I love my dog. I think. Buddy, or David Blaine as he is known when making his daring escapes, is a character. This silky terrier can bat his lashes and work the room. I’m convinced he understands English but exercises selective listening depending on who is giving orders. Me, he minds. His new dad, not so much.
When I sing, Buddy sings louder. Where I go, Buddy goes on my heels. But when a thunder storm rolls around, Dr. Jekyll becomes Mr. Hyde. Body snatchers abduct the docile little pup and replace him with a psychotic canine storm-chaser. Buddy will stop at nothing to get to the storm. He will eat through walls. He will go all "Shawshank” and tunnel through anything between him and danger. He becomes Superdog, faster than a speeding bullet, etc. Why not contain the little devil during storms? We do when we know storms are coming. We’ve spent hundreds of dollars on solutions. Wood baby gates, he eats through. Metal baby gates, he gets his head stuck in. Wire crates, he thrashes around in, scratching the surroundings. A small plastic crate seems to work best, but trapped within, he wails in misery. Tranquilizers? I’d love some. Shortly after we spent thousands on plush new carpet, Superdog decided to try to tunnel out the door to chase a storm.
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