"The First Day of Doggie School"

The day started like most Tuesdays, with Sundae snoring on her back in the hallway, her paws twitching as if she were chasing rabbits in her sleep. But this Tuesday, the day after Labor Day, was different. I held up her leash and announced, “Sundae, we’re going to doggie school today!”

Her eyes popped open. She rolled over, scrambled to her feet, and stood tall as if to say, “Finally, my genius will be recognized.” Within minutes, she was buckled into her car seat with her pink harness snug across her chest. She stared out the window like a scholar on the way to an important lecture.

The drive was short, but Sundae sang the whole way, a dramatic mixture of howls and squeaks. When we pulled into the training center parking lot, she shot out of the car like she had been training for this moment all her life.

Inside, a dozen dogs sat on mats with their humans: big ones, little ones, fluffy ones, sleek ones. Sundae pranced past them all, collar gleaming, name tag jingling: Sundae. She gave the lab a quick sniff, ignored the terrier, and claimed her mat with the authority of a queen selecting her throne.

“Is she ready to learn sit, stay, and heel?” the instructor asked.

“She believes she already knows,” I said.

The first exercise was “sit.” Sundae planted herself before I even gave the command, then looked up at me like, “This is too easy.” When it was time for “stay,” she froze in place for three whole seconds, then bolted straight at the instructor’s treat pouch. She managed to nose it open before anyone could stop her, chewing happily.

Approved.

While other dogs barked, whined, or tried to eat their leashes, Sundae invented her own system. Whenever I asked her to heel, she would shuffle forward exactly two steps and glance back at me, clearly expecting applause. By the middle of class, three people were whispering about how “confident” she was, and one kid called her “the class leader.”

Then came the obstacle course.

A tunnel, a line of cones, and a small seesaw stood ready. Sundae entered the tunnel with a grand ceremony, stopped halfway, and sat down. She wagged her tail at the line of dogs waiting behind her, refusing to move until the instructor bribed her with cheese.

Next was the seesaw. Sundae stepped on carefully, then sprinted forward like an Olympic sprinter. The board clunked to the ground with a bang, and Sundae froze in a dramatic pose, tongue out, as if she had conquered Everest.

By the end of the first day, Sundae had figured out the most important lesson of all, which was how to charm treats from nearly everyone in the building. She posed for the class photo in a tiny cap the instructor balanced on her head, tail wagging like she had already written the curriculum. When the doors opened, she pranced out as though she was the school principal.

That night, she fell asleep while doing her homework. She gave a dramatic sigh, paws to the ceiling, belly rising and falling in steady snores. Her legs twitched with the chase of dreamland. In her sleep, she was back at school, racing through tunnels, flying over seesaws, and pausing only to soak in the cheers. She dreamed of pep rallies where her classmates held paw-painted signs that read “Go Sundae!” and chanted her name like she was a star athlete.

Doggie School was not finished, not even close. But Sundae was already dreaming of lettering in varsity doggie sports, giving a valedictorian speech filled with dramatic barks, and flipping over for a belly rub at the senior pep rally. After all, she wasn’t just there to learn "sit" and "stay." She was there to make Doggie School her stage, one treat at a time.