Saturday, September 11, 2010

Uma is Elite.

Uma is a very mature two year old German Shepherd Dog. You have to understand, she was trained by Ivan Balabanov - the only American Shutzhund trainer to ever get onto the world team. She has thousands of hours of training under her belt. She can spot someone with bad intentions at 100 paces and take him down in 2.3 seconds to boot. She's bilingual. She is Elite. She is special, and she has papers to prove it.

So you can rightly understand the look she gives me when I walk into the yard with a 70 pound male mutt. He's huge, he's three years old, he's goofy, uncoordinated, he needs to wear a funny harness that doesn't really fit because he's worn it out with his pulling, so it flops to the side. He wouldn't know a bad guy if he bit him in the leg, and what the heck does sit mean anyway?

She stops several feet away and looks at him funny. What's wrong with him? He pulls suddenly and she's face to face with him. Her hackles raise and he wags his tail obliviously.

"No way," She thinks looking at me, "What did you do?" Her look turns accusing.

He continues to wag his tail and throws himself onto the ground. "Want to play?" he asks her.

She turns her nose away. "Hardly," She saunters off. She's too good for him. She is Protection dog, and she has an equally special boyfriend anyway.

She noses a tennis ball and delicately picks it up. "Throw it," she tells me.

"BALL!" He yells tackling her face. She loses balance and falls onto her side in a rare display of clumsiness. He gets the ball.

She lays there dazed for a moment before sending me a glare, ears falling back.

"What did you do and where did this little shit come from?"