I had to take a box away from Sophie this afternoon. She was just about to dismember it and was pretty happy about having it. But it was a really good box, and I can’t let a really good box go to waste. I have a large collection of good boxes in the spare room, but this was a size that I don’t have. What is it about boxes that turns me into a hoarder?
Sophie looked at me in disappointment, even when I tried to replace it with a dog toy. I had already given her the air pillow thing out of the box, which she made short work of, and I didn’t have anything else as good as that box. So she is lying on the rug, and every now and then she lets out a big sigh. The world is unfair to dogs, she thinks.
If it were Scout, he would be prowling the house, looking for something to get into to pay me back. I am trying to teach him that his toys are in the box by the hall door. So, when he comes into the room with something he’s not supposed to have, which is all the time, I take it from him and replace it with something from the box. It’s a never-ending process. How does he manage to find all this stuff? And why can’t he find my other suede shoe and the curtains I bought for the dining room and have misplaced? Surely he didn’t take the curtains – what would he have done with them? The shoe is a different story. One of his goals in life is to get outside with a shoe, any shoe, but preferably one with shoelaces. He doesn’t tear up the shoes, but he loves to tear up the laces. Last night he appeared in the living room with a full 2-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. I didn’t even know he liked Dr. Pepper.
Both Sophie and Scout love bubble wrap and sticks best of all. They especially like to play keep-away and tug-o-war with sticks. The front porch is usually littered with them, and their paramount goal is to get one inside the house. I shudder to think the havoc they could cause if they ever succeed. Sophie’s greatest desire when she was Scout’s age was to get outside with a shoe. Any shoe, but usually one of my good shoes. She succeeded a few times – I once discovered one at the front gate on my way to the mailbox. And I have occasionally found shoes of unknown origin in the front yard. I don’t even want to know where they came from.
Scout will not come in the door to the back porch. My curious, playful, fearless young collie, for some reason, seems to believe that the bottom level of that particular place is a dangerous, dog-eating portal to another universe where there are no dog treats and canines aren’t allowed inside the house. He will stick his long nose in and peer around the door frame, but that’s as far as he’s willing to venture.
When Sophie was about his age, she was afraid to go down the steps from the top part of the back porch to the lower level that leads outside. There are steps going outside from the top level, too, but they are long, steep and there is no handrail so most humans avoid them at all cost. Sophie would follow me inside and bound up the steps, but she balked at coming down. Instead, she would run back inside the house, through the hall and bang against the front door to get outside. Then she would run around the house to join me in the back yard. I had to use treats and my most encouraging voice to finally get her to use the steps. Even treats and my most enthusiastic cajolery won’t get Scout to even stick a paw inside the door. It makes me wonder if there’s something I don’t know about that spot.
I spent the night away from home last week for the first time since Scout joined the household. I’m told he spent the night on Clay’s front porch, the first time he has stayed outside all night. He met me at the front gate with Sophie and Bear when I arrived home late in the afternoon. It was an enthusiastic greeting, but no more so that if I had spent the afternoon in town. But once we got inside, it was a welcome home party. I opened a package that came in the mail, and Scout took the padded outer package and tore it to shreds on the living room rug. Then he rummaged through the trash can in the kitchen and found several cardboard packages to tear up. He got my overnight bag off the bed and unpacked my clothes and toiletries. The first I knew of this was when he brought a bottle of shampoo into the living room. I took that away from him, discovered my clothes in a heap on the bedroom floor, socks strewn all over the floor, and rescued the toothpaste before he got the tube open.
I’ve been trying to teach him the meaning of “mine” and “give it”. When I take away things like my good shoe, my underwear, or my notebook, I say “mine” and substitute something from his toy box. He looks at me very seriously and I suspect he understands what I mean. He just doesn’t really care. As far as he’s concerned, what’s yours is mine. But he gives it back willingly.
After several minutes of “zoom around the couch” he found the closet door open and grabbed a shoe. I traded that shoe for an old shoe from his toy box. Sophie watched all this in amazement, and Bear took possession of the favored dog bed and went to sleep.
I thought things had calmed down and continued reading my mail in my chair by the window. Then I heard a bump, bump, bump behind me. Scout was dragging the broom into the room. I was hoping he was going to clean up his mess, but he just dropped it on the floor and flopped down to rest. It’s hard work throwing a welcome home party.
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