MLE
09-06-2008, 06:25 PM
So this weekend I am dogsitting Buddy, my friend’s golden retriever, while they are off for a weekend in Tahoe. We are in the middle of a heat wave, and unlike my big poodles, he is not shaved short. So Buddy spends the afternoon inside, and of course, the other dogs are jealous, so they have to come in too. Except they have been splashing in their wading pool. I contain the lot of them in the tiled dining room, right off my office. They all feel like playing. Very shortly the atmosphere is thick with the miasma of wet dog.
Poor heavy-coated Buddy is still hot and pants constantly. He misses his owners and it turns out he has quite a repertoire of doggy noises to keep me updated on this news flash. I finally let him into my office to shut him up so I can work. That seems to distract him, although he now drools all over my knee. Niffler and Salty sprawl like passive protesters in the doorway, fixing me with reproachful eyes that I allow this canine intruder into forbidden nodogland.
But the office makes him happy. By midafternoon, however, he ventures out to argue with 4-month-old Salty and spend a lot of time smelling Niff’s rear. That is when I realize that Buddy is not neutered, as I had thought. I check, and she is in season. (How could she be in heat already?! She just had puppies in April!) A quarantine is promptly enforced. Buddy forgets all about his owners. The doggy noises increase in volume, directed at any window where he can view his newfound romantic interest. I wipe more drool off the windowsills and try to ignore him.
Gosh, I’m glad the dh is away at a conference. This would drive him nuts. By evening, I open the windows to let the house soak in the cooler night air, and discover that screens are not equal to the force of doggy ardor. So I pop Buddy in the office with the window closed, shut the door on him and go to bed.
2 AM, groggy and disoriented, I awake to a crash on the other side of the wall. Something has gone over in my office. Getting up, I hear frantic scrabbling and with a dawning horror, realize that a berserk dog near my computer, file boxes and bookshelves could destroy every non-sentient thing I hold dear. So I run to the office to let him out, only to find out that the door is locked.
You see, our office has a deadbolt and a steel door, left over from the days when we ran a transition home and stored people’s valuables in there. I haven’t used it for years. It appears Buddy, in scratching to be let out, has turned the knob on the deadbolt. Keep calm, I tell myself. I have the key in a vase of little-used keys somewhere --- And then it hits me: it’s in the office. So is my purse. And all my other keys.
So I go around to the window and try to pry it open. Buddy redoubles his activities like a mine cave-in victim who hears rescue at last. There is no way to get the window open, short of breaking it. It’s 2 AM. It’s too dark to see. In the morning, I can call a locksmith. I might as well go back to bed.
I lie awake for another hour, listening to Buddy thrash the office and cataloging all the hours of work down the drain if he destroys my computer. The reference books on my shelves that can’t be replaced. The tax returns, my passport, the cds of expensive computer programs, the internet server... Sleep will not come. Finally I plod upstairs and rouse the youngest, who is staying with us while his wife is in Japan. Getting him up in the middle of the night after a long day at work is not going to be easy.
So number three son finally rouses and comes to address the problem. He can’t jimmy the window open, either. But there are tools in the shop that would do the trick.
Oops, the shop is locked. The key is in my purse – in the office. But it turns out that he has watched a lot of crime shows, and he knows how to pick a lock. With the help of a #20 syringe needle from the veterinary supplies and a nail file, number three son is able to spring the dog free in five minutes.
In an abandon of joy at his release, Buddy leaps right through the kitchen window to tell Niffler all about his ordeal. I guess J can fix the screen when he gets home.
I go to back bed, consoling myself with the thought that goldendoodle puppies will be easy to find homes for.
Poor heavy-coated Buddy is still hot and pants constantly. He misses his owners and it turns out he has quite a repertoire of doggy noises to keep me updated on this news flash. I finally let him into my office to shut him up so I can work. That seems to distract him, although he now drools all over my knee. Niffler and Salty sprawl like passive protesters in the doorway, fixing me with reproachful eyes that I allow this canine intruder into forbidden nodogland.
But the office makes him happy. By midafternoon, however, he ventures out to argue with 4-month-old Salty and spend a lot of time smelling Niff’s rear. That is when I realize that Buddy is not neutered, as I had thought. I check, and she is in season. (How could she be in heat already?! She just had puppies in April!) A quarantine is promptly enforced. Buddy forgets all about his owners. The doggy noises increase in volume, directed at any window where he can view his newfound romantic interest. I wipe more drool off the windowsills and try to ignore him.
Gosh, I’m glad the dh is away at a conference. This would drive him nuts. By evening, I open the windows to let the house soak in the cooler night air, and discover that screens are not equal to the force of doggy ardor. So I pop Buddy in the office with the window closed, shut the door on him and go to bed.
2 AM, groggy and disoriented, I awake to a crash on the other side of the wall. Something has gone over in my office. Getting up, I hear frantic scrabbling and with a dawning horror, realize that a berserk dog near my computer, file boxes and bookshelves could destroy every non-sentient thing I hold dear. So I run to the office to let him out, only to find out that the door is locked.
You see, our office has a deadbolt and a steel door, left over from the days when we ran a transition home and stored people’s valuables in there. I haven’t used it for years. It appears Buddy, in scratching to be let out, has turned the knob on the deadbolt. Keep calm, I tell myself. I have the key in a vase of little-used keys somewhere --- And then it hits me: it’s in the office. So is my purse. And all my other keys.
So I go around to the window and try to pry it open. Buddy redoubles his activities like a mine cave-in victim who hears rescue at last. There is no way to get the window open, short of breaking it. It’s 2 AM. It’s too dark to see. In the morning, I can call a locksmith. I might as well go back to bed.
I lie awake for another hour, listening to Buddy thrash the office and cataloging all the hours of work down the drain if he destroys my computer. The reference books on my shelves that can’t be replaced. The tax returns, my passport, the cds of expensive computer programs, the internet server... Sleep will not come. Finally I plod upstairs and rouse the youngest, who is staying with us while his wife is in Japan. Getting him up in the middle of the night after a long day at work is not going to be easy.
So number three son finally rouses and comes to address the problem. He can’t jimmy the window open, either. But there are tools in the shop that would do the trick.
Oops, the shop is locked. The key is in my purse – in the office. But it turns out that he has watched a lot of crime shows, and he knows how to pick a lock. With the help of a #20 syringe needle from the veterinary supplies and a nail file, number three son is able to spring the dog free in five minutes.
In an abandon of joy at his release, Buddy leaps right through the kitchen window to tell Niffler all about his ordeal. I guess J can fix the screen when he gets home.
I go to back bed, consoling myself with the thought that goldendoodle puppies will be easy to find homes for.