©May 1998
Carol Jane Remsburg
KLEPTOMANIAC
DOG ON THE LOOSE
Have
you ever lived in close association with someone only to find out after some
serious years of cohabitation that they have some severe social flaws? Okay, well with people that’s more the norm
and it doesn’t take as long to discover, but with your pets? This spring has been an unusual awakening.
Besides
the birds and the bees getting into an uproar, the dog has taken to strange
behavior. Granted, until last fall she
was always penned, and now due to budgetary constraints, she is running free in
the yard because she’s worried her way to freedom. It wasn’t until the last few weeks that she showed her true
colors. The dog is a klepto!
It
was a normal evening, the rush homeward was over as was homework, I was
scrubbing up the dishes when there was a great war cry heard from outside. My daughter, Queen of
Leaving-Her-Belongings-For-Her-Personal-Maid-To-Retrieve, learned a valuable
lesson. Mommy doesn’t pick up toys left
out in the yard—ever. She had left her
skates outside from the previous day, and now one was missing.
I
arrived to survey the damage and see if any of the neighbors had been unduly
provoked by the uproar. I was faced
with an angry tot and a very guilty looking dog. Sissy, the poor dog’s name, only carries this expression when
caught red-handed reducing the rabbit populace of the area. Guilt is guilt is guilt. Granted, I knew Sissy was the culprit, so a
search was made. Beneath the porch, in
the nether regions that I’d rather not belly crawl into ever again, was said
skate. Also found there was a small
plastic toy that Erin had howled over several weeks earlier along with a
sweatshirt that I knew was missing from the clothesline and had given up on
finding. There was also a cache of
other decomposing prizes that I’d rather avoid mentioning in detail.
In
other various places were found, buried, one Barbie doll, one stuffed “old”
Barney, Erin’s new ball, and my husband’s favorite shirt (that he left
outside). Sissy, weirdly named dog, who
should have been labeled “Digger,” views this as a great game of hide and
seek.
Last
week she attempted a big haul, the cushion of the fan chair off the porch. Erin caught her and raised a scream to
levels only found in operatic arias or in scientific experiments, (I later
checked my windows for cracks). The dog
dove for cover dropping the cushion and I ran out with my heart in my throat
expecting bloody mayhem. This scenario
is beginning to happen often enough that I should be over the shock. Now, Erin only hollers if it’s something of
hers. Her father’s belongings and tools
are now fair game as the gruesome twosome of dog and child laugh in their
conspiracy.
Hubby
often appears vexed and deep in thought as he scouts out his missing
items. He, the reigning king of
I’ll-Leave-It-Where-It-Lies-Until-It-Becomes-A-Permanent-Fixture, is totally at
a loss. If the item is somewhere within
the sanctity of our little four walls, I know where it is and always produce
it. If, for whatever reason, he’s left
it in the garage, flung over the side of his pickup truck, or in the yard, I
lay all odds on the dog having it. Once
Sissy has it, it’s duly marked (chewed) then buried.
As with most of her kind, my dog carries a grinning expression. This isn’t to say she isn’t expressive. Sissy has the ability to show happiness, sadness, illness, curiosity, anger, and guilt. The one she shows least is anger, she saves that for male strangers of all breeds. Once acquainted, she’ll be your best friend for a tidbit of food. However, she saves her best loving and special protection for the children. Babies and small people she tries to mother since she’s had none of her own and would protect them fiercely, though has never been put to the test, I have no doubts on that score.
Sissy
is a brown, white, and black mutt. She
was a gift from my sister when I said I didn’t have time for a dog with pending
child coming and a house full of cats, we received her with open arms anyway. My sister knows I’m a sucker for a dog, or
for any animal for that matter.
Her
thievery skills have the finesse of a pickpocket and will face you with the
innocent guile of a professional. The
only way I know that she’s guilty is by looking into her eyes. This dog cannot lie to me, I feed her and
she knows it.
Premium
canned dog food and kibble are last on her list of considered foods. She requires people food or the rotting
carcasses of the neighbor’s fish. Okay,
I know she’s weird, yet when she turns her nose up to the regulation fodder and
I have no leftovers, I’ll make them.
What it says about my cooking isn’t to be considered. It seems to calm her toy taking
machinations, and my world remains on the calmer side of chaos.
Since
the beginning of this siege I have been entertaining some of the most
intriguing thoughts. This is possibly
the best way to unload most of the things in the house that I want to get rid
of and point the finger at the dog. I
can cart them away surreptitiously several at a time in the back of the car to
disappear before coming home again. As
the other two don’t feed the dog, then they’ll never be the wiser.
This
will be a great plan of action until the new and improved dog pen is
complete. I think I have another three
weeks or so to accomplish the task. In
the meantime, all blame goes to the dog.
My poor little baby, good girl!