The guy next to me, wearing a sweatshirt under a corduroy blazer (hmmm, are ye a poet, fair sir?), saw all my books and asked if I had a new dog. I said yeah, and that I was trying to train him.
"Ah, the fine art of Pavlovian tutelage," he remarked, I think (hope?) facetiously. He proceeded to give me a few hints, including that the process takes a long time, so I'd have to be patient. He also said to give out the reward treats intermittently, and to understand that some dogs just won't be trained. Hmmm. He had more to say, but I started to fade and tuned him out. He had been imparting so much wisdom, though, that I felt I had to give a little bit back.
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"Thanks for all the info," I said, getting up and loading my books into my bag. "I have a tip for you, too," I added, pushing in my stool. "Don't drink the hefeweizen."
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