The Friday Report: The continuing ‘tail’
Ryan Summerlin March 7, 2013
My wife and I don’t leave the house much. If we do, the dogs move things around.
For instance, if we both left the house and had carelessly left something wrapped inside a sealed box, deep in a drawer in the upstairs bathroom cabinet, the basset will find it. She’ll find it and present it to us when we come home. Sometimes she’ll spread it all over the carpet so we can remark how clever she is.
The other day I came home and was horrified by Zombie Basset at the top of the stairs with bloody-red goo dripping off her jowls. After wrestling her corpulent butt to the ground, it turned out she wasn’t one of the infected, she’d just chewed up a lipstick.
Freeta Goodhome is an incorrigible basset hound that came from the Granby Shelter with a note that said, “Not good on a leash.” We thought it was funny then, but it proved to be an understatement of Biblical Proportions without even a hint of warning that she was absolutely horrible when she was not on a leash.
We also have another dog, a rare Bulgarian Weasel Hound named Cuervo. I had to take him to the vet last week for a nail buff and teeth-whitening. Cuervo is not really a Weasel Hound; we just call him that to help his self-esteem. In reality he’s a neighborhood nuisance, also from the Granby Shelter, but don’t bring it up, he thinks he’s descended from royalty.
My wife was flying out the door to some meeting as I asked her if she thought I could leave Freeta alone. She looked at me like I’d sprouted a unicorn horn before rolling her eyes and saying, “Use your own judgment.”
I looked down at Freeta, sound asleep on my recliner; I smiled, trusting her, just like folks trusted Bernie Madoff.
In the 30 minutes I was gone, she rummaged through every trash can in the house, ransacked my desk, gnawed on a bunch of important-looking wires behind my computer, rooted through a big bag of shredded junk mail, squeezed her fat … posterior through a small cabinet of formerly whole dinnerware and capped the whole frolic off by eating a two-year supply of fish food from under the aquarium and barfing all over the rug in the living room.
Apparently moments after I left, Freeta instinctively began to forage for roots and berries, or maybe just some bubble gum I’d left at the bottom of a wastebasket.
I can hear her teeny little brain now, “They’re all gone! I’m abandoned. Nothing ahead for me but a sad, lonely death of starvation. Hey, what’s this? A box of tissue? GRROWWFF! Ha, ha, I made short work of that. Look! Somebody threw away a perfectly good banana peel! Yum! Oh wow. Is that … is that a bag of sugar? I know how to find out; I’ll just chew holes in it and drag it all over the floor! I better push these plates around to see if anybody lost a tootsie roll under here. I like tootsie rolls. Hey! Hey fish! HEY FISH! Are you going to finish all these little cans of food? Ooowoo! My stomach is so full, I better repackage some here on the carpet for later.
“Uh-oh, was that the front door?”