Sunday loves agility. It is the only place in the world where every single thing she gets in trouble for at home—jumping, climbing, barking, and general chaos—is not only allowed, but rewarded with high-value cookies.
For a toy poodle with the soul of a parkour athlete, the agility course is Disneyland. She’s a blur of orange fur hitting the weave poles, launching herself through tunnels, and defying gravity on the A-frame. She is, for all intents and purposes, a star.
But there is a catch. There is always a catch.
Sunday hates the trainer.
I don’t mean she’s shy. I mean she treats our trainer like a boogeyman with a clipboard. She would rather hurl herself off a four-foot dog walk and risk a graceful landing on the mats than walk within three feet of the woman. She approaches the course with the focus of an Olympian, but as soon as the trainer moves into her peripheral vision, Sunday’s internal compass spins wildly, and she enters full “Evade at All Costs” mode.
I’ve had to do some detective work to figure out why. Sunday is a poodle, and poodles do not forget.
I’m fairly certain it boils down to the “Leash Logic.” In Sunday’s worldview, being grabbed by the leash is the prologue to every disaster in her life. When the Vet grabs her leash, it’s for needles and unmentionable prodding. When the Groomer grabs her leash, it’s for nail trims and the dreaded “Stand Still” lecture.
To Sunday, a hand on the leash means, “Prepare for an indignity.” Our poor trainer likely made the fatal error of adjusting her leash once during an early session, and now she is permanently filed in the “Villain” folder of Sunday’s brain.
So, we find ourselves in this comedic dance: Sunday is hitting every obstacle with precision, but as soon as the trainer moves to give us feedback, Sunday treats the woman like she’s wielding a giant syringe.
It’s a humbling reminder that even our most brilliant partners are still just dogs with long memories. The result is a heart-stopping display of avoidance. Sunday would rather hurl herself off a four-foot dog walk than walk within three feet of the woman. It’s not impressive—it’s terrifying. I spend half the class sprinting across the arena, trying to catch my twelve-inch poodle before she hits the ground, wondering how a dog so small can generate so much “get me out of here” energy.