Some basic dog training techniques:
I have two great techniques for jumping and biting:
Biting: I hold my hands out, one above the other, and offer my hand to be bitten. If the dog tries, I clap my other hand down and say, “No biting!” Usually within a few minutes, the dog will stop biting.
Jumping: I keep the dog on a leash, and then go to the dog park. If the dog tries to jump, I tug on the leash to prevent it, and say, “No jumping!” Usually stops dogs from jumping in a few minutes as well.
Sure, I’ve hated specific dogs and cats, for the exact same reason I’ve hated specific humans–they were assholes. Working in veterinary medicine, I see more spoiled, aggressive animals than most, so I have a fairly long list. Mind you, I’m not talking about animals that get snappy when you do something scary or painful to them, but rather the ones who launch themselves at you for the horrific crime of entering a room, the ones whose owners have to bring them in for piddling stuff because the dog “won’t let” them trim the toenails or give a pill or comb out a mat, the petty tyrants who rule their homes with an iron paw and think the same rules apply at the vet clinic.
And, of course, there’s my best friend’s dog who is “protective” of her and snatches at my hands and/or pant legs if I dare stand up from the couch or walk down the hall to the bathroom. She’s usually not quite so grabby with everyone else, but if you go to their house, you either have to call when you’re five minutes from the house or stand on the porch waiting while they corral the baying, snarling beast into the bedroom. The only people she doesn’t pull her Hound of the Baskervilles routine on are my friend, her husband, and her mom. And, for some reason, the staff at her vet clinic.
These seem like pretty good techniques, especially if they’ve been successful for you. But if the dog’s owner has no interest in changing the dog’s behavior, well, you know.
Now, for my ‘cat hate’. Candy was the sweetest cat in the world. A stray who took to hanging out on our porch; anytime anyone was in or out the front door, Candy was there, purring, twining around our ankles, looking pathetic and all. She was sweet until we actually adopted her. Then satan possessed her soul or something. She would lie in an inconspicuous place and wait for someone to walk by so she could lazily reach out and claw an ankle or shin. She would come into the bathroom and wait for us to get out of the shower, then go for the tender bits. :eek:
She would especially pick on my youngest daughter, who was only about three back then. Clawing her, jumping on her with claws out, etc.
Fortunately, Candy was old when we got her. About a year and a half after we got her, she disappeared one day, and was never seen in the neighborhood again. I’m sure she went off to find a place to die. She’s probably sitting in the flames now, waiting for an opportunity to claw Beelzebub. . .
No, all of them.
I hate my cat. He eats too fast and barfs right where he knows I’m going to step. He seems to be incapable of pooping in the litterbox - he hangs his butt somewhere in the general vicinity and lets it fly. If I leave anything soft on the floor (pillows, clothes, whatever) he pees on it. He sleeps all day and starts his ungodly howling at about midnight and continues intermittently all night while I’m trying to sleep.
I inherited him when he was 9. He’s now 17 and healthy as a horse. I swear he’s going to live forever. My life is pretty great, so apparently an asshole cat is my cross to bear.
My partner’s cat is whininess incarnate. The little fucker cannot walk into the room, day or night, without yowling loud and long. It might be lack of something like food, water, attention, access to cupboards, or no identifiable thing at all. It. Just. Never. Fucking. Shuts. Up.
Also, she lets it into the bed - under the covers - for “massage” which I find simply disgusting. Animals don’t belong in a house let alone a bed, IMO. But it’s her cat, bed and house so I don’t get a vote. I can’t wait for it to die.
My great-aunt’s Pomeranians.
When I was a kid, we’d go visit my great aunt and uncle. They had a herd of the foulest tempered, evil, fur covered rats-that-barked. Looking at them wrong would get you bitten. They constantly yapped and the male of the group humped anything that stood still long enough.
My sibs and I were used to being around animals. We’d always had dogs and cats at home, so we were aware of how to behave with them. The difference was that our critters were well behaved.
Most people will tell you how sweet natured Pomeranians are, but those little bastards forever ruined the breed for me.