Disclaimer: EVERYTHING IS FINE. You're about to read about one of Barnaby's less-intelligent moments, and it's important to know going in that he is just fine. He is his normal, happy, healthy self. That said, if stories about dogs encountering hurts upset you, then you should NOT read the following post. Really. It will just upset you, and for no good reason, because as I wrote before, BARNABY IS FINE.
My dog is very smart. But it wasn't until a few months ago that I realized: sometime between learning to pee while balanced on three legs and figuring out that I've been hiding his stuffed alligator on top of the TV console so that he can't disembowel it anymore, Barnaby learned how to strategize. I …
"If you squeak that squeaky toy ONE MORE TIME..."
Somehow, in the midst of the confusion and frustration that comes with ruined plans, God manages to create something even better than I could have imagined.
Guys! Guys! I'm moved in! Almost completely! With almost no prospect of moving out until the end of April! Yaaaay!
My dog: the Moriarty of kitchen crimes.
Last week, I finally realized that there was just no avoiding the fact: my dog's overwhelming scent rivaled that of a skunk with halitosis that had just eaten a giant wedge of Stinking Bishop, the world's smelliest cheese. The dreaded hour had arrived. It was...Bath Time.
I was brought forth from the bathroom this morning in emotional disarray, fully convinced, by the sounds Barnaby was making, that in the five minutes he'd been alone he'd fashioned a bear trap out of the coffee table and had gotten stuck in it. But no. My dog's full-on cry for help was initiated by the loss of his Squeaky Rubber Kong Toy under the bed.