"Congratulations Graduate... Cleo has successfully completed DOG MANNERS with The Human Society/SPCA of Austin and Travis County."

I think I'm going to frame her diploma. Cleo (the gray and black one pictured here) was the best in her class, no lie. But then, she already knew how to sit, heel, "go get it," "wait," and "stay here." She comes every time I call her; she can fetch a ball, a Frisbee, a stick, or a can. She can run through a 15-foot hoop, or do the high jump. In fact, she can jump so high and so fast that she licks my nose with the tip of her pink tongue without so much as a whisker brushing my face.

So, why did she have to go to class? She didn't. I'm the one who had to go.For six weeks, we went to our Dog Manners class only to confirm that she's the model of a pet - a perfect little companion. Well-trained, quiet, attentive, she stays close to me when she's on the leash, and even when she's not. She listens, pays attention in class, takes notes, and does her homework.

I, on the other hand, need a little work. I'm all over the place - running around the dog training area as soon as we arrive, petting all the other animals until all the students are barking and the instructor, Amy Boyd, has to tell me to get myself under control and please stay in my spot over there where my name tag is stuck to the chair. But I can't follow directions because I'm chasing a ball Cleo tried to return to me, and I kicked it across the room. I retrieve it from under a table by the door, but when I stand up, I find hot dogs on a tray on top and help myself to a few and start feeding them to Cleo, who is trying to drag me back to our designated space, but now the hot dogs have been spotted, and other dogs are pulling their humans toward me to get a piece. The room is in chaos, and Amy has to tell me to "please remember that 'fun time' is for after class, okay?"

I have to interrupt our lessons several times during the hour-long class because I always drink too much water before I have to go sit somewhere for a long time. This happens at the park too. I get up and walk out to the bathroom in the hall without excusing myself. When I get back, Cleo gives me that look.

The instructors, by the way, are not "into" negative reinforcement, so they say nicey-nice things to me that make me nervous, as if I'm not really doing well. "No, you're doing great, Louisa," Amy smiles at me, baring her teeth. "Now, stand over there and say encouraging things to Cleo, things she likes. Go ahead, you can do it…" I frown. Who's this class for anyway? Me or Cleo? Isn't Cleo supposed to say nice things to me and learn to give me backrubs? I mean, she gets the free food, what do I get?

After six weeks, I've learned not to be so selfish. I've learned to walk, not run, next to Cleo, and I can stay focused on our fetch game for longer than one minute. I've learned to feed her treats whenever she does something that makes me smile, and I can pet her head for as long as she likes. I've also learned to sit quietly in a chair next to her and stay there for a pretty long time. I'll include a photo next week to prove I can do this while smiling.

Cleo tells me we're moving up the "Active Dog" lessons on Saturday mornings, during which she'll teach me lots of tricks, like the 100-yard Frisbee throw so she can a nice sprint going, taking her for long runs in the woods, letting her wrestle me on the floor for hours, massaging her tired muscles on the couch while she naps, and then trotting out to the store to get her steaks for dinner. I'd lick her muzzle for believing in me, but I might get a correction, so I settle for resting my head on her thigh and giving her that long, wide stare. She lets me up on the couch with her to watch TV and rubs my belly for a while until we fall asleep. We dream of rabbits.