Escape artist or Why buying a steam cleaner was a money saver

Maggie has once again proven her mettle as an escape artist in training. This afternoon she defeated her crate… At least I can say it wasn’t the zip tied sides that failed. This time she sprung the bottom latch of the only door that will open and jammed herself through the gap. It seems like an impossibly small opening when you pause to consider that Maggie is now probably 20 inches at the shoulder and easily running on 50 pounds.

The first time you clean watery poo out of the carpet, it’s all about the poor sick dog. The third time you do it, the sick pup act has lost its charm. Add to that an area rug with its corner shredded and you really begin to question your sanity. We’re reaching the point where something is going to have to give. Poo or no, she’s going to have to stay in her crate while I’m not here. The 3-year-old carpet is in rough enough shape without her helping it along any further… and destroying things is a new trick altogether. I suppose it’s time to start looking at those industrial strength billeted aluminum crates they use for military working dogs. Summer’s down here are going to be too hot for me to be comfortable leaving a dog outside all day and the garage gets even hotter than the outside during the day. So yeah, I’m not quite at my wits end, but there is a definite steep upwards trend in my frustration level.

Since the zip ties seem to be out of chewing reach (in theory) the next step is adding a padlock on the non-zip tied door. If she gets past that, I’m going to be out of ideas… and that’s not a position I really want to be in.

Aww… Shit… Part II…

Our story begins long before dawn on Saturday, January 24th. In the pre-dawn darkness, I herded the dogs outside to do what dogs do while I finished packing the truck for the 13 hour drive to Maryland. With the truck packed and the dogs seemingly relieved, we set out on schedule from West Tennessee at 5:00 AM. Traffic was light and I was making great time. Barely an hour into the drive, I got my first indication that all systems were not go… an unusual gurgling noise from the general vicinity of Maggie, who was riding shotgun for the trip. I didn’t think much of it and assumed that it was her stomach protesting the lack of breakfast. No need tempting the fates of carsickness before a long drive, right? Right.

Now, I should pause here to point out that Winston absolutely must travel in his kennel. He’s all nerves, shedding, and slobber when he doesn’t have that security. Since he’s been riding in a kennel since just after he came home, I wanted to make sure that Maggie was a little more acclimated to riding commando on those long trips. Quite frankly a cage big enough for her inside the cab of the truck is simply out of the question, so I covered the passenger seat with an old sheet and we should have been good to go. Of course this wasn’t destined to be a normal day.

By this point we’re an hour and a half into the drive, darkness is still heavy on the face of the firmament and that’s when I hear the unmistakable sound of a dog about to heave. Having had most of a cup of coffee, I had the good sense to get on the brake and start wheeling towards the shoulder so I could face whatever was coming at a much lower rate of speed and with most of my attention. I heard the splash and almost simultaneously was hit broadside by the most disturbing, pungent aroma that I’d ever personally experienced. That’s right… Liquefied, partially digested, dog poo projectile vomit. Without even the benefit of light, I knew what had happened… but nothing prepares you for the first awful moment of light in a world gone mad. My sweet, darling lab had tossed on the seat, on the dash, and across the center console. My initial thought was an overwhelming need to clean… which was followed in short order by the overwhelming need to keep myself from blowing chunks all over the other side of the truck.

With all the fortitude I could muster, I set about the task of cleaning as best I could. The sheet had saved the seat, Armor All had mostly saved the dash, but the center console took the worst of it… The cup holders and ashtray full to the brim with brown gleaming liquid; every crease, every joint, every nook its own special disaster. It’s only when I got to the bottom of the second cup holder that I realized that my Bluetooth headset, the finely tuned, military grade, $120 piece of hardware that it is had been at the bottom of this devil’s brew. With some intense cleaning, it would probably work again… but I don’t have the fortitude to put it in my ear knowing the horrors it’s been through. With the truck cleaned as best I could with the roll of paper towels and some generic spray cleaner I’ve always carried under the back seat, we managed to get back on the road after about thirty minutes. That’s pretty good time considering how often I had to stick my head out the window to keep my own gagging from becoming something much worse.

Thinking to myself, we’re back on track, things will be fine now. I was just outside of Nashville now and again making good time. I began to allow myself to hope again and this was apparently my second mistake of the day… and just seconds before the next shower of feces-filled vomit was deposited, this time on the passenger side floor mat. Thanks be to God for the heavy duty rubberized type that can be sprayed off. By this point, I was out of paper towels, out of cleaner, and basically out of options… It was go/no go for the rest of the drive. I could turn back three hours into the trip, regroup, recover, and reset for another try on Sunday or I could press on in the hopes that there couldn’t possibly be more left where the first two rounds had been. I rolled the dice and got lucky this time.

The rest of the drive was an uneventful trip along the Eisenhower Interstate Highway System… Except for the windows being down in the bitter cold of a Tennessee morning. And the smell; that terrible smell that I fear I’ll never forget.

All puppy all the time...

I’m beginning to feel like I’m turning into an all-puppy-all-the-time blogger and I suppose that’s been true lately. Keeping up with Maggie hasn’t left all that much time for anything else. Free time essentially becomes an opportunity for a nap and I try to indulge in that as often as possible. In keeping with the theme, I’ve been told by my new puppy guru that I’ve been approaching the entire housebreaking too much like a dumb human and not enough like a smart dog. So at her advice, it’s back to the drawing board with special high intensity crate training, no more roaming the kitchen during the day, and way more treats for doing her thing outside. As far as the poo eating, I’m promised it’s just a phase and sweet Jebus, I hope that’s true! The plan now is for me and Winston to wear her out so if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to my second job…

If anyone is interested, Maggie is has a pretty good grip on “sit” as long as there is a treat involved and started working on “down” tonight. I’m taking my comforts in the small victories at the moment.

Awe... shit....

I was thrilled this afternoon when I got to the house and found no poo in the breakfast nook where I have been keeping Maggie since she got here. Definitely some pee, but I can totally live with that on the linoleum for a few weeks right? All was right with the world and I put my little angles out and headed back to the bedroom to change before cleaning up the kitchen. That’s when I saw it… the giant pile of poo in the middle of the living room floor. So not only did she get over the gate once, but she climbed back over it and was sitting happily back in the kitchen when I got to the house. Knowing that Maggie is an escape artist, I suppose it was inevitable that she would find her way over the larger gate in the kitchen just as she had found her way over the last one. I had hoped it would take her more than two days, though. I know shit happens, but I would really rather it happen on tile or linoleum. So for tomorrow, we go to Plan B. Now I just need to figure out what that actually is…

Minimum safe distance...

Sometimes I think it’s a good idea that I live 800 miles from home. It’s the kind of mileage that gives one a minimum safe distance from family. I knew that my mother was going to have a small conniption when I broke the news to her that her second grandchild was also a dog. But I hadn’t planned on the rather blistering email invective that I got outlining all of the reasons why a second dog was a terrible idea and that a lab makes it even worse. I suppose it serves me right for convincing her that she needed to be part of the e-revolution in the first place. Now mother has never really been a big fan of the kind of animals that live in the house, where I have always been the one trying to drag strays home. That’s definitely not something I got from her. The reasons ran from “you’re too impulsive” to those dogs need more room than you have to she’ll destroy everything in your house. The real kicker was arguing that it would have made more sense for me to come home telling her that I got some girl pregnant. So much for logic.

So here I am, sitting here at the keyboard second guessing myself. It’s amazing that at 30 a guilt trip from my mother still has the old magic, no. But the kids seem to love playing together and I know I’m giving them both better homes than many other dogs out there. So chime in here, readers, have I done the right thing?