Friday, March 28, 2014
I might have had a little meltdown last night . All because of the “A” word. And the “D” word. Adventurous Dog. My stupid dog likes adventures. She doesn’t like secure backyards—a closed gate is an invitation to dig her own tunnel. She doesn’t care if she’s locked in a crate—she just channels Houdini. And running through a back pasture doesn’t make her feel contented—it makes her think she’s Superdog and can jump high fences in a single bound.
She can. Yesterday she went AWOL while we were on vacation. Instead of terrorizing our daughter’s goats and showing the roosters who’s boss, she went over the wall when no one was looking.
This is starting to become a habit. And it’s really cramping our style.
She hates the car, so we can’t take her on trips with us. We’re wearing out dog sitters. And neighbors. And welcomes. Even the microchip company wants their chip back.
I’m at a loss.
We’ve owned this crazy, friendly, loving animal for ten years, ever since we rescued her from the pound—and certain annihilation, I might add. Don’t you think she should feel grateful and kiss our feet every day? Okay, well, she does kiss our feet every day. And lick our faces and our jeans and our furniture and the sliding glass door . . .
She weighed thirty pounds soaking wet back then and when she lay on the floor she looked like a bath towel with ribs. You should see her now! We fattened her up a whole eight pounds. We gave her a place to sleep, her very own personal name, and we pamper her with five dollar squeaky toys that she punctures and disembowels in five minutes flat. I even call her into the kitchen every time I spill food on the floor just so she can feel important. And she has her own Christmas stocking.
I ask you, what more could a dog want???
Maybe she’s having an identity crisis. I think she’s part ferret. She weighs 38 pounds soaking wet, but it’s spread out stem-to-stern a good three feet long. The dog’s a freaking noodle. She’s squeezed through places not even a cockroach can master.
At least there are compassionate, honest people in the world who take in runaways like her. Neighbors captured her and kept her from becoming coyote chow. But she’s too self absorbed to be grateful. My daughter retrieved her this morning and sent me a picture of our dog staring somberly out the back door, looking like Dorothy without her red shoes.
Well, she brought it all on herself.
She did the crime and now she’s doing the time. She’s in the slammer. The lockup. The Big House. Until we pick her up and take her home, Katy said she’s on house arrest and will only be allowed supervised yard visits. No more herding the goats without a license. No more barking at the horses. Even the exhausted mousers are grinning like Cheshire Cats. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they all put her up to it . . .
Come to think of it, I bet they saw her coming a mile away. That’s plenty of time to plan a scam. A little high five between the goats, a fist bump among the chickens, and Sydney’s goose was cooked. Yeah, yeah, it all becomes painfully clear!
There's no place like home, city dog—you weren’t made for Adventure. It's time to face the truth.
You’re just no match for livestock.