Gerry
© Herhold FamilyGerry, Scott Herhold's dog, will turn one year old on March 12, 2010.
You are, perhaps, surprised that I can write. Let me clear that up. I have a ghost writer: my human.

Unusual? I guarantee you the Dog Whisperer, Cesar Millan, has a ghost writer. A guy who spends all his time around dogs needs one. So bury the skepticism, please.

You may know my story: I am a yellow Lab, born on March 12, 2009, in Bakersfield, a good place to be from. In a conspiracy engineered by my human's two sons, I arrived at my new San Jose household last Mother's Day, a surprise to my human's wife, Sarah.

For obvious reasons, her approval has not come easily. I'm a 75-pound Lab: I've dug a hole in the backyard and trashed the lawn. I've eaten a bicycle pedal, chewed the pillars of the house, barked noisily and destroyed two sets of earphones.

Sarah thinks I'm unaware that she sometimes refers to me as the "DD," for "damn dog." When she hands me a treat, she'll sometimes drop it in fear. But the other day, as she arrived home, I heard her say distinctly, "Hi, baby!"

"Hi, baby!" I think I've come a long way. Not as far as I'd like, but still, those two words bespeak an achievement for the canine race.

My human? He's a well-meaning creature - affectionate - but like many humans, he does strange things. He took me to a 12-week obedience class in Los Gatos, one that drummed in the commands of "sit, down, stand'' ad nauseam.

Test of discipline

Can't they comprehend? I know what they want me to do. I just don't want to do it. As part of a test of discipline, they put a tasty morsel on my paw as I was in a down position. This was torture, plain and simple, a violation of the Geneva Conventions. I made short work of it.

A couple weeks later, I got revenge: During class, I relieved myself - number two - near a back wall of the room. My human was mortified.

I don't mean to say my day-to-day existence is bad: My human wakes me early from my crate, and we go for an hour's walk. Then, in late afternoon or evening, we usually have a shorter walk or go to the dog park. "Dog park" are the only words I need to race for the car.

(When we drive, my favorite position is to climb between my human's back and his car seat, sticking my head out the driver's window. People chuckle at this arrangement. But frankly, I think he's lucky to have me as a guide: I know where to turn.)

True, I still have philosophical differences with my human about the nutritional value of a Peet's sleeve or an empty cigarette pack. He spends so much timing staring at paper - newspapers and magazines - that I wonder why he doesn't just eat it. I would.

Guarding resources

I know he is worried about my tendency to guard my prizes fiercely, something he calls "resource guarding." At breakfast, he feeds me by hand, and he'll try trading me for a bag I've grabbed from the recycling bin. Sometimes I'll take the deal. But I find a growl makes him lead me outside.

Sadly, some of my carefree ways have ended. When we walk now, he puts on a "gentle leader" that goes over my snout and keeps me from pulling him. And my humans have installed an anti-barking collar that emits a chamomile spray, which I detest.

A well-placed whimper, however, can prompt my ghost to do what I want - throw a ball, let me inside or get my food. I have high hopes that with more training, he'll emerge as a rock-solid human some day.