When I was getting ready to take Pete for his semi-annual checkup, I opened the door and let him go. That's the best thing to do when he's excited—it keeps you from getting your legs chopped off at the knee by his tail. So Pete was outside having his nervous breakdown while I was inside picking up the 8 pounds of dog hair I found when I moved his giant crate, when I heard him barking like all get-out. Thinking he was terrorizing one of the neighbors, I ran out to find him defending his home from this:
That would be the beach ball floating in circles around my neighbor's pool. He's a mite skittish.
I went back in and man-handled his crate out to the van (full-size, about 5 feet of cargo space behind the back seat). But as soon as I opened the back door, this is what he did:
Now try getting him out so you can put the crate in. When I finally did, he immediately got in the crate, which was still sitting in the driveway. Like I should lift it, dog and all, into the van. Somebody shoot me. Or him.
After threatening him within an inch of his life, I made him sit 8 feet away. It was all he could do to stay there, and he whimpered pathetically the whole time I was wrestling his home-away-from-home up in there. When I finally got the crate in the van, he sprang from where he was sitting, cleared the back bumper, and went straight in, crashing through the metal door.
Once again I had to make him get out so I could swing the door out, and back he went. Can't you just hear him saying, "Well, it's about time you got this thing right."
"Ok, I'm ready. Let's go!"
Be thankful ~
Karen
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