Dear Goddamned Dog,
This weather is not my fault. Not the wind, not the cold, not the hooded men with machines, not the salt on the walkways.
I’ve tried to take you out – you won’t go. It’s therefore completely unfair of you to approach the pile of papers next to where I’m sitting, bark directly at me and, when not responded to in the way you desire, look at me, step on them and start to rip them up with your teeth.
FINE. We can do some training. But this time you have to be the one getting trained.