Well, she is told off but because she can't hear it she assumes she hasn't been. So as far as she's concerned the rules no longer apply.
It's taken a while to get out of the habit of calling her when she goes somewhere she shouldn't be, like the neighbour's lawn. Initially the temptation was just to call her louder . . . and louder . . . which had little effect other than to make people in neighbouring properties aware that my dog has a silly name and she's disinclined to come home when required.
When she's inside at home I can get her attention by stamping my feet on the floor, or slamming a door, but taking her out in public is now problematic.
She has a complete lack of loyalty and has always had a habit of abandoning us for more interesting families, when out on a park or river ramble.
Anyone with food, children or just generally more appealing from a canine point of view would find themselves adopted by a small, blonde, friendly chihuahua. She'd plonk herself down at other people's picnics, join them for a walk or attempt to get into their cars.
I found it insulting at first - dogs are meant to be loyal companions but mine would ditch me at the earliest opportunity. Eventually I learned to live with it but I often had to resist the urge to explain to her newfound friends that she wasn't starved or beaten and no real reason to defect.
Now, when she adopts strangers and decides to go home with them I can't call her back.
I'm forced to run after her, waving my arms to get her attention and scaring innocent bystanders in the process. Sometimes it also scares my target and she starts to run, which makes me look way worse in the owner stakes.
I guess it has its positives - I'm getting more exercise and I'm meeting more people.
The rules around not taking food from grandchildren have dissolved, as Bunnie can't hear the word "no" so just charges on regardless, taking candy from babies and swiping sausage rolls from unwary toddlers.
Any requests to "get off" my armchair before I sit upon it are similarly ignored, leading to the occasional squeak when the offending dog is still on the piece of furniture when I take possession. I've had to remind myself to look before being seated.
She doesn't hear cars in the driveway either, which has led to several states of emergency as reversing relatives have been seen heading straight for the oblivious dog.
So far she's been saved several times but she's now been added to the list of items that have to be cleared from the runway before any vehicular movement. The list started some years ago with the first grandchild and now encompasses grandchildren, nieces and nephews, bikes and scooters, balls, cricket bats, toy cars and Bunnie.
The biggest impact of Bunnie's oblivion, however, was at bedtime recently when the headcount of small dogs came up one short.
"Where's Bunnie?" I asked.
Nobody knew. I remembered she was with us when we went for a walk to the river. I couldn't remember if she was with us when we came back.
Every room of the house was checked, then the cars and the garage, the shed . . . the paddock . . .
Hubby was off down the road with a torch, I was racking my brain. Had there been any particularly appealing families sighted on our walk, had she succeeded in adopting herself out?
I was in my car about to drive to the river reserve when I flicked my headlights on and there, in the beam was a bewildered Bunnie. Holding a bone.
The bone I had forgotten I had given her and that she had been peacefully gnawing on the lawn until someone rudely shone headlights at her.
Bunnie was unceremoniously marched off to bed with a lecture that she didn't hear a word of and I'm trying to work out how to install a beeper on her so she can be more easily located. Or maybe a bicycle flag on a stick.