As some of you may know from my frequent references, or by the web address, or the pictures on the side of the screen, I’ve got a few bulldogs. 27 last time I counted.
Since our traumatic brain injury, and subsequent puppy loot last year, we’ve been coming to terms with what our house looks like and our ability to cope with the situation. For instance, when we got married and threw away all of the furniture in the house that was acquired by anyone who had a Y chromosome, we set some strict rules.
1. No dogs on the furniture
2. Floors will be cleaned weekly at minimum
3. Dogs will have the freedom of the house since they are part of the family
Now that we have been brow beaten by lack of sleep and canine coaxing, our rules have bent a little.
1. No one should sit on Samson’s recliner (unless they want a butt full of dog hair)
2. Floors will be cleaned (hopefully) by the housekeeper bi-weekly unless the wife is totally grossed out and guilt trips me into cleaning them which takes about 30 minutes of badgering, 20 minutes of arguing, a 15 minute temper tantrum by me, and about 2 minutes to actually clean them.
3. All dogs but the old blind dog will be relegated to the laundry room where I have constructed an elaborate barrier system modeled after a ingenious combination between a maximum security prison and Fort Knox.
4. Dogs can go play outside when it’s pretty.
Like I said, we’re coping.
The other day we returned from an outing to find bouncy dog running around the kitchen with a ball in his mouth as if to say, “look what I found, look what I found, look what I found”. The wife gives me a look that says “Did you forget to put someone up?” and then she says “Did you forget to put someone up?” Being the alpha male in the house, I give her a stern look and say “ahhhhh, I guess so.”
So I spend the next 10 minutes chasing him around the kitchen islander while I’m cursing under my breath and he’s thinking we’re playing “get the ball.” …. Side note, it’s right here that I realize that although Kitchen Islanders are useful pieces if equipment, I have now created doggie speedway international, and there is no way to catch that little pain the tookis.
I consider myself lucky because there is no telling what kind of damage he could have done to our kitchen cabinets, fortunately he’s the stupidest dog in the house and probably immediately saw the ball, picked it up, and spent the next three hours looking for it again while it was still in his mouth.
I put the little ball hound back in the laundry room and head to give the kid a bath for the night. We have a good routine, the wife bathes the kid, I go get the PJ’s, grab some milk, and come back to dry him off, dress him, and get him down for the night while the wife spends a relaxing 30 seconds in the bathtub before we start whining for her. After I pick up the PJ’s and head to the kitchen to get the milk, I am greeted by 60 pounds of bounciness standing beside the islander. I think to myself, “What in the world?” so I go to check the laundry room, and everything is PERFECTLY FINE. Gate is closed, barrier boards in place, 15 garbage cans piled up in front of the gate as backup are still unmoved, but somehow, this short runt is standing in my kitchen … looking for the ball that’s in his mouth.
It’s been a long day, I did something wrong, let’s deal with it later and put everybody to bed.
The next day I get up early to check the laundry room prison. Everything is in place, nothing is askew, there isn’t a hole “Houdini” can climb through, everything is fine.
I figured that if the dog’s going to get out, I kind of need to make sure I know how he does it, so I lock him in the laundry room and wait. He sits there and stares at me. I walk around the kitchen and sneak back over, he’s sitting there with his tongue wagging. I make myself breakfast, then sneak a peak. He’s laying there. I sit at the table and eat my breakfast. Quick glance, snoring dog.
I decide that whatever it was, it’s over and I head to the store. I forget my phone so I run back inside to grab it and the STUPID MUTT IS STARING AT ME IN THE FACE. I’ve been gone 30 freaking seconds, and this dog is in my kitchen! The fence is un-moved – there’s a dog staring out at me from behind it saying “I want to come out there too daddy!” I am flabbergasted. I put him BACK in the laundry room and g
ive him a bone to keep him busy for a while until I can get back from the store.
When I return, and step on the bone now in my kitchen, I start to get worried. I decide to have a stake out. I put the dog back in the laundry room and pretend to leave the kitchen. That’s when I heard it. A scoot, or a creak, something is happening. As I lean over to try and get a peak, I notice the dog is at my feet. I quickly glance around the corner at the laundry room … and NOTHING HAS MOVED! I swear this dog has learned to open, THEN SHUT the gate behind him. I have trouble opening that gate. I HATE THIS DOG!!
So I wait a while, then try my stakeout again … and I finally catch him.
As it turns out, the fence that I have in the laundry room is like the shape of a V and a U combined. It fits nicely in the room, and I figured if it’s pushed to the doorway, it will only wedge itself in place. Well this mutt has not only figured out how to escape, but to cover his tracks. He discovered that if he pushes in exactly the right place, the fence will rotate. He can then back up and go around the fence in the hole he has now created. Finally, now this is the genius part, before going all the way through, he stops just far enough out where it encourages the other dog to try and follow him, but he’s blocking her path. So she starts pushing on the fence next to him, which in effect, seals the hole behind him. He’s free, she’s not, and the fence is back in place.
… maybe he’s not too dumb after all.
Since our traumatic brain injury, and subsequent puppy loot last year, we’ve been coming to terms with what our house looks like and our ability to cope with the situation. For instance, when we got married and threw away all of the furniture in the house that was acquired by anyone who had a Y chromosome, we set some strict rules.
1. No dogs on the furniture
2. Floors will be cleaned weekly at minimum
3. Dogs will have the freedom of the house since they are part of the family
Now that we have been brow beaten by lack of sleep and canine coaxing, our rules have bent a little.
1. No one should sit on Samson’s recliner (unless they want a butt full of dog hair)
2. Floors will be cleaned (hopefully) by the housekeeper bi-weekly unless the wife is totally grossed out and guilt trips me into cleaning them which takes about 30 minutes of badgering, 20 minutes of arguing, a 15 minute temper tantrum by me, and about 2 minutes to actually clean them.
3. All dogs but the old blind dog will be relegated to the laundry room where I have constructed an elaborate barrier system modeled after a ingenious combination between a maximum security prison and Fort Knox.
4. Dogs can go play outside when it’s pretty.
Like I said, we’re coping.
The other day we returned from an outing to find bouncy dog running around the kitchen with a ball in his mouth as if to say, “look what I found, look what I found, look what I found”. The wife gives me a look that says “Did you forget to put someone up?” and then she says “Did you forget to put someone up?” Being the alpha male in the house, I give her a stern look and say “ahhhhh, I guess so.”
So I spend the next 10 minutes chasing him around the kitchen islander while I’m cursing under my breath and he’s thinking we’re playing “get the ball.” …. Side note, it’s right here that I realize that although Kitchen Islanders are useful pieces if equipment, I have now created doggie speedway international, and there is no way to catch that little pain the tookis.
I consider myself lucky because there is no telling what kind of damage he could have done to our kitchen cabinets, fortunately he’s the stupidest dog in the house and probably immediately saw the ball, picked it up, and spent the next three hours looking for it again while it was still in his mouth.
I put the little ball hound back in the laundry room and head to give the kid a bath for the night. We have a good routine, the wife bathes the kid, I go get the PJ’s, grab some milk, and come back to dry him off, dress him, and get him down for the night while the wife spends a relaxing 30 seconds in the bathtub before we start whining for her. After I pick up the PJ’s and head to the kitchen to get the milk, I am greeted by 60 pounds of bounciness standing beside the islander. I think to myself, “What in the world?” so I go to check the laundry room, and everything is PERFECTLY FINE. Gate is closed, barrier boards in place, 15 garbage cans piled up in front of the gate as backup are still unmoved, but somehow, this short runt is standing in my kitchen … looking for the ball that’s in his mouth.
It’s been a long day, I did something wrong, let’s deal with it later and put everybody to bed.
The next day I get up early to check the laundry room prison. Everything is in place, nothing is askew, there isn’t a hole “Houdini” can climb through, everything is fine.
I figured that if the dog’s going to get out, I kind of need to make sure I know how he does it, so I lock him in the laundry room and wait. He sits there and stares at me. I walk around the kitchen and sneak back over, he’s sitting there with his tongue wagging. I make myself breakfast, then sneak a peak. He’s laying there. I sit at the table and eat my breakfast. Quick glance, snoring dog.
I decide that whatever it was, it’s over and I head to the store. I forget my phone so I run back inside to grab it and the STUPID MUTT IS STARING AT ME IN THE FACE. I’ve been gone 30 freaking seconds, and this dog is in my kitchen! The fence is un-moved – there’s a dog staring out at me from behind it saying “I want to come out there too daddy!” I am flabbergasted. I put him BACK in the laundry room and g
ive him a bone to keep him busy for a while until I can get back from the store.When I return, and step on the bone now in my kitchen, I start to get worried. I decide to have a stake out. I put the dog back in the laundry room and pretend to leave the kitchen. That’s when I heard it. A scoot, or a creak, something is happening. As I lean over to try and get a peak, I notice the dog is at my feet. I quickly glance around the corner at the laundry room … and NOTHING HAS MOVED! I swear this dog has learned to open, THEN SHUT the gate behind him. I have trouble opening that gate. I HATE THIS DOG!!
So I wait a while, then try my stakeout again … and I finally catch him.
As it turns out, the fence that I have in the laundry room is like the shape of a V and a U combined. It fits nicely in the room, and I figured if it’s pushed to the doorway, it will only wedge itself in place. Well this mutt has not only figured out how to escape, but to cover his tracks. He discovered that if he pushes in exactly the right place, the fence will rotate. He can then back up and go around the fence in the hole he has now created. Finally, now this is the genius part, before going all the way through, he stops just far enough out where it encourages the other dog to try and follow him, but he’s blocking her path. So she starts pushing on the fence next to him, which in effect, seals the hole behind him. He’s free, she’s not, and the fence is back in place.
… maybe he’s not too dumb after all.
