How to Potty-Train a Pit Bull

Love is not blind. Love is mad. That's the only explanation I can think of: I had to have been mad. Why else would I have adopted a dog—with Mitch Jensen, of all people? Yes, I was living with him, but still! I was not a dog person. I'm still not. I like cats, always have. Besides, Mitch and I weren't all that serious about each other; the main reason we shared an apartment was to save on rent. We had no business adopting anything. I knew he'd be a terrible father, even for a pet. And I also knew, no matter what he promised, that when the dog wanted out at three in the morning I would be the one crawling out of bed.

But Mitch was so irresistible when he got excited. He begged and pleaded and gave me the sad-eyed pout, and finally I had to relent. Sort of. I agreed to look at ads in the paper later, but when I got home from work the next day Mitch was standing in the kitchen with a guilty expression on his face. He had bought a pit bull. A pit bull! I could've shot him.

But I couldn't say mad for long. The puppy was so cute, with his velvety, striped fur and wet, scratchy tongue. His eyes were big and dark and sorrowful, and there was a pale pink spot on his nose. At first I tried to look stern, but when I sat down on the couch—still arguing with Mitch—he climbed into my lap and went to sleep. I melted immediately.

He was just so cute. (The dog, not Mitch; I was still pretty mad at the human.) He didn't seem to realize he was a pit bull; he thought he was a fluffy lap dog. Mitch and I argued for ages, but after the first fifteen minutes I realized we'd gone from arguing over whether we'd keep him to arguing over what his name would be. Two hours later we still hadn't found a solution, but we were feeling amicable enough to sit down and watch a science fiction movie together. It was the type where a robot goes crazy and starts destroying the city, one of the old cheesy ones, and suddenly it hit us: Killbot. It was the perfect name. He was such a sweet, lovable puppy—the irony would be priceless! Besides, it would be fun to introduce strangers to our pit bull, Killbot, when with this guy the only danger was that he would lick them to death.

We were laughing over the name when I looked over and realized the puppy had wandered off. I found him in a corner of the bedroom, next to a bright yellow spot on our carpeting. We started obedience classes the next day. By “we”, of course, I mean me and the dog. Mitch had a crucial football game to watch.

Killbot did surprisingly well in his puppy-training classes. He could sit on command about half the time, and he didn't try to chase the squirrels very often. But when I asked the teacher how to housebreak him, she handed me a pamphlet and said, “Good luck.” Ouch. Not a good omen. Apparently dogs that were raised in kennels can be notoriously hard to potty train. Thank you, Lavender Farm Breeders. Thank you soo much.

I had finished reading by the time Mitch got back from watching the game with the neighbors. Among other things, the pamphlet said we had to pick a word and say it whenever Kill did his business, and eventually he'd learn to go on command. I was in favor of simply saying, “Go potty, Killbot!” But, Mitch protested.

“I'm a guy!” he said. Like I didn't know. “I can't say 'potty'.” It's just not cool.” Never mind the fact that he'd probably never take the dog out anyway. It was the principal of the thing.

We argued for two days. He rejected “Killbot, be quick!” and “Do your business!” I put my foot down on “Killbot, mark your territory!” and “Shit, puppy!” We agreed that “Hurry up!” probably wasn't a good idea, either, since I spent so much time nagging Mitch to turn off the TV and come on already. (What can I say—Mitch never learned the concept of being punctual. I can't think of a single dinner reservation we ever made together and managed to arrive on time.)

Then on Tuesday, while I was stuck in a meeting at the office, the perfect command came to me. My supervisor was describing our duties, which had grown to include “the cleaning up of any bodily fluids spilled” after a customer's two-year-old took a dump on the floor last week. The term she used was manly enough for Mitch but euphemistic enough for me. It even sounded good with Killbot's name. Mitch agreed, it was perfect. And by the end of the month, Killbot put his seal of approval on it every time. Amazing—it was the only useful thing I'd ever learned in a staff meeting.

Life was going wonderfully. Too wonderfully, perhaps. Mitch, the dog, and I could have been on a poster for familial perfection. We even replaced the old, pee-stained bedroom carpet with thick, pure white Berber wool that felt like bliss when I stepped out of bed in the morning. If this were a fairy tale I'd end the story now with “happily ever after.” But, of course, it's not a fairytale. It's reality, so naturally Mitch and I got into a huge fight out of nowhere. He called a nag and a controlling bitch; I told him he was immature and irresponsible. Things escalated, and I ended up going to stay at my sister's, taking Killbot with me.

It didn't take long for me to cool off. I loved Mitch, despite his messiness and irresponsibility, and I didn't have a problem being the first to apologize. I'd hoped Mitch would call, but pretty soon I got tired of waiting and decided to make the first move. So, less than a week after the fight, Killbot and I went back to the apartment to work things out. I brought my famous chocolate cake, Mitch's favorite.

I let myself in, and I was about to call out when I heard noises coming from the bedroom. I remember wondering if Mitch was watching TV and approaching nervously, hoping he was.

The walk to the bedroom seemed unusually long, as if the hallway were stretched and warped. I started to feel sick. When I stood in the doorway and saw Mitch in our bed with some skinny little teenager, I wasn't sure whether I should scream or cry. Instead, I laughed.

Mitch looked over at me and turned white as a corpse. “Carly, wait—it isn't like that!”

I shook my head. “Save it, Mitch.” I wasn't interested in his lies. I was about to turn and leave when I saw the pit bull at my side. Evidently Mitch's new plaything had noticed Killbot too, because she turned a sickly grey and started to whimper. I smiled at her and narrowed my eyes. “Killbot,” I said sharply, “eliminate!”

I'm still not sure which was more satisfying: My replacement's terrified scream or the look on Mitch's face as Killbot relieved himself all over the bedroom floor.