If I could make my pet understand one thing, it might actually be a short list disguised as a single concept: cause and effect is real, and it applies to you.
Because first of all, Princess, the spot in front of the guest room door is not your emergency toilet.
We strongly suspect that when we adopted her—already a rescue from a rescue—her previous family may have stretched the definition of “housebroken.” I’m not saying she wasn’t trained. I am saying that a dog who immediately jumps onto a brand-new owner’s bed and pees on it is not operating from a strong internal rule set.
Over the years, we’ve built routines. Good ones. Predictable ones. Princess knows when walks happen, when meals happen, and when bedtime happens. What she has never fully accepted is the idea that humans sometimes leave the house and then come back before the end of time. If we’re late? Emergency protocol apparently kicks in, and the guest-room doorway becomes a designated relief station. Not ideal. Not approved. Not what that carpet signed up for.
Second—and this one has escalated lately—unattended food is not communal food.
Food sitting on the dining table is not an invitation. It is not “free-range.” It is not “finders keepers.” Yet Princess has decided that if a human looks away for more than three seconds, the deal is sealed. She will launch, demolish, and retreat like a furry Navy SEAL.
Wrappers are even worse. Taco Bell night, for example, comes with a post-meal ritual: securing the bag like it contains classified documents. Because if it’s reachable, the next thing we’ll see is a blizzard of shredded paper drifting across the living room like festive but shame-inducing confetti.
And then there’s the bedtime issue.
Princess sleeps with us every night. When I’m in the bed, she wedges herself neatly between us like a living, snoring throw pillow. But when I’m not there—like right now—she defaults to burrow mode. Under the covers. Completely hidden. Head first.
I think it makes her feel safe. She does the same thing on the couch, shoving her face under cushions like she’s playing hide-and-seek with the concept of reality. The problem is that under the covers, her internal furnace kicks in. The heat builds. The oxygen drops. And eventually, I’ll walk in to go to bed and hear what sounds like a steam engine struggling for life beneath the blankets.
She is miserable. Panting. Overheated. Furious.
And yet—somehow—not miserable enough to remember this experience the next night. Or even later the same night if I get up to use the bathroom.
So yes, if I could make Princess understand one thing, it would be a mix of:
That spot is not a bathroom.
The table is not a buffet.
Blankets are a trap.
But here’s the thing.
Underneath all of that chaos, I think Princess already understands the most important part—the part I’d want any pet to know if I could choose just one thing:
She is safe. And she is loved.
We’ve been spending months teaching that lesson to Sammy, our other dog, who came to us carrying a lot more fear. Princess already knows it. You can see it in how she claims space, how she trusts routines, how she assumes she belongs.
In fact, as I was writing this, she woke up, climbed behind me on the bed, and is now standing there wagging her tail—hoping I’ll turn around and pet her.
Which, obviously, I did.
Because some lessons don’t need to be taught with words.
Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
I love the part about unattended food. Boy, we went through that! With a cat *and a dog! One time we caught our cat sitting on half a pizza, while snacking on the other half. We all learned a lesson that day. 😛