Pavlov Works at My Bank

I cannot for the life of me get my dog trained to not bolt when he sees another dog approaching, not to bark and lunge at a cat in the window, or to not drag me halfway down the street to say ‘hello’ to a dachshund, but having taken him through the bank drive-through ONCE before, where he witnessed the psychological test, I mean magic, of a milk bone arriving in the carrier, tonight, unbeknownst to me, Gabe had been salivating in the back seat since we arrived and upon hearing the bell, I mean sucking sound, indicating my deposit slip, I mean, a treat, was on the return, he tried with all his 200-pound might to jump into the front seat to get his head out the window, sharing his slobber with my t-shirt and causing Pavlov, I mean the teller, to nearly fall over from a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

It’s no wonder I can’t pick up men at the grocery store when I walk in with a t-shirt full of slobber and little chewed bits of milk bone.