When we adopted our 6 month old golden Lab puppy a couple of months ago, I had no idea I was getting such a famous pedigree.

Her talent first became apparent after I hired the "Dog Whisperers" to come to our home and train her. I realize this was an extravagance and a Stage Mom type thing to do, but we were a little desperate. We have a 14 year old Black Lab that was home schooled--but had been out of work for years, I might add--and we had her well before we had any children. The new puppy, "Jingle," wasn’t getting the same attention as her older counterpart who is beginning to look a lot like Bette Davis, so I sought help from professionals.

I refer to the training team affectionately as the "Dog Whisperers," but the only thing I could figure that was being whispered was thespian lessons.

When they are here, Jingle is the model of canine perfection. She sees them, and immediately launches into a performance Meryl Streep would envy. Under their watch, she is submissive and obedient. She fetches slippers. She saves children from drowning in wells. She fixes martinis and hors d’oeuvres. But once they leave, she hides under the bed for 2 hours and then the canine reincarnation of Lindsay Lohan emerges.

I realize that this is when my portion of the training exercises is supposed to kick in. I am to reinforce the lessons we both have just learned. But how can I when she pops a cigarette in her mouth and sticks her middle pad up?

We supposedly got Jingle from a Labrador rescue organization. But I bet if I went back to the same address today, the little paper sign tacked above the door would be gone, and a plaque reading, "The Britney Spears Canine Rehab Center," would be in its place. Danny Bonaduce’s Dalmatian would be in pen #4. The entire cast of Diff’rent Strokes litter of pit bulls are playing poker. Scarlett Johansson’s poodle is disputing a cell phone bill and Nicole Ritchie’s Shih Tzu is flashing the paparazzi through the window. As I command, "heel!" and watch Jingle eat yet another designer shoe; I am convinced these are her not-so humble beginnings.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to follow the advice of the experts. Crate training failed when she trashed the place after a binge night on Mad Dog 20/20. Her recent tongue piercing prevents me from even using a muzzle.

I thought perhaps maybe Jingle needed a little religion in her life for some moral and spiritual guidance. We tried bringing her to church with us, but I think lapping at the Holy water in the Baptismal font is considered blasphemy. She barks too much at the Jehovah Witnesses that come to the door, so she never could get their message. And like Madonna, she dabbled in Kabbalah for a while, but that red string kept slipping from her collar.

No, I think the only option left open to us a full-out intervention. After a late night out at the kennel club when she comes stumbling in, we’ll have all of her loved ones around discussing the woe be-dog gone days while the A&E cameras are rolling. We’ll tearfully explain that if she remains on her current track on self-destruction that soon the only show business options open to her will be late night infomercials on de-wormers and perhaps a cameo appearance on "Dancing with the Stars" doing the Fox and Hound Trot with Steve Guttenberg’s Malamute.

However, at this point, I don’t have a lot of hope. I can see her digging a hole under the fence and never looking back. Someday, she’ll write a tell-all novel, "Diva Dearest," describing her cruel treatment of how she was made to sleep on the floor and be taken for walks on a leash. She’ll marry another member of the brat dog pack, and together they’ll do the talk show circuit howling about their puppy hood mistreatment.

Maybe those dog whisperers are whispering something in those floppy ears after all. Maybe they are telling her that a dog’s life should less resemble Pluto’s and look a little more like Paris’.

©2007 Tracey Henry