Enter our savior, The Dog Growler

Could there be a reprieve in the offing for Dexter, the dog on death row?

Dexter, you may recall, has been in that invidious position since shortly after the heir to the White house brought him home in spring.

It wasn’t always that way. Even though his first gift as a guest was the contents of his stomach, The First Lady forgave him and entered into the honeymoon period with some gusto.

I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or distressed that the honeymoon did not last as long as Mr. and Mrs. White’s postnuptial perambulations in southern Europe some five years ago.

Pretty soon, Dexter, who’s a black Labrador, was growing quickly and sticking his nose, paws and tail into anything and everything in front of him. The back lawn, which had luxuriated in the fertilizer offered by toy rat terrier Rudy Tooty, now began to look like Jurassic Park because, whenever cleanup time arrived, the heir was nowhere to be found.

Eventually, the alpha male had to bow to the growing indignation of TFL and take on the mantle of chief pooper scooper and protector of the impertinent puppy.

Despite calls for excommunication — and the fortunately infrequent variation along the lines of “someone has to go; it’s either you or him” — Yours Truly somehow managed to keep the day of Dexter’s departure delayed indefinitely.

Meanwhile, Dexter grew to more than 60 pounds in weight and, suddenly, it dawned on the head of the household that this could present a huge problem during December.

That’s because my mother and father flew in on Tuesday and they’re staying with us for five weeks. As they’re in their 80s, the prospect of Dexter bowling or tripping either of them over filled me with dread.

As TFL ramped up the demands for his extradition to anywhere out of sight, I began to think I’d have to comply.

But then I realized that Ma and Pa would come armed with The Dog Growler, my sister Cathryn, who’s a bit of a whizz at keeping pups — and people, I should add — in order. “She’ll sort him out,” I told Tiffle with much bravado and not too much trepidation.

My confidence was not misplaced. Within 48 hours of her arrival, Dexter was a model of canine etiquette, no longer jumping at everyone he meets, constantly calling for attention and generally getting under every human foot in the house.

How did she do it? She growled at him.

Yes, Cathryn has adapted the methods used by The Dog Whisperer, Cesar Millan, to put her doggy chums “in the zone” and in their place. Whenever Dexter tried to bend her rules, she uttered a soft but firm growl and he soon realized he was no longer boss of the house. Hence her new nickname.

Now she just has to train the pooch’s parents. The First Lady and I had dutifully watched Cesar in action and read books by Labrador experts but with different approaches, it seems. I’ll leave you to decide for yourself, Dear Reader, who was Mrs. Hardball and who was Mr. Softy in our respective training agendas.

Dexter wasn’t having any of it. He would give TFL a lot of back chat and gnaw at my hands for an expected treat, never immediately following orders from either of us.

Let’s pray that a weekend of concentrated dog-handling tuition by my sister will solve the problem once and for all. I just hope she doesn’t teach TFL how to growl.

Englishman and former Fleet Street journalist Ian White is editor of Applause. Contact him by e-mail at ian.white(at)galvnews.com.