Scene of the crime
(a tale of two dogs)
This morning just before dawn I was awakened by someone touching me gently on the cheek. I opened my eyes and in the gray stillness a dark shape loomed over me ... It was the Taterman, sitting next to me on the pillow with his paw on my shoulder and an unusual alertness in his posture. When he saw I was awake he leaned in and licked me once on the chin with just the tip of his tongue. That's when I heard it: a muffled crash, followed by the sound of someone quietly rummaging around in some other part of the house.
Now that I was awake and aware, Tater felt free to hand over his role as protector and climb into my lap, quivering. But early morning is not my most lucent time of day, and as I lay there listening and assessing the situation it took a few moments to come up with three possibilities. Maybe Mr. A had forgotten something he needed for work, and was trying to find it without waking me. That didn't seem likely, though, since he knows I sleep with earplugs most of the time so he doesn't have to tiptoe around when he's getting ready to leave at 4:45 each morning.
The second possibility, which seemed somehow more real for at least a few seconds given Tater's obvious anxiety and stress, was that someone had seen Mr. A leave and thought the house was empty, and had broken in and was robbing us.
(An aside: The last time my house was robbed, I walked in through the front door just as the thieves were running out the back, and my first thought when I realized what had happened was to find my precious dog – who was hiding stock still and silent under the bed. People have criticized him for this behavior, for not defending my few poor possessions with ferocious fangs and claws ... But people willing to kick in a door might also be willing to kick a frightened animal, and I've always thought he did the only sensible thing to do under the circumstances – since he wasn't able to keep them out of the house, he did his best to protect himself until I got home. In his defense, he did become a much better watch dog after that – for weeks I didn't sleep through the night, thanks to his constant barking at any little sound from outside.)
Whoever was making noise in the house this morning was not trying very hard to hide it, though, and the sounds I was hearing were all concentrated in one area: the kitchen. I listened for cabinets and drawers opening, or the refrigerator, but the perpetrator only continued rummaging around. Then there was silence.
I slid out of bed (briefly considering whether I ought to put on some pants before venturing out), grabbed the little canister of professional-strength pepper spray Mr. A bought at a safety seminar at his work last summer (just in case), and crept toward the kitchen. The rustling started again just as I reached the door, and as I parted the curtains ....
Well, it was the Jeeps, of course. He had turned over the garbage can and distributed its contents the full length of the kitchen in order to reach whatever slimy goodness he hoped to find at the bottom of the trash can liner, which he was burrowed into up past his shoulders. When he heard me yell he tried to pull his head out without letting go of his prize, got stuck partway out with the bag bunched up around his ears, moonwalked back several steps, then made a dash for the dog door with the inside-out bottom of the bag still gripped in his teeth.
URRRGH! That's all I can really say when this happens. Because of course, it can only happen when one of us (who shall remain nameless) forgets to secure the garbage can under the sink. It really isn't the Jeeps's fault if he can't resist those delicious treats we ungrateful humans thoughtlessly toss in the trash – dogs are scavengers, hard-wired to sniff out and make use of the leftovers we discard.
Still, I will note: Tater has never once taken part in this time-honored canine ritual. He doesn't get into the garbage, counter surf, chew furniture, bark endlessly for no apparent reason, or do any of the other annoying dog things I worried about when I was thinking about getting a dog. When – after booting the Jeeps out of the house and cleaning up the mess – I headed back to bed for another hour of sleep, Tater was still there, curled up in a ball under the comforter with his head on my pillow. Mr. A likes to say this is proof of his general wimpiness and lack of robust dog-like qualities (which the Jeeps possesses in such abundance), but to me it meant only one thing: my spot was still warm.
Postscript: I didn't have the heart to punish the Jeeps for long. I let him back in after the mess was cleaned up, gave him his breakfast and fluffed up the blanket in his new heated dog bed. Merry Christmas, Mr. Jeeps!
Also, I am babysitting the editor's six-month-old yellow lab puppy under my desk at work this week. She's very cute, as well as a good reminder of what it's really like to live with a baby animal who's still just learning the rules of being part of human society. Tater was so easy as a puppy – I didn't even have to house train him, he already knew! I only hope our next puppy is as good as him.
Now that I was awake and aware, Tater felt free to hand over his role as protector and climb into my lap, quivering. But early morning is not my most lucent time of day, and as I lay there listening and assessing the situation it took a few moments to come up with three possibilities. Maybe Mr. A had forgotten something he needed for work, and was trying to find it without waking me. That didn't seem likely, though, since he knows I sleep with earplugs most of the time so he doesn't have to tiptoe around when he's getting ready to leave at 4:45 each morning.
The second possibility, which seemed somehow more real for at least a few seconds given Tater's obvious anxiety and stress, was that someone had seen Mr. A leave and thought the house was empty, and had broken in and was robbing us.
(An aside: The last time my house was robbed, I walked in through the front door just as the thieves were running out the back, and my first thought when I realized what had happened was to find my precious dog – who was hiding stock still and silent under the bed. People have criticized him for this behavior, for not defending my few poor possessions with ferocious fangs and claws ... But people willing to kick in a door might also be willing to kick a frightened animal, and I've always thought he did the only sensible thing to do under the circumstances – since he wasn't able to keep them out of the house, he did his best to protect himself until I got home. In his defense, he did become a much better watch dog after that – for weeks I didn't sleep through the night, thanks to his constant barking at any little sound from outside.)
Whoever was making noise in the house this morning was not trying very hard to hide it, though, and the sounds I was hearing were all concentrated in one area: the kitchen. I listened for cabinets and drawers opening, or the refrigerator, but the perpetrator only continued rummaging around. Then there was silence.
I slid out of bed (briefly considering whether I ought to put on some pants before venturing out), grabbed the little canister of professional-strength pepper spray Mr. A bought at a safety seminar at his work last summer (just in case), and crept toward the kitchen. The rustling started again just as I reached the door, and as I parted the curtains ....
Well, it was the Jeeps, of course. He had turned over the garbage can and distributed its contents the full length of the kitchen in order to reach whatever slimy goodness he hoped to find at the bottom of the trash can liner, which he was burrowed into up past his shoulders. When he heard me yell he tried to pull his head out without letting go of his prize, got stuck partway out with the bag bunched up around his ears, moonwalked back several steps, then made a dash for the dog door with the inside-out bottom of the bag still gripped in his teeth.
URRRGH! That's all I can really say when this happens. Because of course, it can only happen when one of us (who shall remain nameless) forgets to secure the garbage can under the sink. It really isn't the Jeeps's fault if he can't resist those delicious treats we ungrateful humans thoughtlessly toss in the trash – dogs are scavengers, hard-wired to sniff out and make use of the leftovers we discard.
Still, I will note: Tater has never once taken part in this time-honored canine ritual. He doesn't get into the garbage, counter surf, chew furniture, bark endlessly for no apparent reason, or do any of the other annoying dog things I worried about when I was thinking about getting a dog. When – after booting the Jeeps out of the house and cleaning up the mess – I headed back to bed for another hour of sleep, Tater was still there, curled up in a ball under the comforter with his head on my pillow. Mr. A likes to say this is proof of his general wimpiness and lack of robust dog-like qualities (which the Jeeps possesses in such abundance), but to me it meant only one thing: my spot was still warm.
Postscript: I didn't have the heart to punish the Jeeps for long. I let him back in after the mess was cleaned up, gave him his breakfast and fluffed up the blanket in his new heated dog bed. Merry Christmas, Mr. Jeeps!
Also, I am babysitting the editor's six-month-old yellow lab puppy under my desk at work this week. She's very cute, as well as a good reminder of what it's really like to live with a baby animal who's still just learning the rules of being part of human society. Tater was so easy as a puppy – I didn't even have to house train him, he already knew! I only hope our next puppy is as good as him.
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