In the Doghouse

We came home from vacation with happy memories, great pictures and roaring diarrhea in both of our dogs thanks to running out of their uber healthy food. We had searched everywhere to find their food, but had to resort to switching them over to another brand. We knew we were in for trouble. We kept them on tile and were fortunate to not have any trouble in the rental house or the 8 hour drive home. We thought after arriving home the danger had passed, if you pardon the pun. We were wrong. They both exploded in the house numerous times despite our best efforts. Why do dogs always think they are doing you a favor by getting sick on rugs? Our whole house is wooden floors and tile and they have to wretch or poop on a Persian rug? Maybe they think they are on grass. Whatever the reason, I was running out of Resolve carpet cleaner and patience. I put our sheltie in her kennel, and kept a close eye on our 125lb Malamute. We didn’t have a kennel big enough for her and she is pretty trustworthy. So after a marathon day of scrubbing rugs, I was ready to hit the hay. With one safely kenneled, my husband was concerned that our big girl would lose it over night. He came up with the idea to put her in our guest bathroom and shut the door. She looked pretty mad. I warned my husband not to leave her in there. But, my fatigue and carpet-cleaning chemical fogged brain drove me to bed.

At four in the morning I was awakened by an odd noise, like a sonic boom. It stopped and I went back to sleep. At 6am I heard another odd sound, and then a single angry bark. I went downstairs and opened the door to release Keila, our Malamute from her solitary confinement in the bathroom. What I found knocked the wind out of me. She had shredded the toilet paper and covered the floor with it. It smelled like sweaty, fury, mad dog. As I turned around to follow her out, I saw the real show. She had clawed the door to bits, nearly ingested the door handle and completely eaten the wooden trim board next to the door. There was nothing left but sawdust. Aghast, I counted to 10, took her out, and then began to think about what I was going to do. My first instinct was to go upstairs and wake my husband screaming like a banshee. Instead I went upstairs, looked at his peaceful sleeping face and began to fantasize about ways to torture him. I read a book, and glared occasionally at him. When his alarm went off, he stretched and wished me a good morning. Simmering with rage, I wished him the same but I added it might not be the best for him. Poor guy! He surveyed the damages and assured me he could fix it. I was skeptical and semi-insane. He went to the web and actually found a site devoted to repairing doors attacked by dogs. He made his plan and then went off to buy supplies. The first run was a bomb; the wrong trim! The second trip brought success. He and my youngest worked for hours to fix the mess. There was sawing, pounding, measuring, cursing and me cynically watching it all. Finally, I could take no more. I retreated to my bedroom and flipped on the TV. Of all things, Farrah Fawcett’s movie, The Burning Bed was on. My husband came up to assure me all was coming along, saw what I watching and flew back down the stairs with a new and improved resolve to get ‘er done! I am happy to report, he finished and all was well. He tried to turn it into some quasi-productive event. After all, he learned new skills he boasted. I replied after watching the Burning Bed, so had I. The smug smile on his face evaporated.

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