such. It took a minute for me to realize the mistake, but by that point, she was Stella. It made sense! She is so right as a Stella! The stars up above felt the same. For the very night she bacame known as Stella, as she sat in my lap in the park, I looked up and saw shooting star.
It was a sign. (Just in case, I will spell this out: 'star' is 'stella' in Italian!!)

Amongst Stella's other problems:
She hates to/doesn't walk well.
She hates to/doesn't eat well.
She hates/doesn't like dogs.
She is both racist and ageist. 
She barks/growls unendingly.
She is pad-trained but not pad-centric. She refuses to use the outdoors for a bathroom facility, period. Only the pad. Or - my laundry. Or - my kitchen rug. (And so begs the question then, is she pad-trained at all?....)

We're ending three weekends of Stella at Kelly's. My house smells like urine and my patience is worn.

But I have done my best to give this dog what her adoptive parents didn't.
I walk her endlessly, hoping that a special fire hydrant here or pee-stained tree trunk there will be just enough to do the trick.
I throw her at Bela. Yep - I toss her into Bela's face, just to see what will happen. (Nothing ever does.)
I let all sidewalk dogs sniff her. She runs in circles, desperate to get away, but there I let them stay.
I take her to the park. Most recently, this resulted in her crawling into a park-goers lap, where she stayed quite satisfactorily, while I tossed the ball to Bela.
I hide her hoity toity rotisserie chicken way the fuck under her kibble. You can have the chicken, girlfriend - but not without eating your required fare. Little kids must eat their broccoli to get the cake. You're no different.
I shush her to no end. She's not allowed to make so much as an engine purr on my turf. Her intimidation tactics are no good here.
I yank on her leash with vigor when she decides she can rule the sidewalk. She honestly doesn't seem to notice or care about other people, i.e. the general public. Much like her father...

But these three long weekends have not been without progress. Changes are in the air. I swear I saw her dribble some urine outside and it appeared she was okay with the beagle half-mounting her today. She has been eating nearly all her kibble, instead of spitting every piece out until she uncovers the chicken underneath. At this current moment in time, she has been silent for a solid 25 minutes.

Stella will certainly return home and forget all of my teachings. She will piss freely indoors, eat only the finest-seasoned chickens rotisserie, bark and growl until she forms polyps on her vocal cords.

But if Kiki comes back, I will re-introduce her to the ways of the canine world. And maybe next time, she'll ease back into her groove....