July 30, 2003
Dog days of summer in pooch prison
By
Herald Editor
Unfortunately, the dog days of summer usually includes a trip to pooch prison; otherwise known as the big dog house. This weekend I did my stint in the Canis familiaris slammer.
Now if you take a humanistic approach, I attended canine camp or spent a terrific time at the kennel. Hey, even though I can't count, I know the score. Euphemisms aside, this weekend I exercised in The Yard with other confined canines and slept behind bars.
Life on the inside was ruff - at least that is what I want my humans to think.
Over the past year, the old family dog has been a noticeably absent presence on weekend road trips. I noticed because I am that said dog. Instead I'm stuck behind the baby gate at home while the little human takes my window seat. At least I can milk more Milk Bones from the neighbors when they "lure" me back inside the house while dog-sitting for my absent humans.
This past Friday, however, guess who got taken for a ride? I don't know what it is about open car doors that is so inviting, but I fall for them every time. By the time my happy-go-lucky slobbery smile fades in realization, it is too late; and I don't have the phalanges to work power locks.
A genetically inbred need to please is the reason why I find myself in this precarious position. It is also why I end up with a thermometer in my end up at the vet office or stuck behind bars at pooch prison.
So this weekend I found myself cooling my paw pads, waiting to get out on good behavior. The good-natured golden retriever that I am, the guards slip in a few extra exercise times out in The Yard. Thankfully I am housed in a minimum security facility, so there is no need to feel threatened when a pack of giant schnauzers sniff around. After all, we are just nylon collar canines; no steel studs or chain chokers.
However, just like our human counterparts, canines form social cliques in confined spaces. The German shepherd and shorthaired pointer share a strange fixation with David Hasselhoff, while the English bulldog and springer spaniel share a spot of rawhide. The American Staffordshire terrier and the French poodle share utter disdain for each other. I just hang out with the other natural blondes.
While Sunday afternoon is my usual parole date, I spent Monday morning in near solitary confinement. To make matters worse, instead of bailing me out, my humans made me clean up my act. To ensure that I was no longer a menace to society, I received cruel and unusual punishment: a bath. Not only did the groomer guard wash away any offending odors, she cut my toenails. She even had the audacity to tie a ladybug bandanna around my neck.
Afterwards I had the same look on my face as Cool Hand Luke did after he sat out in the southern sun in a metal shed. Maybe it was more like Jack Nicholson's expression right before he gets a face-full of pillow in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest"
Finally, just when it looked like I was in for life, my human shows up and buys my freedom. Before I can make a jail break, however, this goof asks the warden if I was a "good girl." Thankfully no one was around to hear or I might have ended up the very definition of a female dog in pooch prison.
On the ride home, I sat in the front seat; a rarity these days. I tried to be angry at my human for sending me up river, but panting gives you perma-grin. So I finally gave in and wagged my tail. I even followed the golden retriever rule: always put others first, by not licking them second.
It seems that my stint in the Canis familiaris slammer has made me a changed canine. Although I must admit one thing: I never washed my tongue before vacating the big dog house.